My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [34]
I had a nice conversation with a young couple curled up near the fire, but they didn’t have anything to drink. Chewing snow, I returned to my camp. The team was resting peacefully. I stretched out on top of my sled bag. The dogs can use this, I told myself.
Dawn was not quite breaking. My team trotted past the quiet remains of Susitna Station, bringing the Big Su River into view. Little more than a month had passed since I had last made this crossing to retrieve Beast and Gnat after the Klondike 200. To the southwest, Sleeping Woman reclined across the horizon, luxuriant and majestic as always. The river itself was barely recognizable. New folds in the snow-covered ice gave the landscape the appearance of a huge rumpled comforter. Crossing the river the trail rose and fell as much as ten feet between each wrinkle. The team and I crossed the river like tiny ants.
Entering the Yentna River, I came upon a cluster of tents. Sagging banners proclaimed a rest stop sponsored by a long-distance telephone company. The fire was smoldering. I wasn’t planning to stop, but then I spotted a cardboard box with a fruit-juice logo. Thank God! I was desperate for something to quench my thirst.
Rummaging through the supplies left on an outdoor table, I found plenty of juice packets. Each one frozen solid.
One of the hosts stumbled out of his tent. While I babbled about the Death Tang, he found me a couple of semi-thawed juice cans. I chugged them. Stuffing a few juice containers in my pockets, I prepared to depart.
The guy stopped me. “For some reason, teams leaving our camp are having problems with that tree,” he said, pointing to the left, toward a low-hanging branch leaning over the river.
“Sure, sure,” I said, wondering why anyone would stray so far from the marked trail.
When I pulled the hook the dogs bolted left and dashed under that low branch. The route wasn’t the one flagged by trailbreakers; it was the path countless dogs had already picked. And any dog that came later was bound to check it out. Trailing other dog teams in a crowded race field, most leaders are so reliable about following the common path that it’s easy for a musher to slip into autopilot. This time I was almost knocked flat.
It was bright, incredibly bright on the river, as it can only be with snow reflecting the sun from its white surface. Hundreds of weaving paths stretched before us, attesting to the heavy traffic accompanying the race. People scooted by on snowmachines. Small planes flocked overhead like migrating birds. Many of the planes looped past two and three times, often tipping their wings in salutation. Some buzzed the team, passing so low that Screech, Cricket, and the other shy dogs dropped their ears.
I saw a team camped in the middle of the river. As I approached, the musher waved his arms for me to stop.
“I’m really in trouble here,” Joe Carpenter said. “Bad, bad trouble.”
I looked around. A beautiful day was taking shape. There weren’t any holes in the ice. His dogs looked peaceful. He was outfitted in a fine blue Northern Outfitters parka. So what’s the trouble?
“The team quit on me,” Carpenter said. “The dogs won’t go. Won’t go at all.”
I suggested that he rest them, maybe in the shade by the bank.
“No, no,” Carpenter said. He explained that he had no food, no supplies and HAD TO GET TO SKWENTNA without delay.
The Coach had warned me to stay clear of mushers who were losing it. Carpenter, wide-eyed and panicked on this peaceful morning, fit the description. Well, I was going his direction. Wouldn’t hurt to try.
“I’ll pull in front,” I said. “See if you can get your dogs to chase mine.”
The jump start worked. Carpenter’s team chased us. But, alas, his swing dogs began overtaking his leaders.
“Ride your brake,” I shouted. He needed to keep his team lined out—moving slower, perhaps, but moving.
Instead Joe screamed holy murder. His leaders faltered under the verbal abuse. I left him