My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [67]
“Right now, it’s Susan, Lavon, Rick, and Runyan,” said Butcher’s husband, Dave Monson. “We should know by the end of today.”
Most observers gave the edge to Butcher. The defending champ’s 16-dog team remained the largest in the front pack. She was a superb athlete herself, famous for running behind her sled, providing an extra boost climbing hills. Butcher’s compact frame and slight build also gave her team a substantial weight advantage over those of the larger contenders, Barve, Swenson, Buser, and Runyan.
The weight differential had long obsessed Barve, who carried as much as 240 pounds on his own burly frame. He wanted a rule linking the number of dogs in each team to the weight of the team’s driver. According to Barve, “jockeys,” such as Butcher and the bantam-sized King, ought to be restricted to smaller teams of, say, 13 dogs instead of 20—to keep the race fair. He left Kaltag with 14 dogs, grousing to reporters about the difficulty of competing against Butcher’s larger team.
As he prepared to follow, Swenson had more on his mind than dogs. His wife Kathy had called to resume an argument that had led the musher to order her away from an earlier checkpoint. Race judge Chisholm was present when Swenson took the phone call. “Afterward,” he said, “Rick was possessed.”
Late Monday afternoon, I spied Daily’s team in the distance. Watching him close the gap, it was as if my sled was being pulled by a string of Arctic turtles. I felt crushed and defeated as he passed me with a friendly wave.
Daily halted about a hundred yards ahead and planted his snow hook. He turned to me holding a carved pipe. “Do you smoke?” he asked.
Alaska was no longer a pot smoker’s haven. As a result of the recriminalization measure adopted during the November general election, possession of small amounts of marijuana was now punishable by a $1,000 fine and up to 90 days in jail. But cops weren’t patrolling the Iditarod Trail as Daily and I shared a few puffs on the crest of a barren hill.
Looking out over the desolate valley before us, I wondered again at the madness that drove the gold seekers to bet their lives on the harsh country ahead.
“Let’s go home,” I said as we neared a cluster of deteriorating buildings. Rat and the other dogs broke into a full lope—the very effect intended when the Coach and I had begun using those words in the final mile of training runs. Over the course of the race, the phrase was becoming ever more powerful. “Let’s go home” tipped the dogs that a checkpoint, rest, and food lay within the team’s grasp.
The McGrath vet blamed Rock’s hair loss on stress. The dog’s condition certainly wasn’t serious, he said.
Barry Lee wasn’t so sure. Rock was shivering under her thinning coat, putting the dog at risk if the weather turned bad. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Barry paid a visit to the store and bought Rock a child-sized sweatshirt.
Rock sported her souvenir sweatshirt as far as Ophir, but it wasn’t doing the trick. It was getting colder. Watching her shiver on her bed of straw, Lee knew the dog had given him everything she could. Rock was headed home.
Crossing the barrens near Don’s Cabin Monday night, Lee found most of the trail markers had been blown down by the wind. Where he could, Lee jammed the markers in the ground, standing them upright for Garth and Peele, who were still bringing up the rear.
Sleep deprivation overtook Lee as he descended the hills. He kept dozing, and hallucinated that he was running over his wheel dogs. Before that became a reality, the musher made camp in an exposed spot with nothing to break the wind. Lee was cold, very cold, in his cheap sleeping bag.
He was awakened by a dog team.
“I’m shattered, simply shattered,” Garth whispered to Lee before continuing toward Iditarod.
Shivering in his sleeping bag, Lee pondered the Englishman’s strange remark.