The wipers are on
steady now, and I have just shifted into four wheel drive. The snow has
increased its intensity, and there is about 3 inches on the highway. Its 5pm
and we have just driven past the Willow Community Center, the official start
line of Iditarod. In just over 16 hours, we will be pulling into our parking
spot, and preparing to embark on my forth Iditarod. Am I crazy?! I am excited,
but also filled with anxiety and stress. Iditarod 2019 proved to be a good year
for our team, and I now feel increased pressure to perform, and follow up a 15th
place finish. I know the dogs are capable. I know that I am capable. But what
about the unknowns? How are we going to contend with 30 other teams capable of
finishing in the top 15? How do we prepare for 12 feet of snow in the Alaska
Range, and moose that have been charging 4000 pound SnowCats?
Sheep
Creek Lodge is a welcome sight after slogging through a field of white. Parking
is tight. There is about 8 inches of fresh snow at this point, and 10 foot
snowberms are encroaching from all directions. We are able to position our 50
foot rig at the back of the lodge. Sleds come out of the trailer and get
covered. Dogs are brought out and given a chance to shake off and stretch in
the snow. As I am at the front of the truck, a young bull moose plows past at
less than 100 feet away. The dogs go nuts! Apparently thwarted by the berms and
unhappy with its trajectory, the moose returns at a trot and takes another
direction around the lodge. I step in the trailer and grab Katti’s 357. As I am
stepping out, the dogs alert me that it is still lurking, at a loss as to where
to go with all of the snow. Is this an omen for what is to come? After a few
minutes, the dogs seem to think the threat has passed. I don’t see the moose.
With
dogs fed and back in the trailer, Katti and I enjoy dinner and a shower at the
lodge. We have a private cabin for the evening, and take advantage of the space
to do a final inventory of miscellaneous items before the race. After days,
weeks and months of prep to get to this point, the bed, and a full night’s
sleep, calls. We surrender.
 |
| In Skwentna, taking a few hours under the full moon. |
Sunday morning is
a torrent of snow! There is now 16 inches at the lodge, and we are expecting as
much as three feet by the first checkpoint. Parking in Willow is cramped, and
people struggle to wade through the snow. A few trucks are stuck in an attempt
to make it to their spot, but we are lucky and get into our position. We meet
up with our friends and family who have come out to help and send us off. We
have plenty of time, but of course, I can’t sit still and feel like there is
something that I am going to overlook before taking off. (I am correct in my
misgivings, and will end up leaving the start line without my coffee thermos).
Fourteen
dogs are harnessed and connected. They have power and focus; more than I have
seen from them at previous races. Our jaunt to the start line is quick, less
than 100 yards from our truck. I walk to the front of the team to give a quick pep
talk to Braavos and Fierce. There is a good crowd of spectators and fans,
despite the tough road conditions and extreme weather, and we are grateful for
their encouragement. I give every pair of dogs a quick hand clap on the way
back to the sled; “Its time guys!” With a three, two, one, we are off.
To
say that the first leg of this race was a slog, would be a gross
understatement. The snow is deep and unpacked. Snowhooks do absolutely nothing
to hold the team, so I count on training and their good behavior as I tell them
to stop and let the first few teams to catch us, go by. Tailgate parties and
bonfires line the trail for the first 10 miles. Their presence, however, is
subdued compared to normal years, and by the time we hit the Su River, almost
all people are behind us. Despite the soft conditions, and bottomless footing
for the dogs, I feel the need to ride the drag mat heavy, holding back the
team. I want to keep everyone in a slow and comfortable pace, regardless of how
slow that appears to be.
I look at my GPS
for the first time 15 miles in. We have been averaging 6.9 miles per hour.
