My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [41]
Worst hill I’d ever run with a dog team. Couldn’t see the bottom. Fresh from their rest, the dogs sprinted down the slope, while I teetered on one slippery runner, stabbing for the brake with my free foot. As unexpectedly as it began, the blind fall ended. The void leveled out, and I continued onward, feeling my terror give way to anger. Someone at the damn checkpoint could have mentioned the killer hill less than a mile ahead. Guess they didn’t want to spoil my fun.
The torture of the unexpected was becoming a familiar theme. Entering the race, I thought my reporting background would more than compensate for my mushing inexperience. I could list Iditarod’s famous hazards: Rainy Pass, the descent into Dalzell Gorge, and the brutal Farewell Burn. I had a general idea of the geography from flying the route, something few other rookies could claim. But aerial observations made at 100 miles an hour were meaningless here on the ground. And writing secondhand stories was no substitute for real life.
Uncertainties were in full swing early Tuesday morning, as I approached the infamous canyon at Happy River Valley.
“Happy River’s got less than half the usual snow,” race manager Jack Niggemyer had warned us at the prerace musher’s meeting. “The steps are in pretty good shape, but they’re narrower than usual. Just be cautious. It’s not a death ride, but it won’t be as easy as last year.”
Barry Lee had heard that he should unfasten the tug lines before attempting the steps, so the dogs couldn’t pull quite as hard on the downhill chutes. He had shared the tip while we camped at Finger Lake. It sounded like a good idea, but I had a feeling—mushing through tonight’s void—that I wouldn’t know I was close to Happy River until the team dragged me over the edge. So I ran all night with the tugs disconnected and a tight grip of my handlebar, expecting to whip into another dark hole any second.
Light was breaking through the trees when I saw a handmade sign nailed to a tree. “SLOW!” it proclaimed, over a sketch of a dog team running down a 75-degree slope. “Hill next four steps.”
If only I’d known the canyon was marked with a traffic hazard sign.
Terhune took the plummet the afternoon before my own descent. The three steep drops, cut sideways into the canyon, were tricky, but he managed to steady himself, sliding on one heel, while holding his sled tilted toward the wall, as veterans had warned him to do. Indeed, Terhune wasn’t finding the canyon all that scary, and he relaxed as the team leveled out on what he assumed was the canyon floor. But this year Iditarod’s trailbreakers had tried to ease the descent into Happy River Valley with not three, but four sideways steps down the wall. The final switchback took the musher by complete surprise.
Terhune hung on as his sled tumbled down the side of the canyon, dragging the half-dozen dogs in the rear of his team. The sled rolled six times before slamming to a stop against small trees and bushes. Several dogs were pinned underneath. Terhune was scared to look.
A television crew from ABC’s Wide World of Sports was strategically positioned at the bottom of the canyon. The cameraman recorded Terhune’s mishap, then rushed over to get a close-up of the musher’s reaction.
Jon was sprawled on his back when the cameraman leaned over him.
“How would you like that thing shoved up your ass,” cried the infuriated former paratrooper as he jumped to his feet.
The cameraman hastily retreated. Footage of the spill showed up in the network’s Iditarod broadcast, minus Terhune’s commentary.
The dogs were unscathed. Their master was the one hobbling out of the canyon. Terhune had twisted his back. His fingers began tingling and soon became