My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [6]
I made arrangements to drop Gnat and Beast at the checkpoint. Had I stayed and rested through the day, I could have taken them with me. But I was no longer treating the Klondike as a mere qualifier, with added benefits as a training run: I had shifted into racing mentality. While the other dogs rested, I went over my sled, dumping every ounce of unnecessary weight. In the process, I set aside the sac holding the team’s snacks. I planned to put it back absolutely last so that it would remain within easy reach.
Five hours after our arrival at Yentna Station, I pulled the hook, sending my dogs charging over the bank. Sunshine had burned away the clouds. Over the next hours, it baked us. My Fairbanks-conditioned dogs were reduced to plodding.
It was sundown by the time we finally reached the junction of the Yentna and the Big Su. This kind of passage always scared me. The broad river’s uneven surface hinted at unseen forces that might suddenly break loose, leaving unlucky travelers swimming or clinging to teetering chunks of ice. But soon I was treated to a view that brushed fears aside. The sinking sun was firing a rosy salute along Mount Susitna’s curves. From the west, a headlike ridge rose to a mountainous shoulder, dipped, then expanded to a hip, which descended in a leggy sprawl. Or maybe Susitna was resting on her back, showing off her bosomlike ridge. From either perspective, it was easy to see why locals called the formation Sleeping Lady.
The wind rose as we passed through Susitna Station, a largely abandoned turn-of-the-century settlement and one-time Dena’ina Indian community. My dogs were due for a break, but I pushed them onward into the forest. I wanted to reach the entrance of the frozen marsh before stopping, so as to position the team for a strong march to the finish line.
I was fooled by the trees and didn’t see the marsh coming. We were 20 yards out on the icy flats before I managed to stop. The wind here was fierce, gusting maybe 40 miles per hour across the exposed, barren ice. It was a terrible place to stop, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I dug into the sled bag for my beef treats. The snack sac was missing. Appalled, I remembered placing it in the snow outside the roadhouse.
Belatedly, I tried to get the team moving. But the dogs, seeing no snacks forthcoming, were too tired to pay any more attention to me. Their survival instincts had taken over. Curled in tight balls, backs to the wind, they slept on the ice. The dogs had crashed on me.
My snowmachine suit was soaked from rain and exertion. On a colder day, the situation might have been grave. Today the weather was too balmy to pose any danger. I gave the dogs half an hour, then dished out globs of a pre-prepared meal from the cooler. A fellow racer caught up while I was feeding.
“Everything all right?” he shouted over the wind, no doubt puzzled to see me stopped in this miserable spot.
I pretended everything was under control.
After the meal, the dogs shook themselves and stretched. My athletes looked ready to go. I gave the word. Root, one of my most dependable dogs, was having trouble with her hind legs. She tried to run but couldn’t keep up. Jamming the hook into the ice, I unclipped her, figuring I’d pack her in the sled until we reached a more sheltered spot. I had my right hand on her collar and was reaching for the sled with the other—when the team bolted.
With a flying lunge, I grabbed hold of a rear stanchion. The dogs dragged me a good hundred yards on my knees, along with Root, before they finally stopped. Staggering to my feet, clutching a shoulder that felt half torn from the socket, I stuffed Root in the sled and ordered my mischievous friends onward. Amazing what a little rest could do for them.
Intense wind and sleet met us at Flat Horn Lake. The trail was awful. Raven and Harley kept punching through the thin crust