What!? I know that I have been holding them back, but that is crazy slow! I
ignore the number, and trust my instinct to keep everyone trotting. After the 15th
or 16th team passes us, I feel a crack in my confidence. I laughed
at the first 7 or 8 teams who rolled by… “I will see you guys again,” I told
myself. But can I really see all of these teams again?! Their dogs sure do not
look like they are in a comfortable rhythm, but maybe they can sustain that
pace through this stuff? Oof, maybe our competitive goals are unrealistic…
I have spent years
analyzing this race and coming up with competitive “race plans.” Well, this
year, after a lot of training, and lengthy discussions with Katti, I have
thrown out any “plan” for this race. I have ideas, of course. “This is what I
think I will do here, if the conditions look a certain way. Perhaps I will 24
in Cripple if we have a good trail north of the Alaska Range.” But, a
step-by-step schedule is not in my play book, and I hope that this will give me
more freedom to really race based on the dog’s ability. Well, in the first 32
miles of the 2020 race, I question the efficacy of not having a plan.
We make our first camp.
At mile 32, just before Yentna, I pull over in the exact same spot I did in the
2019 race. The trail conditions have actually been quite similar to the
previous year, and I feel like a four and a half hour run from the start, is
plenty. Let’s eat a little bite, let the remaining teams in the race go by, and
set our run/rest clock to avoid the heat of tomorrow afternoon. The dogs are in
great spirits, despite the slow trail, and enjoy a light meal. The snow has
started to subside, and we actually glimpse a few stars as night settles in.
We are the final
team into Yentna, almost two hours behind the next team in the race. There is
no checker waiting, but a race vet comes over to give the dogs a glance and
sign my vet book. I ask if she can check me in. A moment later, a snowmachine
buzzes down from the lodge, and a checker jumps off with the clipboard (“Whew!
I am glad I avoided that walk in this snow”). We pull through and continue to
Skwentna. The trail improves slightly, and it seems that the upper part of the
Yentna River did not get the predicted three feet. “Nice!” Don’t get me wrong,
I like snow. But, it seems we already have plenty.
The checkpoint of
Skwentna is amazing! I stopped here last year, and remembered the excellent
team parking, and wonderful hospitality in the lodge. This year did not
disappoint. Everything on the river is meticulously organized, and the
wonderful volunteers have piping hot water for the dogs. I mix a meal for the
team and offer everyone a light soup after 45 minutes of rest. I don’t have
many takers, which is not great, and I pull the food back after a few seconds
(planning to offer it again in snack form before we take off). I head up to the lodge and as I enter, am
greeted with a bowl of hot, wet face towels. I must admit, it does feel pretty
good. Once my boots, and bibs are off, I walk into the inner dining, lounge
area. There is a list of food being offered, and the “Skewentna Sweeties” are
there with hot coffee, tea and Tang. Few restaurants have such nice service! I
eat and spend another half hour inside, chatting with the volunteers that are
there and a few other mushers. It is about 4 AM, and time for me to think about
getting the team up and ready to go. I step out of the Skwentna Roadhouse, and
the full moon has come through the clouds to illuminate checkpoint. The light
is incredible! You can see everything with absolute clarity. I feel very lucky
to be here.
 |
| Skwentna Roadhouse |
 |
| Teams on the Skwentna River |
The run to Finger Lake is a beautiful ascent into the mountains. The sun rises behind us, washing all the mountains in pink and orange. The trail is unpredictable, firm in one spot, bottomless sugar in the next. Travel is slow, as I want to prevent any potential injuries from hitting these holes with too much speed. The team is not interested in their snacks, and refuses the majority of what I offer them on this run. “Damn!”
We
get to the checkpoint of Finger Lake just as the sun starts to really put out
some heat. Its 11 AM. Let’s hangout and rest for a few hours. The dogs take
their arrival snack, a special blend of meat and supplements that Katti spent
hours mixing in our kitchen. We coined it the “secret weapon,” and if there is
one snack that is important, it is this one. “Good dogs!” I decide to wait a
solid hour before offering any more food. There is a nice breeze with the
blazing sun, and I figure this is a good combination for encouraging decent
rest, while boosting a better appetite.
