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

On the other hand, I don’t realize it but I’ve gotten almost no real rest because of worrying about the dogs’ condition. I haven’t eaten any decent food for a couple of days and I’m more than a little dehydrated myself. I’m running on nervous energy that can’t last forever and my judgment is probably becoming as impaired as if I’d slugged a six-pack of beer.

My wake-up call comes about five miles short of Gakona where the trail crosses the frozen Gulkana River. In the pre-race trail briefing we had been told there were some rocks on the final drop down to the river, but not to worry about it. I’m half asleep as the team roars up on the river bank and don’t think to slow them down as much as I should, even though I see the multiple crossed trail markers signaling a “double-X” hazard ahead.

Before my fuzzy brain can process what’s happening, the dogs have bounded down an impossibly narrow rocky chute in the boulders placed there to protect the nearby highway bridge. The drop is a dozen feet, virtually straight down over bare rocks the size of microwave ovens. There may have been snow to cover everything for the earlier teams, but now it’s like I’ve become some kind of bouncing ball in a giant pinball game as the sled slams and bangs against the rocks on its uncontrolled fall to the river below.

At the very bottom is a rock the size of a railroad tie sticking half out into the mouth of the chute. The dogs have easily jumped it and swung sharply to the right to follow the trail downstream under the bridge. As the sled careens down the bank, the right runner hits the obstruction and flips, flinging me into the rocks.

It is a major wreck-crash-and-burn, due in part to my slow reactions and poor judgment. The dogs have stopped and are looking back at the carnage with what I swear is amusement. The sled bag hasn’t spilled, but the plastic track has been partially separated from the right runner, part of the brake has been broken off, and everything has been generally loosened up. The sled will still go, but I’ll have to fix it at Chistochina on my mandatory six-hour layover, 40 miles up the trail.

My middle-aged body has taken a few hits as well. My left shin feels like it’s broken, although it turns out to be only a deep bone bruise. I think I’ve also cracked a rib or two, judging from the piercing pain in my side. I lie there for a minute trying to sort out what’s happened. I finally determine I’m not dead or crippled and the dogs are okay. As soon as I get everything upright and climb back on the runners the dogs roar off down the river, no doubt wondering what the silly two-legs behind them thought was such a big deal.

For me, it’s been another hard lesson learned. The dogs are tough, much tougher than I realize. I must spend more time watching out for myself. If I don’t keep my own physical condition up to par I’ll make more dumb decisions that can have even more drastic consequences. On the Iditarod, I’ll have to go for two weeks, not a couple or three days, under conditions that can be much more dangerous than what I’ve seen here. If I’m not fulfilling my role as the brains of this outfit, we can all be in serious trouble. The dogs are doing their part — I’ve got to make sure I do mine.

Copper Basin Snapshot — Following the Old-Timers Up the Eagle Trail

After Gakona, the trail abandons the highway for the first part of the 31-mile run to Chistochina and climbs out of a deep canyon via the old Eagle Trail, built around the turn of the century for freight sleds and pack trains traveling from Valdez to the Yukon River gold fields. The trail snakes up a very steep mountainside out of the gorge to the plateau above, climbing 500 feet in less than a mile. It’s barely five feet wide at best, with only willow bushes and scrub spruce for guardrails against the drop into the chasm below.

I’ve been warned about a particularly bad area where water flowing from a spring on the uphill side of the track has created a mini-glacier across the trail. The trailbreakers say they’ve cut away the worst of it with chain saws, but I’m still apprehensive. After half an hour of steady climbing and threading around switchbacks we finally reach the problem zone.

It’s a sharp bend set into the mountainside with timber retainers underneath the downhill part of the trail. The 60-foot-long team pulls quickly into and out of the bend, leaving me looking at a straight shot across the void. I desperately lean the sled to the right with all the strength I can muster, but it’s too late. I slip on the ice and the left runner drops over the lip. The sled flips and rolls over. Off balance, I follow it over the edge of the 70-degree slope.

The sled quickly stops, anchored by the gangline and the dogs, who are still on the trail with good traction and pulling hard. I finally regain my footing on a ledge under the soft snow and climb carefully back on to the trail to survey things. The sled is still in one piece but it’s upside down and the brush bow is wedged against a willow bush. The dogs are holding it firmly enough and everything seems stable for the time being. However, there’s no one behind me for more than two hours and there’s no way I can leave the team here to hike back to Gakona for help. I only have one choice — somehow get the sled back on the trail and get going again.

It’s really just a matter of finding a good point from which to pull so I can get the sled upright to take advantage of the team’s tremendous tractor power. I believe it was Archimedes who said, “Give me a fulcrum and I can move the Earth.” It takes me a while to find a good Archimedean point, but I finally get the sled more or less stood up after 20 minutes of straining and slipping. I climb up to help the dogs pull the heavy sled past the obstructing willow bush. After another five minutes of pulling and jockeying, the sled groans up off the verge and onto the trail.

Once we’re safely back on the right of way, I take a breather and look down at the 400-foot drop. It would have been quite a ride if the gangline had snapped or the dogs had been dragged over the side. I wonder to myself how the old-timers handled this with their 15-foot-long, half-ton freight sleds and 20-dog teams. My admiration factor for the old pioneer freighters goes up a few notches as my dogs, who think this has all been a rest break, tear on up the hill as if nothing has happened.

Copper Basin Snapshot — Journey to the Top of the World

The crown jewel of the race is the leg over a 4,000-foot summit between the Chistochina and Gakona River drainages, on a 71-mile wilderness run from Chistochina to Summit Lake. The summit is a rounded mountain peak surmounting a ridge, well above timberline.

The leg begins as the most beautiful and trouble-free run of the race for me. After watching a spectacular sunrise as the team sweeps up the smooth trail above the Chistochina River, I snack the dogs and rest them for half an hour. I even get a chance to stop and chat with Emmitt Peters as he rests his team. He won the 1975 Iditarod — the second Native to do so — and is a good friend of Ron’s. Emmitt was also a race judge in the Iditarod just past and I flew him extensively in my plane.

Leaving Emmitt and passing a couple of other teams, we reach the foot of the east approach to the summit after seven hours on the trail from Chistochina. The ascent begins abruptly as the trail climbs straight up out of the Excelsior Creek valley, running directly up a forbidding slope. We charge into it and the dogs settle into their steep-hill mode, digging in and shifting into “granny low” gear. I help by pedaling (pushing with one foot while holding on to the handlebar) and occasionally even by jumping off the runners and walking alongside the sled to lessen the load.