My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [97]
Evidence was literally piling up around me in snow-covered heaps, but I didn’t grasp what was happening until Harley had followed his nose to the center of Unalakleet’s village dump. I had to get the team out of this place. God knew what diseases were lurking here. But dragging my well-muscled Iditarod team out of the god-damned dump was just more than I could manage alone. I finally admitted defeat and gave up, barely holding back tears in my weary state. I’d never felt more enraged, or hopeless.
Realizing that I had to get help, I abandoned the team to its feeding frenzy and scrambled some 20 feet up the side of a trash pile. The wind was fading, and in the distance I saw snowmachine lights. I flashed my headlamp until they turned my way.
It was the guys who had led Doc out of town. The three of us wrestled my dogs out of the trash and over the side of the dump. The checker hopped on my sled and, displaying mastery far surpassing my own, rode it careening off garbage piles to the valley below. Firing up their snowmachines, the pair led me several miles into the hills. They wanted to make absolutely sure that this woeful excuse for a dog musher was headed someplace else.
The tunnel of trees gave way to a windy clearing in the hills. Day was breaking. Gunnar and several other mushers were parked parallel to each other, in what didn’t seem like a social gathering.
“None of our teams can lead in this wind,” Johnson yelled. “Think yours can do it?”
“Mine are pretty good in the wind,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Harley and Rainy charged across the clearing, but my team tangled shortly after reentering the forest. I straightened the dogs out and was reaching for the hook when Gunnar called for the trail. He had some nerve.
“I can’t believe you, Gunnar,” I said, waving him by.
As I could have predicted, Johnson’s team slowed immediately after the pass. We traveled bumper to bumper for several miles until Johnson’s dogs found another team to chase.
Tom Daily had overslept. Instead of leaving Unalakleet with Cooley and me, he snoozed straight through the morning in his cozy cabin bunk. Like me, Tom had no idea where to find the trail out of the village. Seeking directions, he dropped by the village cop shop. After chatting with the local patrolmen about Mugsy’s overnight escapades, Daily paid one of the officers $15 to guide the team into the hills.
It was bright and windy. Gusts raking the trail were so savage they knocked Daily’s fully packed sled sideways and ripped the officer’s goggles from his head. Tom speared them with one hand as they flew past. When the pair parted company in the hills, he surprised the officer by returning his goggles. Daily didn’t need any extra souvenirs. He and his dogs were traveling alone, miles behind everybody, lugging the burden of the Red Lantern.
We climbed ever higher. The sheer beauty of these hills was staggering. Sunlight streamed through scattered clumps of trees. To the west, I caught glimpses of the frozen Bering Sea, a wasteland of glimmering blue-white shards extending to the horizon
I ran as much as I could to lighten the dogs’ load, borrowing occasional rides to catch my breath. The temperature was near zero, and the air was crisp. Hot and sweaty from the exertion, I steadily stripped off gear. The snowmachine suit went back inside the sled, as did the wind shell Nora had made me. I unzipped the sides of my bibs. What a day!
Terhune’s team was directly behind mine. I couldn’t mistake