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

Bert and Reb and Kim and Mike and Julie and all the rest of my endlessly patient handlers/sponsors are out here to put the dogs back in the truck. I’m inexplicably tired, probably from lack of sleep as well as the heat. I didn’t realize it on the way out but I got extremely warm in my heavy-duty arctic gear, which will keep me toasty down to 40 below or worse. The entire ensemble is constructed to wick away moisture in order to keep the layers next to the skin as dry as possible, so I’ve never noticed how much I’ve been sweating.

I’ve been warned about this loss of moisture and the risk of dehydration, but I never fully realized how insidiously it can manifest itself.

And if it affects me this way, how must the dogs feel in their permanent cold-weather outfits? I wander into the refreshment area and down a half-gallon of Tang without even thinking about it. If this happens out on the trail, away from ready sources of water, I can see how I could be in real trouble. Samuel Taylor Coleridge could never have imagined how true his ancient mariner’s complaint would ring here in the frozen north country: “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.” At least I’ll have my trusty Thermos, and there’s always my alcohol cooker, which can melt three gallons of water from snow in 15 minutes.

But today is done and I can continue my last-minute errands. Unlike previous years, when the teams were loaded up at Eagle River and trucked immediately out to Wasilla for the restart only four hours later, we have a respite until tomorrow morning. This development resulted from a dearth of snow in Anchorage and Wasilla just before last year’s race. The start in Anchorage was limited to six dogs running a mere 16 blocks or so, down to the bottom of the Cordova Street hill. The restart was moved all the way out to Willow, 20 miles northwest of Wasilla, the closest place with enough snow to permit a link to the Iditarod “main line” west of the Susitna River.

Because it would have been impractical to move the dogs and thousands of spectators the 60-plus miles from Anchorage to Willow over a congested, mostly two-lane highway, the restart was postponed a full day.

Sleds make good places to catch naps. Tired mushers sleep in, on, and beside their sleds on the trail to Nome. Here the author rests after the run to Eagle River.

The 24-hour delay before the restart proved to be a smashing success, and the format was formalized this year with Wasilla resuming its normal role as the restart location. For the mushers and the dogs, it’s a godsend, allowing an easy shake-out run from Anchorage to Eagle River, followed by a full night’s sleep for the drivers and some quality rest for the dogs before heading out on the real trail.

For me, the extra day is a necessity so I can find the last items I need to complete my mail-out packages as well as my gear for the sled. By design, I didn’t use my real sled this morning; for that matter, neither did most of the mushers. My good Willis sled (actually it belongs to Bert and has been to Nome twice already) has been completely overhauled and is waiting at Bert’s for the ride out to tomorrow’s restart.

Like all rookies, I wanted to take so much gear it would never fit into the sled and would likely break the dogs’ backs if it did. Bert and Kim helped me weed out the unnecessary stuff, which fills a couple of good-sized boxes, but I’ve still got a steamer trunk full of odds and ends of dubious utility, but which I feel I’ll really need somewhere out there.

Bert assures me I’ll have a truckload of stuff to dump by the time I get to Skwentna. He insists I take a bag for just that purpose, ready to be stuffed full of previously essential gear and mailed back to town from the Skwentna checkpoint, which also happens to be the post office. I’ve seen it happen every year while I’ve been flying for the race, so I don’t know why I’m shocked I might have grossly overestimated my own equipment requirements. But this is different — this is me doing it now and I just can’t see how anyone could ever survive on the trail without all of these things. Bert just smiles at my rookie foibles; as he says, he’s been there, done that, and there’s not much he can do except let me find out for myself.

I finally get to sleep at four a.m. after sorting everything from batteries to booties into bags to be mailed out to the remote checkpoints. I’ll only get a few hours’ sleep, but at least I got everything done. Now I’m ready to head out on the trail. No more false starts — the next countdown will be the real one.

March 5, 1995—The Iditarod: Wasilla to Knik (14 miles) Knik to Yentna Station (50 miles)

Yesterday was the rehearsal; today it’s show time. When I leave the starting chute in Wasilla in a few hours I’ll be well and truly on my way to Nome. By nightfall I’ll certainly find out if the months of training have paid off. In any case, there’s no turning back now.

I only get three hours of sleep; I’m still groggy when I meet Bert and Kim at a local donut shop for a quick cup of coffee and a sugar fix before we head out to Wasilla. We go over our checklists to make sure we’ve remembered everything; there have been instances where harried, hurried mushers have shown up at races without things like harnesses, ganglines, and even sleds.

On the 30-mile drive to Wasilla I pass the dog trucks of a dozen mushers, most of whom I recognize. At the old airstrip in Wasilla where the restart will happen, I find a much more informal arrangement than on Fourth Avenue yesterday. The crowds are downrange near the starting chute and along the 14-mile trail to Knik, which parallels a main road for most of its route. The marshaling area is pretty much left to the mushers, which is a blessing because everyone has a lot of packing and serious last-minute preparations to complete.

Almost immediately we realize we have forgotten the bag containing the dog blankets, which I will almost certainly need for some of the thinner-coated dogs. Bert whips out his cellular phone and calls wife Reb, who is standing by for just such a contingency. She says she’ll be out well before I move into the starting chute, along with some frozen herring for me to feed the dogs enroute to Skwentna — something else we forgot about.

In the meantime, we go through another sled packing drill, during which Kim tosses out another 20 pounds or so of my hitherto absolutely essential gear as Bert looks on in amusement. I don’t dispute her judgment since I’m only running on a couple of cylinders at the moment. Looking at the still-bulging sled bag after she’s done, I’m sure I’ll still have more than enough to get me through whatever the trail has to offer.

A stream of mushers passes an impromptu fly-in trail party on the Yentna River. Hundreds of people make their way out along the first hundred miles of the Iditarod in skiplanes, on snowmachines, or even behind their own dog teams to watch the race.

The blankets and herring arrive as advertised, and before I realize it I see Martin’s nattily attired and professional-looking handlers hooking up his team for the run down to the starting chute. Like yesterday, he’s surrounded by a crush of well-wishers and a cloud of media people. I’m glad they’re pestering him and not me; I doubt I could provide them two coherent words.

Now we’re in the chute like yesterday, deja vu all over again except Slipper and Bea are up front; I don’t want any sudden dives into the crowd today. Ron is on the second sled, but this time there’s no passenger up front. We’ll drop the back sled at Knik and I plan to move on from there as quickly as is decently possible.