I
leave the team and the lake, and walk up to the lodge. Their excellent staff
put together an array of delicious meals for paying guests, but also for
competing mushers. They serve me an egg and reindeer sausage breakfast burrito,
accompanied with a cold bean salad. Very good! I fill my water bottle with
coffee (remember, 30 hours without sleep at this point), and head back out to
the lake.
The
team is stretched out in the sun, and looks the epitome of relaxed. I give
everyone an ear scratch and brief squeeze as I head down the line, towards my
sled. I pull out my dog food cooker and gather water from a hole in the lake.
While the water heats, I prep my cooler with frozen Power, a rich beef based
product we have fed the majority of the season. The dogs have typically been
big fans of this as their soup base. With the addition of about four pounds of
kibble, and a little more frozen meat added for crunch, we haven’t gone wrong
yet. Well, today is the day… Qarth is my one taker from the 14 dog team. That’s
a depressing statistic!
As
I dump each bowl back into the cooler to offer later, I look over to Lev
(parked next to me), and see he has the same issue in his team. Each of us with
a full cooler of food, I suggest we trade and try our dogs again. It’s a hit!
Everyone in my team thinks Lev’s special blend is just what they need. In
truth, it is just a simpler list of ingredients. And sometimes in life, simpler
is just better. In this case, straight lean beef and kibble, no fancy blended
products. I return Lev his cooler, and repack my sled.
-
The
run from Finger Lake to Rainy Pass consists of pretty densely wooded forest. We
cross a few lakes and some alpine swamps, but the majority of the run is
shaded. With this in mind, I don’t hesitate to pull the hook and depart Finger
at the warmest part of the afternoon. There is no “warm up” period for the dogs
as you leave this checkpoint. Teams climb off the lake, pass the back door of
the lodge, and immediately plunge down a steep, two-hundred foot hill. “Wahoo!
Everyone awake?!”
There
are drops and climbs as we work our way to the infamous Happy River steps. For
those that are unfamiliar with this section, imagine a 600 foot decent in less
than ¼ mile, accomplished by a series of switchbacks cut into a thickly wooded
canyon wall. Sounds great, right!? Well, with the abundance of snow this year,
and the cold temperatures through early March, the conditions are nearly
perfect. The usually insane decent, seems tame and under control.
Once
down on the Happy River, we cross and then head up the other side of the canyon
(ascending the “chute,” which is appropriately named). At this point, Qarth
starts to back off his tug. A few minutes later, he expels his lunch from
Finger Lake. “Oh buddy!” I stop and give him a check, making sure everything is
out and his airway is clear. He wags his tail, eats some snow, and acts like he
is ready to go. I debate loading him, but at 62 pounds, decide against it. I am
not worried so much about his weight on its own, but more about the fact that
62 pounds of Qarth is NOT going to want to ride in the sled. “Run along then,
bud.”
As
we continue climbing into the mountains, I give extra attention to Qarth. He
doesn’t really get back to working very hard, and is definitely bothered by the
afternoon heat (warmer than I anticipated, at nearly 40 degrees). Mileage wise,
this is a short run. However, the 30 miles seems to take forever, and Rainy
Pass feels like it might never appear (the early stages of sleep deprivation
may already be working there magic here). At last, I can see the saddle of the
pass, and know that Puntilla Lake, and the checkpoint, are only a few minutes
away.
I
spend longer at Rainy Pass than I had planned for. The dogs don’t touch their
meal, and eat only a few snacks. As the sun goes down, the wind picks up, and
it is now zero degrees with a 10 mile per hour breeze. The team’s lack of appetite
has me really bummed, and I start thinking of the potential hazards if they
continue to refuse food. In dog racing, it is usually a terrible idea to look too
far down the trail. A musher should focus on the here and now, and what the
dogs need in this exact moment. I have told many people over the years that we
don’t look at Iditarod as a thousand mile race, but a series of 50 mile runs.
Well, on Puntilla Lake, I do not heed my own advice, and start worrying about
portions of the race that are still hundreds of miles away.
