My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [27]
The musher gave the signal. His dogs bent to work, cutting a slow but steady pace past the crowds still lining Fourth Avenue. Only a few blocks passed before Lee’s weariness made concentrating difficult. He was thankful that he didn’t have to worry about getting lost. The route followed trails familiar from a childhood spent near the Tudor dog track in Anchorage. He could handle this on automatic pilot.
“Yea Barry! Go Barry!” Lee reveled in the cheers, but how did all the fans lining the route know his first name? Was there a radio announcer on every corner telling them who was coming by? He was chagrinned when he finally noticed the newspapers in people’s hands. The musher sporting number 46 on his chest had cheered on others for years using that same information. It unnerved him how long that information took to process. Fatigue was affecting his thinking. Lee knew he ought to keep that in mind.
The Hot Dog Man was faltering. Sensing a chance to catch him, I jumped off the runners and ran, giving it everything I had, pushing my sled up the short hill crowned by the American Legion arch. But it was no use. We coasted into the legion hall parking lot in thirteenth place, 34 minutes behind Barve, the first musher into Eagle River’s checkpoint 20 miles from the start, and 2 minutes ahead of fellow rookie Joe Carpenter.
I sent friends for a veterinarian to examine Gnat. Two vets promptly appeared. They knelt over the young dog, flexing his limbs and probing for sensitive areas. A local TV crew raced over to catch the action. Just what I need. “Reporter cripples dog. Footage at six.”
Blaine, Jim, and Nancy tossed the other dogs chunks of whitefish and dished out a meaty broth to those willing to drink. Kelly pulled off any remaining booties, which were reduced to shreds, and checked the dogs’ feet for cuts.
“Nobody is putting on those booties the right way,” I shouted. “From now on, I am the only one putting on booties.”
Nancy figured I was freaking out because my mom had sewed them. She didn’t know that I faced a booty shortage. If the bundles I mailed out after the food drop weren’t waiting at the checkpoints ahead, I’d need every last one we had.
I calmed down after hearing good news from the veterinarians. Gnat’s back was bruised, but it didn’t appear to be serious.
“See how he acts in Wasilla,” a vet said. “If he looks all right, put him back in the team and see how he handles the run to Knik. That’s only fourteen miles.”
Coleman watched the action from the second sled, chin planted on his fist. He hadn’t budged an inch since arriving in Eagle River. He looked like a crooked old man to our sister Karen.
The day was looking good to me. My team hadn’t mutinied in front of the ABC cameras. I hadn’t lost the dogs, or Coleman. We hadn’t been run over by snowmachines, mail trucks, or damaged by any of the freak hazards awaiting people crazy enough to mush dogs through Alaska’s largest city.
We loaded the dogs back into the truck. With Blaine at the wheel, Team number 2 rolled up the highway, bound for Wasilla, where the serious race for Nome would begin.
Coleman stayed behind. A nice smooth ride in the van with the rest of the family sounded appealing to him. “It’s nice to have completed my part of the race without a train wreck,” he declared, as my aunt zoomed in with her video camera.
Descending the hillside, Tom Daily’s leaders decided that the frozen creek below looked more appealing than the narrow trail they had used on the way up. When the chance presented itself, the leaders plunged down the bank. By the time the musher managed to stop the sled, ten dogs were standing on the creek ice below.
This is absolutely nutty, thought Tom, who could see water gushing through open holes in the ice. His sled was precariously balanced. If he let go to haul his leaders back up the slope, he knew he might well lose the entire team. Fidaa spied a sign alerting hikers about