My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [90]
It was cold. The trapper possessed such pride in his own handmade, richly lined gear that it was rare that he would make such an admission, even to himself. But Sepp Herrman was also a realist, a man who understood the bloodthirsty nature of wolves and the dangers of harboring illusions about Alaska’s cruel environment. It was exceptionally cold tonight. That was the enormous thing.
Deviating from my usual routine, I left my bunny boots outside the sled overnight. It made my sled bag hotel a little more roomy.
It was calm in the morning, but the 30-below temperature carried a bite. My toes burned the instant I stepped into the stiff rubber boots. I launched into a series of frenzied jumping jacks, chanting “ouch, ouch, ouch” the whole time. From here on out, this traveler would be sleeping with his boots on.
When we were loaded and ready, the convoy resumed inching up the sidehill trail. The powder atop the pass proved too deep for Plettner’s team, and Cooley’s leaders were still soured. Word was relayed back: “Send up Daily.”
Tom strapped on his snowshoes and placed Diamond in the lead. The musher stomped a path through the biggest drifts. His old lead dog tackled the rest. It was hard work, but Daily felt good about Diamond’s performance. The old dog was cruising at speeds nearing two miles an hour. For Diamond, that was flying. Together they broke a new trail, following the weathered tripods across the windswept plateau.
As usual, my worst problem was getting Harley past old campsites. The big dog’s concentration was destroyed by even a speck of discarded food. Mushers were supposed to pull their teams off the trail before stopping for a snack or rest. Obviously, our forced camp on the hillside was an unusual situation. I had fed my dogs on the trail there, same as everybody else. But it was evidently standard procedure for several of the teams ahead. I’d been stumbling over fresh dining stains ever since leaving Eagle Island. I dragged Harley by the collar up the hill, making frequent, aggravating pauses to right my sled.
There were two shelter cabins on the 90-mile trail to Unalakleet. Before we left Kaltag, some members of the group were talking about stopping at the first cabin, a trip of about 30 miles. Herrman made the stop after pushing through the storm. That made sense for him. I took it for granted that last night’s hillside debacle had canceled such plans for the rest of us. My team certainly wasn’t ready for another break midmorning Monday. We’d only driven 15 miles!
Outside the cabin nine dog teams were parked, end to end, blocking the trail for several hundred yards. The trail ahead was wide open, if I could get to it. In an absolute rage, I stomped to the cabin, threw open the door, and began screaming. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Herrman had coffee brewing. Most of the drivers were making a short breakfast stop. Only Urtha, Catherine Mormile, and a few others planned longer breaks. I remained incensed, demanding the immediate removal of those trail-blocking teams. And, from here on, I swore I’d file official complaints against anyone I caught snacking dogs on the trail in front of Harley.
A few mushers reparked their teams, off the trail, near the cabin. Most ended their break and cleared out. As the trail ahead of us cleared, Harley and Rainy threaded their way through the traffic jam. Watching the others depart, Catherine changed her mind about staying and hurried to get ready. Her team was still blocking the trail as mine approached.
“You go ahead,” she said.
As I guided my leaders around her team, Mormile suddenly pulled her snow hook and tried to outrun us, nearly causing a tangle.
“My team is faster than yours. I’m supposed to be ahead of you,” she snapped.
Both of us urged our teams forward, meanwhile cussing each other out. The argument was finally settled by the dogs—mine emerging in front.
So she was faster? Only in her dreams.