After
five hours, I decide that more time in Rainy Pass will not benefit me or the
team. Unfortunately, Owl’s shoulder injury from the Copper Basin has
reappeared, and she is going to need to fly back home. Delivering her into the
capable hands of a race veterinarian, I ready the rest of the group for our
next run.
-
The departure off
of Puntilla Lake, takes us further into the mountains, and to the summit of
Rainy Pass (at about 4000 feet). This run turns out to be one of the coolest of
the whole race (both literally and figuratively). Five miles out of Rainy Pass,
we have left all trees behind. Completely exposed in a wide valley, the wind
rips at a 45 degree angle to the team, coming from behind. My thermometer reads
-10, and I guess the gusts are starting to reach 30 miles per hour. The dogs
are in jackets, but I have dressed a little light. In anticipation of the
Dalzell Gorge, I want to be light and nimble, ready to actively drive the sled
through the steep ravine. I contemplate stopping to add my puffy jacket, but
instead attempt to seal my parka a little tighter. We have a full moon for this
run, and it is just starting to make its way over the surrounding mountains,
illuminating every ridgeline and gulley for miles. I spot a headlight a mile or
so back, and know that Jessica Klejka has decided to chase me down the trail. The
two of us are currently running in our own bubble, and the next team is at
least an hour in front of us.
The
wind has increased now that we are nearing the summit, and I work with
difficulty to hold the sled on the trail. All loose snow is gone, and the trail
is essentially a wind-blown glaze. The plastic runner plastic has no desire to
stay in place, and it is my feet that keep the sled behind the dogs (dragging my
boots alongside the runners to act as a rudder). I would estimate wind gust of
50 plus at this point, and the dogs are charged with the cold temperatures. I
can feel their energy, and despite a cutting chill, I smile with joy at the
conditions and challenge that awaits. I have my headlamp off, running by
moonlight. It has been years since I have “seen” the Dalzell Gorge (all the way
back to my rookie run in 2008, where I ran through this section in mid-morning),
and I am excited to have the ambient light to take in the surroundings.
As
the team and I drop onto Pass Creek, the mountains move in closer. We are now
in a tight valley, protected from the worst of the wind, and the moon is
working towards its peak in the sky. It is truly bright out! I can watch the
snow blowing off the 10,000 foot peaks above. I can clearly see every open hole
in the creek, and maneuver around every low hanging branch from the encroaching
willows. As we continue our descent towards the Gorge, driving becomes more
challenging, and I pop my headlamp back on. Pass Creek grows in size, and the
trees return. Alpine black spruce at first, and then larger and larger White
Spruce. The trail is nicer than I have ever experienced. It is hard packed and
fast, and there is so much snow, that the boulders and stumps that usually
raise the hair on your neck, are deeply buried.
The
turns get tighter, the drops steeper, but I still sneak in quick glances at the
surrounding rock ledges and jagged peaks. I have forgotten all worries of the
greater race, and truly enjoy the moment. The dogs are a fluid, succinct unit.
The trail is unlike anything else we mush in the year. The moon creates
elaborate shadows as we weave through trees, and then blazes on the wide creek
surface as we cross from one bank to the other. My only wish, is that Katti
were mushing with me to take in this incredible experience.
As
we make it out of the mountains, the Dalzell Creek joins the windblown Tatina
River. This year it is nothing but glare ice, and the moon shows every crack
and hole. There are a few trail markers and scratch marks for the team to
follow, but at times, we lose sight of both. The experience is a bit eerie,
perhaps more so because of the bright moon and harsh tail wind. From previous
race experience, I know that we should be on this river for only a few miles
before climbing its western bank and heading overland into the Rohn roadhouse.
But, is it three miles or seven that we run this river? Are we taking this all
the way to the Kuskokwim before turning in towards Rohn? “Oh, there is a
marker! Haw!”
