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

Talking with Ben Jacobson, another pilot and rookie musher from the Eagle River area, I decide not to leave until after the heat of the afternoon. I have to think the previous two days of hot weather have worn the dogs out more than I realize, and Ben is of the same opinion about his team. We decide to let the dogs rest in the sun during the day and plan to pull the hooks about four p.m. for the run up to Finger Lake and Rainy Pass. Ben and I feel it will be best if we run together for awhile; after all, two heads are better than one, especially when neither head is thinking quite correctly from fatigue and dehydration.

While I’m feeding the dogs, my friends Rich and Jeanette Keida find me. They were on the handler team at Wasilla and flew out last night in their Cessna, expecting to meet me here about midnight. When I didn’t show up, they waited the night in the New Skwentna Roadhouse and came out to see if I’d arrive this morning. I explain to them about my leader problems and apologize for not keeping to my advertised schedule. They can’t help me with the dogs (no outside assistance is allowed to mushers) but the moral support is most welcome.

I wander up to the checkpoint, located this year as always in the spacious cabin of Joe and Norma Delia. Joe is Skwentna’s permanent postmaster and has played genial host to just about everyone in this end of the valley at one time or another. He’s been the checker here since the first Iditarod, and is as much a fixture of the race as the traditional start on Fourth Avenue and the burled arch on Front Street in Nome. I’ve met him many times in the past, usually while flying for the race. He doesn’t immediately recognize me because of my post-retirement beard, but then he recalls me from my Iditarod Air Force days.

As many as 50 teams can be bedded down on the Skwentna River in front of Joe and Norma Delia’s cabin. The Skwentna checkpoint is a popular viewing spot for race fans flying out from Anchorage, who often clog the small nearby airport with up to a hundred light planes.

Inside Joe’s comfortable house, some of the local ladies are providing breakfast to mushers and race volunteers, and I gratefully wolf down a stack of pancakes and some excellent sausage, along with enough water and Tang to float a battleship. Then I pull off my outer parka and bib, which are soaked with moisture — mostly my own sweat wicked away from the inner layers — and stretch out on the floor for a long nap.

When I wake up there are only three teams left on the river: mine, Ben Jacobson’s, and Tim Triumph’s; Tim pulled in shortly after I did but I didn’t really notice him because I was so focused on my own dogs. I find Ben and we get ready to move out at four o’clock; Tim says he’s going to try to get out ahead of us and we wish him well.

We’re ready to go at four. Ben gets his team out of the checkpoint without any problems, but Slipper and Bea, now back in lead, balk and turn into the nearest pile of leftovers. I need some help from the checker to get us pointed out of town, and by the time I’m on the outbound trail Ben is a couple of miles ahead. I don’t expect him to wait; I figure I’ll catch him at Finger Lake, after which we can run together to Rainy Pass and points beyond, like we’d planned.

A couple of miles out I meet Tim; he’s headed back inbound with a sick dog he wants to drop. I tell him I’ll see him up the trail and not to worry about us getting too far ahead of him. We all need to hang together back here in the caboose.

Slipper and Bea and the rest of the team are running like the solid unit they should be. The nightmare of the previous evening fades and I put it out of my mind. I decide it will be a good idea to drop Blues and Rosie, the two females most obviously in heat, at Rainy Pass, but they’re pulling well for the time being and I see no need to cut my power if I don’t need to.

We cruise smoothly across the Skwentna River and toward the Shell Hills, making excellent time toward the Finger Lake checkpoint, 45 miles from Skwentna. After three hours I stop the team at dusk and give them chunks of chicken, which they polish off quickly. After a 30-minute breather we’re off again, heading west into the twilight.

About half an hour later, just after dark, Slipper stops for no reason at all. All my fears from the previous night flood back. I begin the process of switching leaders, but nothing works, not even Weasel and Maybelline. The males and females are completely infatuated with each other and nothing I can do seems to distract them. After four solid hours of manipulating and swapping and coaxing all I have to show for my efforts are several major tangles, another girls-only squabble with Pullman the target, and two more litters of pups on the way, this time from Slipper (courtesy of Rocky) and Bea (from master Socks).

Toward midnight the moon sets and I’m at my wit’s end. Just then Tim Triumph pulls up behind me. He says he’s having leader problems, but I don’t think he’s having anything approaching what I’ve got on my hands. I help him get his team around me in the hopes my dogs will follow his. When he pulls out, mine actually take off after him for maybe 200 yards, but then stop again. I yell to Tim to keep going and to tell the checker at Finger Lake I’ll camp out here tonight if I can’t get the team going again.

After another hour or so of fruitless motivation attempts, I give up for the night and make the dogs some soup. I sit on the sled bag for awhile watching the dogs curl up to sleep and think for the first time about how far back I’m dropping in relation to the rest of the pack. I’m in dead last and am stopped cold again for who knows how long.

I slowly admit to myself the problem with the females in heat — I now have six of them — is much more serious than I’d first believed. The female leaders are all affected and aren’t reliable; I can’t put my male leaders up front because they just turn around and go back for the females. What’s worse, the heat cycle lasts for 21 days, and is only likely to get worse. If I can’t get the team to start, much less keep them moving reliably, there’s no way I can continue the race. On this depressing thought I crawl onto the sled bag in my arctic gear and collapse; I sleep soundly until the sun comes up five hours later. My dreams are not pleasant.

March 7, 1995—The Iditarod: Finger Lake to Rainy Pass (30 miles)

The bright dawn wakes me about 7:30, beautifully illuminating the Alaska Range to the west in the rich, low-angle morning light. To me, the mountains now represent the impossible dream; I don’t see how I’ll ever get there, much less through them and into the vast interior of Alaska beyond. Just behind me, I can see we passed Shell Hills last night, which means we were making excellent time before the wheels came off.

I fire up the alcohol cooker and melt more snow for water, as much for me as for the dogs. I inadvertently left my Thermos back at Skwentna, loaded with half a gallon of precious drinking water, and I’m plenty thirsty. I improvise a makeshift water container with a soft cooler normally intended to carry a six-pack of beer. I’ve brought several of the collapsible containers because they can be kept warm by tossing in a couple of charcoal hand warmer packets and I use them for medicines, film, and batteries I don’t want to freeze.

As the snow melts in the cooker pot, I dip a couple of quarts of still-cold water into a gallon-size freezer storage bag, press it shut, and put it in the soft cooler. Then I fire up a few charcoal hand warmers, of which I brought dozens because they’re so useful, and put them inside. I don’t think the manufacturers of the cooler or the heaters ever quite intended them for this kind of application, but it works. I figure I’ll buy another real Thermos at McGrath if I ever get there.