My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [28]
Bowing to the inevitable, Tom launched his sled over the bank, sending the team on a careening descent along the narrow frozen creek. The ice offered nothing for his brake to grab, so Daily concentrated on steering the sled past massive rocks, stumps, and the holes he couldn’t skate over.
For the first time ever, Fidaa saw her husband was terrified. “Tom, just scratch!” she cried.
Tired, sweaty, and scared, Daily considered bailing out. His wife, the love of his life, was in danger. Assuming he could figure a way to save her, he might just let go. But the musher thrust such thoughts aside. Of course, he wasn’t going to let go of his dogs. Hanging on to that sled, Tom Daily felt intensely protective of those childlike companions in front. His whole life was tied up in those dogs.
Eighteen teams skipped past Daily during his team’s adventurous detour. Yet Tom was only two hours behind Barve checking into Eagle River. That wasn’t so bad at all. The bummer arrived in the form of the replacement for his illegal gear. His friend’s wife hadn’t understood. Instead of meeting the team with a legal axe, she brought Tom Daily a bow saw.
Friends expected great things from Sepp Herrman. The longhaired, blond-bearded German expatriate was a newcomer to the Iditarod, but no one questioned his ability as a dog musher. The reclusive Herrman spent winters trapping out of a remote cabin, 50 miles from the closest road, in the Brooks Range, a mountainous region north of the Yukon River. Sled dogs were his engine of survival in that treacherous, unforgiving wilderness. The trapper’s savvy and grit were matched by excellent dogs. He had several on loan from Rick Swenson. The master musher respected Sepp’s ability to train good leaders.
Herrman drew position number 71 in the chute, putting his team’s starting time nearly three hours behind mine. High noon overtook him as he mushed those tundra-seasoned dogs through unfamiliar city streets. By that time the snow, trucked into the city for the occasion, was getting thin and dirty. The sun felt scorching. It was easily 80 degrees warmer than the conditions the team had so recently left in the Brooks Range. Dogs capable of breaking their own paths through deep snow and fierce winds, dogs upon whom the solitary trapper routinely staked his life—those same dogs faltered on the warm, well-groomed trail to Eagle River. Twenty miles into the 1,150-mile race, Sepp Herrman was third from last in the standings and was packing three dogs in his sled. His entire race was in jeopardy.
Larry Munoz rode his big wiener out of Wasilla at eight minutes past four. I was scheduled to depart a minute later. Ushering my dogs toward the chute, Vicki noticed I wasn’t wearing a numbered bib. It was required gear, because the restart was also being televised live.
Vic sprinted back to the truck and fetched it. Friends were tying on the bib as my name again blared through the surrounding speakers.
Bobby Lee, seated overlooking the starting chute, was providing running TV commentary. The former race marshal took note of my rapid fall from first to thirteenth position in the overall standings. Lee added that I was still keeping good company for a rookie.
“I’m sure Brian would be glad if he could keep that position—but he won’t.”
The safe approach was to leave the White Rat and Rainy in lead. That had been my prerace strategy. On the spur of the moment, I now scrapped that idea. Moving Rat down inside the team, I shifted Cricket into lead with Rainy. Gnat’s tiny sister was much faster than Rat.
The player change looked brilliant as my little girls set a swift pace leaving Wasilla. Trouble hit when the trail emerged from trees, and we entered Lake Lucille’s glassy, wind-polished ice. Alone, I’m sure Rainy would have made straight for Munoz, who remained visible in the distance, hunched over his sliding wiener. There were scratch marks to follow and a handful of marked tripods. An experienced dog might have noticed such clues. It was all