Back
in the trees, the snow accumulation is incredible, especially when compared to
“normal” years, where there is at most six inches. The dogs bust through a
drift, belly deep, and then climb over a wind-hardened drift that is at least
three feet high. Snow should be plentiful in the checkpoint, and there will be
no need to make the quarter mile walk for water at the banks of the Kuskokwim.
As
we round the bend into the checkpoint, volunteers meet us to assist in parking
the team. Space is tight, to put it mildly, so it takes a whole crew to help weave
the dog team through the trees to a decent resting spot. I grab my drop bags
and rummage out a selection of snacks for the dogs. I select the “secret
weapon,” thinking some lean beef will hit their spot. About half of the team
goes for this treat. Of all our options, this is the one I know they should
enjoy the most. I go back down the line offering a higher calorie, beef blend.
A couple takers. Discouraged, I shake out some straw for everyone, give them a
quick rub down, and opt for a few hours of sleep before cooking up a bigger
meal. I don’t bother with an alarm. It is 25 below, and I know after a couple
hours I will wake from the act of shivering and need to get up. I pitch my
sleeping bag next to Jane and Mereen in wheel, and climb in, ready for my first
real sleep of the 2020 race.
-
I
wake to a strong fit of shivering. Looking at my watch, I see I have only slept
an hour. I readjust in my bag, pull my parka over my head (using it as a
blanket), and force myself to stop shivering. An hour and a half later, I wake
feeling well rested. Half the team is up and looking at me. I guess it is time
for us to eat some food and think about our next move.
As
I start the cooker, and grab snow from the surplus that surrounds us, I think
about our next run. The dogs have only picked at the most recent snack
offering, and I am seriously stressing their calorie intake. How do I convince
them to start packing away the food? Cold typically does the work for us. A
dog’s metabolism ramps up in these conditions, and they feel the need to eat
everything in sight. Well, that is not working currently. So, what is next?
It is 75 miles to
Nikolai. At this point, I see no reason to camp halfway through that run. In
previous years, “heat of the day” has been a serious concern on this stretch. However,
with the temp still around -25, I doubt it will get much above zero for this run,
and hope the long trek will spike the team’s appetite. If not, there is at
least a decent airport to fly out of in Nikolai (positivity really kicking in
here…).
The
teams un-touched meal goes back into the cooler, and I prep our sled for
departure. In frustration and haste, I decide to send some of my excess gear home.
Some of the gear I have been carrying for warmer weather. That 12-ounce rain
poncho? That is unnecessary weight and space at this point, get out! A few
extra harnesses of a different design in case the dogs get rubs? I need that
sled space open! Cleary, that two-and-a-half-hour nap has clarified my thinking
at mile 170 of this race, and I am able to determine exactly what I might need
in another 500 miles... Well, to be honest, I do not see us making it 500 more
miles, and decide to just clean out my sled. As I walk through the team,
getting them booted and clipped in, I notice Jane come off her straw a little
hesitantly. Stretching out her back and hind legs, I find she is quite tight on
her left side, and has some pain in her left hip. Knowing this is a strain that
will take more than a few minutes to recover from, she is forced to stay
behind. “OK Jane, we will meet you back in Anchorage here soon.”
Our
departure from Rohn coincides with sunrise, and the clear skies make for a
truly stunning experience. The first 15 miles of this run are usually some of
the worst of the whole race. There is rarely any snow to cover the gravel and
rock bars for the first couple miles of running on the Kuskokwim River. And
then, as we get in the woods, sleds usually suffer from exposed stumps, rocks,
and dramatic hills. As we did this run in the very early morning hours last
year, we had a thirty mile an hour tail wind that created a dust cloud which
was almost impossible to see through. As we banged over rocks and tussocks, my
eyes full of dirt and my headlamp beam obliterated with blowing crud, I just
prayed that the dogs held their footing and my ability to drive by feel would
be enough to keep the sled upright. Well, our experience this year is one of
scenic beauty, and I chuckle to myself remembering our previous ordeals on this
run.
