Mike Dillingham - Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers - The Adventures of Balto, Back of the Pack, Honor Bound, Rivers

However, the permanent markers only give a general idea of where the trail runs at any given point. They outline a corridor up to 100 yards broad, while the actual hard-packed trail is only six or so feet wide. The uncompacted snow off the trail can be a couple of feet deep and can be very difficult going for a dog team.

The exact track is marked by Iditarod-standard four-foot-high wooden lath stakes with reflective tape. When the hard trail becomes obscured by snow, the trail stakes are the only effective way to accurately trace it across wide-open stretches of tundra. Tonight we notice there are already a couple of inches of snow from earlier showers covering everything.

Fortunately Andy seems to have had little trouble following the trail and Lisa is following his sled tracks. I am also reassured when I can see the reflection of the rhythmic flash from the powerful beacon at the Unalakleet airport almost 30 air miles away. As long as I can see the beacon flash I know there is no snow falling between us and our destination.

So, while Lisa’s leader (aptly named Brains) does a good job of following Andy’s increasingly faint tracks I scan the western horizon for the comforting strobe from the beacon. After half an hour of good progress, however, I start to lose the beacon; shortly thereafter it begins to snow fairly heavily. Since the snow is moving up the valley toward us, Andy’s tracks grow steadily harder to pick out, even though we know he can’t be far ahead.

Brains keeps moving but the snow squalls continue to increase in frequency and intensity. Finally the tracks from Andy’s sled all but disappear under as much as six inches of new, wet snow. Brains slows to a crawl as she works to find the trail. Lisa and I discuss whether we should stop and wait out the snow or push on.

Finally we creep over a rise and see Andy and his team waiting at the bottom of a ravine. He says the new snow became too deep for his leaders to find their way and he decided to wait for us. We have a quick council of war. We know the trail drops back down onto the Unalakleet River about eight miles prior to Unalakleet, and by our best guess we are within 25 miles of the town. Our main concern is to get off the open tundra before we get trapped out here by heavier snow or — my real fear — winds which will instantly create impassable drifts.

We decide to see if Socks can take us marker-to-marker. Lisa says if Socks can get us out of this she’ll buy him a steak. I don’t add that I already feel I owe him a week’s worth of T-bones for what he’s already done for me. I move my team to the front and shine my headlight on the next trail stake.

Socks picks up the cue immediately and sets off for the bright reflector. Soon we have a pattern worked out: I spot the marker and Socks takes us to it. Once in awhile when we have to rely on the imprecise permanent markers he wanders off the narrow packed trail and we flounder until we can locate it again. Still, we make slow but steady progress.

After a couple of hours a lull in the snow gives us hope; I can even see the reflection of the Unalakleet beacon again. But the respite is short-lived and the next squall strikes with renewed intensity. In a few minutes it’s so thick we can see barely 50 yards because the headlamps are reflecting off the swirling snowflakes. Socks continues to do yeoman duty, pushing through fresh snow sometimes up to his chest.

The trail sweeps are important to every musher running in the back of the pack. Often they use their big snowmachines to re-pack trails and to help mushers as far as the rules allow.

Soon the snow is falling so densely we can’t even see 30 yards. Every few minutes we have to stop, set our snow hooks, and go ahead on foot to try to find the next marker. The heavy, wet flakes are sticking to everything. We’re completely soaked right through our parkas and cold-weather gear, and the extra exercise of stomping through the deep snow on foot adds oceans of perspiration to our discomfort.

After an hour we’re so involved in slogging ahead and then moving the teams forward we don’t realize we haven’t seen any more markers for maybe 10 minutes. Again we fan out on foot to try to find the trail, but to no avail. Without hesitation we turn around and go back to the last marker we passed.

Our tracks are already fading under the thickly falling snow as we reach the marker. Now we move out on foot again, this time feeling for the packed trail underneath the snow. After half an hour we realize the trail turns at the marker; we had gone straight on without thinking. By repeated stomping forays we determine the trail’s new orientation, but we still can’t see any markers in the new direction.

I notice part of our problem: the snow is sticking to the reflective tape of the stakes, making them difficult to see even in the direct beam of a headlamp. Since it’s near dawn we decide to wait for first light, which should improve our visibility and allow us to see the wooden tripods. After another half hour the snow lets up for a few minutes and I pull out my powerful reserve headlamp to try to spot a marker.

Sure enough, the lithium-powered sealed beam reveals a faint reflection in the direction we’ve determined the trail should be headed. We immediately pull the hooks and Socks takes us unerringly to the marker. By the time we reach it I see the next one, and then a tree line appears ahead out of the swirling snow: we’re dropping back onto the river. Socks has brought us off the tundra and back to concrete reality.

We greet the river like a long-lost friend. In the glimmering dawn I direct Socks down the wandering channel as the still-obscured trail jumps from side to side to avoid icy patches and overflow areas; he responds crisply to my commands like the pro he is. After a few miles a snowmachiner pulls up alongside us; he says we’re only five miles from Unalakleet and he’ll be glad to break the trail on into town for us.

I let Andy and Lisa pass; Socks has been breaking trail for almost five solid hours in abysmal conditions and has never missed a beat. He and I have been working as a team in a sense I never imagined possible. It’s almost as if we can read each other’s minds, and it’s a good feeling. We happily follow Lisa’s team along the newly opened trail while Socks takes a well-deserved break from his duties as the point man in our expedition.

The snow tapers off markedly as we near Unalakleet. The people at the checkpoint probably didn’t have much idea what we were going through as we struggled in from the east. It’s typical of the weather out here: a few miles can make all the difference in the world. By the time we skate across the frozen lagoon to the windswept, treeless spit on which Unalakleet perches it’s been almost 23 hours since we left Kaltag — on a run which normally takes 12 to 15.

We made excellent time over the first 50 miles to Old Woman cabin, but battled for 12 hours to cover the last 40 in from there. Even if we’d left earlier we’d still have had problems: the half-dozen other tail-enders who left Kaltag shortly after we arrived there yesterday took 18 hours. Interestingly, we never saw any sign of their tracks even though they left only 10 hours ahead of us, which is an indication of how rapidly conditions were changing.

For the moment, though, we’ve made it to a safe haven. We’re all still in good shape, if a bit tired and wet. Most of all, we’ve finally made it to the coast, and we’ve done it well under the five-day deadline. Jeff King roared through here four days ago on a fast trail under fair skies — a far cry from what we’ve encountered. Of course, nobody ever said the weather played fair out here, but if there’s any justice, now maybe we’ve earned a couple of days of easy runs.