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

At Nome, a large staff of volunteers does all of the million and one things needed to bring the race to an orderly and enjoyable conclusion. This includes handling the worldwide media blitz and running the massive dog lot at the west end of Front Street where teams which have finished wait for their airplane rides home.

Nome volunteers also put on the sumptuous Awards Banquet in the Nome Convention Center, routinely attended by 2,000 people or more, where every musher gets a chance to speak and the awards are given out. Every finisher is entitled to a banquet and a chance at the podium to receive the coveted belt buckle and finisher’s patch. Since not all of the mushers are finished by the time of main banquet, the volunteers also put on a smaller but no less popular Red Lantern Banquet for latecomers.

Because the race lasts more than two weeks (only the top teams make it in under 10 or 12 days), the turnover of volunteers is continuous. In keeping with the nationwide and multinational flavor of the race, volunteers come from all over the Lower 48 and abroad. To accommodate individual schedules, people filling positions along the trail must be periodically moved ahead to high-traffic areas or into the hubs for their ride back to Anchorage as the race progresses.

The IAF runs what amounts to a mini-airline before, during, and after the race, moving 100 race volunteers from checkpoint to checkpoint. Even within the IAF, pilots rotate back to their regular jobs during the race, so there are never more than 10 or a dozen airplanes actively working the trail at any given time.

Joe Redington, Sr., the “Father of the Iditarod,” takes a break at Kaltag in the 1997 race. He finished a very respectable 36th at the age of 80.

It can safely be said no other single event (not even politics) captures Alaskans’ enthusiasm so completely and enlists their support so wholeheartedly as the Iditarod. Indeed, the race and everything about it constitute one of the few things which can unite Alaska’s normally fractious and independent-minded people for a single purpose, if only for a few weeks each year.

No one who has ever run the Iditarod — or even part of it — would ever trade the experience for anything else. The volunteers who make everything run smoothly year after year against daunting obstacles would echo this sentiment. It is truly a voyage of personal discovery, even for veterans and perennial contenders, and every year is different in a thousand significant details. It is truly the Last Great Race on Earth.

Honor Bound is dedicated to the memory of Rob (Robby) Zombie (as was his full name),

The goofy looking-possibly part coyote mixed mutt,

who shared several years of his life with me and my family.

It took great courage to live in the reality of our home,

But you stayed without fail.

Patiently waiting by the back door every morning and every night with Nana.

Maybe you were foolish or horribly ignorant,

But thank you.

Just for being there.

Lightning cracked, brightening the dreary black night. The rumble rolled through the hills, distant mountains, and wide river valley lined with a great wall of steel-gray granite. The rain came down in a sudden burst, but the warmed summer breeze making the whole of the storm not as horrible as it could have been. The storm clung to the dreary outskirts of Sutton, Alaska, around mile 64 of the highway to be correct.

The rain tossed down by the storm dripped from ferns and leaves making the grass lay close to the ground. The misty sweet smell of rain clung to the rich smell of warm pine trees as it pounded on a hollow log. The chaos above disturbed the animal that had crawled into the log to take refuge. Despite darkness, the animal’s bright golden fur was gleaming, lighting the dreary shadow of the hollow space. Its black nose was stuck down between muddy paws, muffling its sorrowful whines as it shivered.

It wasn’t but five hours ago that Robby had been standing in the back of his family’s blue Ford pickup truck. He had stood catching some air as he had leaned out, tongue sailing in the wind as they cruised down the twisting highway. Robby remembered what happened, and was angry with himself. He was standing on the edge of the truck bed leaning out too far tugging at the very end of the leash that was meant to keep him down. But he had tugged and pulled on it until it no longer served its purpose to protect him.

He had fallen through the air for what seemed like forever until he had hit the hard, unforgiving blacktop. His collar slipped off with a hard jerk wrenching his neck; his shoulder hit the tire; his back hit the pavement. Over and over he had tumbled; pain, horrible pain, flared in his body.

He had heard the truck screech to a halt, its rubber tires crying out on the death-black pavement. Three of its four doors had flown open, but it was too late. Robby ran and ran, never looking back. He was so frightened and so hurt he could not stop himself. Shrubs and willows smacked his bloodied nose. He heard a faint cry that he knew to be dear to his heart; it was his girl calling him back. But he couldn’t stop himself; he ran on; he left her. She sounded so scared and so sad, but he ran on until not even the rumble of the big blue Ford pickup could be heard.

He had left her.

Darkness surrounded him now as he stumbled over the roots and squirrel holes. He had blacked out, waking to his current misery. He could taste the rain mingling with the blood off the tip of his nose. Why had he run? Why? He asked himself the question over and over again, thinking of the heartbreak he had brought upon his girl.

He could barely lift his head from the pain it caused him. His hip was skinned up, burning with bits of gravel and pavement in it. He was cold. Lying on his side he could feel a broken rib tugging at the skin it tried to cut through. He could not fall asleep all that night in the moldy log that he managed to find in the darkness. His head ached too much and his stiff neck made him cough.

Before long, night had become day, as was normal in the summer time in Alaska, but still he lay as the rain came down. He watched it drizzle off of the plants and trees. A moose he normally would have jumped at the chance to chase, walked by lazily before catching the scent of Robby and his blood. It raced in fear through the wood like a spring windstorm, tearing a path through the damp plants. Robby took comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one frightened and alone at the moment.

By the next morning he was stiffer and weak. Bracing himself, he dragged his body out of the hole in the cottonwood log and stood. He was dizzy with pain and hunger, but he moved on with determination. He lifted his abused nose to the wind finding a game trail that had been used regularly by a male dog. He followed it for a long while at a slow, painful pace before finding a cabin with a chicken coop and a stocky horse in a corral being followed by a potbellied pigmy goat.