 |
| A nice snowpack on the normally wind-blown river, just outside of Rohn. |
We
weave through the torched landscape of the Farewell burn, taking in the
surrounding mountains and ancient glacial formations. Even with the snow, the
trail still has its challenges, and I am wide awake from the effort of driving
and maintaining a reasonable team speed. There is fresh bison activity, and a
few of the dogs with a keener sense of smell, drive into their harness with
excitement (adding to the challenge of speed management). We make our first
snack break about an hour and a half out of Rohn, next to Egypt Mountain (aptly
named, as it looks just like a large pyramid). The team is offered a portion of
their meal from the checkpoint, and everyone is now eager to gobble this up.
“Good dogs!” With the rising sun, and rising temperature, I strip the jackets
off the dogs. It is now only five below, and I don’t want them to get too warm
as we make our way through miles of swamps and lakes, fully exposed to the
beating sun.
Before
pulling the hook from our ten-minute break, I pop my earbuds in and pull up a
Stephen King book I started just before the race. With “The Outsider” now
playing in my ears, and a timer set for every hour and a half snack breaks, I
can let my mind go and just enjoy the run, the scenery and a book that features
a shape-shifting “el cuco,” consumer of souls… Perfect!
The
team rocks this run! They eat some portion of food at every snack break (not
perfect, but better than nothing), and Marten is crushing his role in lead. The
team moves effortlessly on a decent trail, and we pass a few resting teams here
and there. After about 40 miles, I dig in my sled and pull out my ski pole. The
team has been averaging 9.2 miles per hour, but I know the trail is going to
deteriorate as we get closer to Nikolai, and I need an activity to keep me
alert on the runners. I often times use the ski pole to encourage blood flow,
keeping my mind and body alert, while actually riding the drag with one foot.
There is a balance to assisting the team, and in an event like Iditarod, you
don’t want to encourage the dogs to run too quickly, too soon. So, for the next
couple hours I just ski pole for my own benefit. At last, we find softer trail
conditions, and I start to pole in earnest, pedaling on the backside to keep
the momentum smooth, and the team at a steady speed of 8.
We
find Nikolai at 6:30, Tuesday evening. Kelly’s sponsor, and our friend Kurt, is
volunteering at this particular checkpoint, and is currently in the position of
checker. He gets us logged in and parked, and we catch up a little as I work on
chores. The previous night was pretty cold in Nikolai, and Kurt got a chance to
test out some of his winter gear in the -35 temps. Hailing from Florida, Kurt
is a relative new comer to sub-zero weather. Quality gear is essential, and
Kurt and I had chatted quite a bit as he first looked into volunteering with
the race. He made the investment into a true winter wardrobe, and I am happy to
hear that my recommendations held up to the test in their first taste of true
cold.
After
feeding the team a light meal (to which most eat), Kurt and I walk up to the
school to grab a bite to eat. I tell him about my disastrous oversight in
leaving my coffee thermos at the start line, and how I have had to choose
between water OR coffee in what is typically my water thermos (well, lets be
honest here, there is no decision to make, coffee is the obvious choice).
Without hesitation, Kurt offers me his travel mug. Looking back Kurt, I am not
sure this is allowed in the rules, but I sure am happy I had that mug for the
rest of the race. Thanks bud! (And to everyone reading, shhh…)
The
rest of our time in Nikolai passes without note. I take a nap, the dogs are
offered a second and larger meal, to which most refuse. I change to a wider,
cold temperature runner plastic, anticipating a softer trail and temps in the
-30’s. Fierce has to stay behind with the vets due to her lack of appetite (I
worry that her body condition is declining to a point that puts her at risk if
we get into any serious trouble on the trail). I say goodbye to her, and
promote Forty to lead with Marten. As I bootie and clip the dogs in to their
lines, I see that my sled thermometer already reads -32. “Look sharp guys, its
going to be a cold one out there!” I strap a few fox tails to my vulnerable
males, protecting their penis tips from frostbite, and loosen a few jackets,
giving extra wind protection to flanks. “Here we go.”
