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The Englishman assured Rich Runyan that he wasn’t in any immediate danger of dying. But he was critically low on dog food, and his team still wouldn’t budge. A previous snowmachiner had promised to send back a rescue party from Shageluk. Garth asked Runyan to make sure that the word got through.

The radio operator pulled back on the throttle and shot into the darkness. He was tired and hungry, but Shageluk couldn’t be more than a few hours away.

It was blowing in the hills, covering the trail with loose snow. Runyan repeatedly strayed off course. Each time he got lost, he circled in a widening arc until he found new markers or some sign of the packed trail. It was hard work. The radio operator grew sweaty muscling his big machine through the soft snow. But he was, at least, making progress. Then he smacked a deep, soft drift, firmly planting the nose of the big machine in the snow. The radio operator settled down to await the rescue party Garth had summoned earlier.

Wind, snow, more wind, Peele felt that he was holding his own—until the weather went completely crazy. Rain suddenly poured from the sky. It lasted about 30 seconds, ending as the temperature dive-bombed from zero to 20 below in the time it takes to flip a coin.

Peele was dripping wet, exhausted, and feeling feverish—not to mention cold. His hands were stiff. He couldn’t make them work. He was beaten, temporarily at least, and tried to unzip his sled bag, intending to climb inside and warm himself. The zipper was jammed with ice. The musher realized he had to get out of the wind. The only shelter available was the sled itself. Huddling on the sled’s lee side, Peele wondered if he was going to die. Getting out the tape recorder he carried in his suit, Bill Peele recorded a message to his wife.

“C’mon, Barry, it’s only eighteen miles,” I told Lee. “Come with us.”

Lee could only wish. He knew too much about sled dogs to risk pushing his exhausted, dehydrated bunch any farther. Daily and I weren’t planning to leave Grayling before morning. Lee figured that gave him time to rejoin us for the long Yukon passage. Daily wanted to stay longer, but felt that he had better run for it while there was a strong team ahead. He’d lost all faith in Bogus.

“Can I follow you?” he asked me. “The only way I’ll get to Nome is behind you.”

The temperature was above zero. Cool, but nice. The gray light was dimming as Barry pulled Rainy and Harley by the neck line toward the street.

“It’s supposed to be blowin’ pretty hard out on the river,” a villager said, while Lee waved good-bye to us.

I was wearing the snowmachine suit over my bibs and about three inches of inner vests and pile garments. The warm layering was standard procedure by now. My parka remained stowed in the sled. The Burn was the only place I’d needed the heavy coat. Leaving Anvik, which was nestled between sheltering hills, there didn’t appear to be any cause for taking unusual precautions. Night was approaching, but I didn’t notice so much as a breeze.

It was as if the Yukon sensed our presence. The wind rose like an angry grizzly and howled in our faces. Harley and Rainy dropped their ears and looked for a place to escape. The entire team sagged under the wind’s terrific onslaught. My dogs were on the verge of curling into balls. Running to the head of the team, I threw Harley, then Rainy, into the wind.

Steeled by my demands, Harley clawed forward on the rock-hard snow, dragging along his more reluctant comrades. Rainy did her part as well, nudging the big dog toward the faint marks left by previous teams. The short 18-mile run became a hellish five-hour march. When I wasn’t terrified by the weather, I was appalled by Skidders’s torturous limp. The old dog never let up for an instant, pulling like a champion, but at what cost?

At least it wasn’t snowing, or the trail would have vanished in drifts. And, thank God, it wasn’t any colder. Smarting from windburn, I parked my team across from the Grayling