My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [94]
“Whatever you do,” the woman said as she departed. “Don’t let my uncle in if he comes home drunk.”
Daily didn’t like the sound of that warning. The last thing he wanted was to become ensnared in a family dispute. He locked the cabin door and went to sleep. A few hours later, Daily’s rest was disturbed by pounding. It was Mugsy. The villager was drunk, and he was furious at finding the door to his warm cabin locked. Daily explained his orders, which just made the old musher angrier.
“Let me in,” the man cried, “or I’m going to kill your dogs.”
This thrust Daily into a dilemma. If he opened the door, he sensed that Mugsy was going to come in swinging. Tom didn’t want to fight the poor old guy. All he wanted was a few more hours of rest.
“Mugsy, if you’re going to kill them, go do it, get it over with. I’m going back to sleep.”
Leaving the sled dogs in peace, the old musher headed up the street.
After dinner I went to check on my dogs. They were sleeping peacefully, so I went over to the gym. I talked for a while with the checker, a local musher, and one of the race judges. Al Marple had flown in to Unalakleet that afternoon to “give us a pep talk” and make sure we backpack mushers didn’t overstay our welcome.
“Don’t lump me in with the guys who stayed three days at Eagle Island,” I said, feeling defensive. “Doc, Daily, and I spent that time battling storms on the Yukon. We got into Eagle Island at night and pulled out in the morning, same as we’re doing here.”
Marple appreciated my attitude. “We want to see you guys make it,” he said.
There was a shower in the gym bathroom. I let the burning steam wash away 900 miles of pain. The shower left me richly satisfied, but dizzy. I collapsed on the hardwood floor of the gym next to Cooley. I didn’t bother with a sleeping bag, I just stretched out on top of my suit. A feather mattress couldn’t have felt any finer.
Shouts awakened us a few hours later. I knew that voice. Who was it? Oh yeah, it was that crazy old musher. I fell back asleep as a Unalakleet public safety officer, Alaska’s village equivalent of a policeman, hauled the drunk away.
A cloud of smoke enveloped the streetlight. A pair of snow-machines throbbed in the street below. Doc, Williams, and I carefully lined up our dog teams facing the deserted intersection. It was 4 A.M. I was last in line.
The snowmachines took off around the corner. Doc and Williams charged after them. Chad got the call and seemed enthusiastic. He leapt in the air as I pulled the hook. Following his cue, my entire 13-dog team sprang forward with manic intensity.
I cut the turn too close. My sled climbed the berm and launched sideways into the air. I hung on, flying parallel with the ground. The sled finally crashed on its side, knocking the wind out of me, but I didn’t let go. The snow-covered street was icy and hard-packed, a perfect surface for dragging. The dogs seized the opportunity to set a new kennel record, dragging me 500 yards.
I wouldn’t have minded the dragging—I was used to that—but Chad and the wild bunch had so much fun that he lost track of the teams ahead. The snowmachines, Doc, and Williams—all had cleared out before I regrouped and righted the sled. Ahead of us the street was deserted. My bold leader didn’t have a clue where to go next.
“Go ahead! Go ahead!” I shouted, sending Chad charging forward in hopes he would pick up the scent. There were side streets and snowmachine tracks leading everywhere, but no Iditarod markers. I would get lost in Unalakleet, the biggest labyrinth on the trail, where I hadn’t talked to anyone about the route out of town—because we had arranged for guides.
I saw a light in the window of a nearby cabin. Could someone actually be awake at 4 A.M.? Probably not, I decided. But what did I have to lose. I threw the sled on its side again and jammed the snow hook in the ground. Then I climbed the icy berm by the side of the road and dropped into the yard of the cabin with the lighted window, thinking this was a great way to