-
The
run to McGrath has never ranked top on my list of “best experiences along the
Iditarod trail.” I don’t know if it is just the timing in which this piece of
trail hits, or if it is actually that boring and mindless… I haven’t decided.
Anyways, this is not my favorite run of the race. This year, it is marked by
cold. As we cross back and forth over the Kuskokwim, traveling pieces of the
river followed by long, swampy portages, the thermometer bounces between -35
and -50, hitting 52 below on one of the deepest swamps. The dogs refuse the
entirety of their leftovers from Nikolai, and only eat a few frozen snacks here
and there. We get passed by three teams.
Combined with the
temperatures, this is one of the more demoralizing experiences I have had on
the race trail. I console myself with the fact that they still have decent
attitudes, and wag their tails at every stop. I know, based on their food
consumption, this will not last. At some point, weight loss is going to catch
up with us, and that is going to take a serious tole on their morale. I decide
that I am going to take my 24-hour rest in McGrath, and make an agreement with
myself that if they do not eat three solid meals in this time, we are going
home.
-
Iditarod
is an addictive experience for many reasons. The scenery and challenge of the
trail is, of course, one of the big draws for most mushers. The comradery, and
competition, is engaging for every person and team out there. But I think more
than anything, what appeals to most of us as mushers, is the learning and
personal development that takes place on the trail. The challenge of covering
such a great distance with your friends and allies, your dogs, is unlike any
other experience. And, it is always changing. There is a different challenge
every year, with every group of dogs. Even if the team is made up of the same
core athletes, and the training is fundamentally the same year to year, the
race will throw a variety of unexpected curveballs to a musher and their dogs.
I think this unknown, and the challenge to overcome, is what keeps us coming
back. Those challenges may not be enjoyable in the moment, but hopefully we can
look back and learn from them. If we can make it through, we can then know how
to better plan for the future, and how to react if in that same situation
presents itself in the future.
My
experience in McGrath is one of personal growth. I must adapt to the situation,
or go home. In the first few hours of rest, I call Katti to discuss the team. I
am an emotional wreck in regards to their poor appetite and weight loss. Uncharacteristically,
Katti is consoling and supportive of the possibility of returning home. “This
may just not be the year.” I tell her that I plan to wait a while and see how
the dogs do for the remainder of our mandatory rest. After hearing her voice, I
strengthen my resolve to at least attempt to continue down the trail.
I
chat with a few of my friends that are also resting in McGrath, and hear that
most of our dogs are in similar condition; happy, but not eating. A few hours
in, I trade food with a few other people, and get a meat variety that
encourages the bulk of my team (and coincidentally theirs) to finish a square
meal. I get some solid sleep, three hours at a time. The race starts to seem
more manageable.
The
dogs get some leash walks around the public health center, which serves as the
checkpoint. A mental break from being in the team is important for each dog,
and they enjoy the opportunity to add their contribution to the local pee
spots. Another wet meal is mostly successful, and everyone eats a mass of
frozen steak afterwards (a nice find in the leftover food pile from other
mushers). “Two down, and still 14 hours to go. Lookin’ good, guys!”
The
temperatures have warmed dramatically since our 40 below arrival. 18 hours into
our rest, it has risen to almost zero. I start to organize my sled and prep
food and gear for our run to Ophir. The next decent airport is in Galena, so I
guess we should make it there and see how things look. I think back on some
advice from a multi-time veteran of this race, “Trust your dogs, they will eat
when they are ready. No dog has ever starved with food in front of them.” As
hard as it is, I tell myself to worry a little less. Do my best to provide what
they need, but trust that will help themselves too.
After
25 hours and eight minutes of rest (making up the start time differential
between teams), we depart McGrath with a more solid outlook on the remaining
race. The dogs are eager and immediately find their rhythm. I know, watching
them move, that we are going to make it.
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