My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [93]
“We have plenty of stew,” she said. “Why don’t you come over, too.”
A reed-thin gray-haired villager struck up a conversation. His name was Mugsy, and he bragged about his feats as a champion sprint driver decades ago. The old musher smelled like booze, but he was entertaining. His stories were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the last person I ever expected to see.
“They told me I could find you guys back here,” said Barry Lee. “Hey, Tom, your dogs looked really good coming into the village.”
It was painful to see a musher, and a friend, who had traveled so many miles with me, but who was now out of the Great Race. If only he had come with Daily and me. If only we had waited in Grayling.
“Someday I’m going to write a book about this, Barry,” I blurted out. “I’m going to dedicate it to you.”
One of my dogs growled over a snack and I turned away. The distraction lasted a couple of seconds, but when I looked back Lee was gone.
“Am I going crazy,” I asked Daily, “or was Barry just here talking to us?”
“I saw him too,” he said, wonderingly. “He did sort of vanish.”
But I wasn’t having visions. Lee had flown into Unalakleet with his dogs and was waiting for a connecting flight to Anchorage. Earlier that day, Barry had got in an argument with local mushers, who thought we were “wussies” for traveling so slow.
“So you’re Bobby Lee’s brother,” the man said. “Should I tell him you’re a wussie, too.”
“You don’t know what they’re going through,” Lee said. “You have no idea.”
Lee had spent the afternoon watching for us from a bank overlooking the trail. Lee had greeted Herrman, the first one to town. He had talked to the Mormiles, Johnson, and Lenthar. He had helped Terhune park his dogs and had discussed feeding schedules with Plettner. And he had assisted Cooley with his blood tests. This had enabled him to prolong his involvement in the Iditarod, if only for a few hours. Seeing us, he knew it was time to say good-bye. He took off because he was crying.
Daily didn’t have time to dwell on Lee’s disappearance. His fancy boots were wet again. Tom was changing them, with his back to Mugsy, when the old musher calmly stepped on the runners of Tom’s sled and pulled the snow hook. In the excitement of the big village, Daily’s dogs hadn’t settled down. They were antsy and took off at the graying racer’s command, loping down the center of the busy village street.
Throwing his boots aside, Tom Daily chased his Iditarod team down the street in his socks. Doc and I watched in astonishment as the villager dodged head-on traffic from cars and snowmachines and gradually pulled away. The guy could drive dogs, you had to give him that.
The infection in Terhune’s eye warranted immediate attention from a specialist. The medic at the Unalakleet clinic advised the musher to consider flying to Anchorage for treatment at a real hospital.
“There’s no way I’m going to scratch,” declared Terhune.
Though his back also hurt and his hands were throbbing from a brush with frostbite, Terhune refused to accept any medication for the pain. He was worried that painkillers would make him sleepy. He settled for having his bad eye flushed out and treated with antibiotics. The musher left the clinic with a pocket full of pills and sulfa drops, shrugging off warnings that he could suffer long-term complications if the infection worsened.
Tom Daily found his dog team parked in a driveway a few blocks from the checkpoint. The sled bag was open, flapping in the wind. Dog pans and other small items were blowing across the yard. The woman who met him at the checkpoint greeted Tom at the door of the cabin. The old racer was her uncle.
The cabin was gloriously hot inside, spiced with the aroma of rich caribou stew. We passed a fine evening listening to Mugsy’s stories. In the background, a child was watching The Wizard of Oz on a big color TV set.
Not long after dinner, Mugsy,