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

All too soon we’re in the starting gate. Kim is on the second sled again, which we’ll disconnect at Knik, 15 miles away. Today we have all 16 dogs hooked up so the weight penalty won’t be as severe. The announcer gives me a special mention; we met at Yentna Station while he was covering the Klondike 300 for KMBQ-FM. He’s becoming hooked on dogs himself and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him running the race one of these years.

“Five, four, three, two, one, GO!” We roar out of the gate just like yesterday, but 100 yards down the chute Socks decides to relieve himself before the day’s business gets too hectic. This is his trademark: when he wants to do his thing, he just stops, no matter if he’s in lead and we’re rocketing out of the starting chute of the Iditarod itself. It’s a frustrating habit, but one we’ve never been able to train him out of. So, we stop in front of 500 cheering fans while Socks unconcernedly decorates the snow.

Then we’re off again as if nothing has happened. I turn to Kim and we shrug at each other. The crowd seems to love it. I suppose it’s Socks’ way of reminding us who’s actually driving this train. Actually, I’m more than willing to put up with his foibles in return for his solid leading. Unlike last year, I’m not really worried about getting the team to go with him up front, and the occasional unexpected pause that refreshes is more than worth the minor distraction it causes.

If he has a serious flaw, it’s his speed: he’ll get you where you want to go, but you go at the “speed of Socks,” which is about eight or nine miles an hour tops — unless he’s excited about something, such as a sprightly young female running next to him. This is why he’s not pulling up front for one of the Big Names any more.

On balance, though, he’s really quite an extraordinary dog. I’ll be the fourth musher he’s guided along the Iditarod. He took Vern Halter there first; Bert bought him for the 1993 race and then loaned him to Bruce Moroney for the 1994 trek. Last year I should have just let him take me to Nome if I’d had any common sense, but I didn’t really realize what an asset he was — and is. This year I’m fully convinced if I can just stand on the runners long enough, Socks will eventually get me to the City of the Golden Beaches.

Just in case, I’ve got four other leaders behind him in the bullpen. Pull-man went to Nome with Vern Halter in 1994 just before Bert bought her; I ran her last year and I know she can add extra speed under many conditions, but she’s not as strong and consistent as Socks. Old Buck may be as steady as Socks, but he’s never been on the Iditarod, and I’m a little uncertain about his performance out on the coast, where the wind and endless stretches of sea ice have caused many a good team to founder.

I’m hoping Lucky will add an all-around boost to the team; he’s got speed and is a good command leader as well. Finally, a couple of weeks ago I borrowed Will Barron’s leader, Diablo. He’s fast, but I haven’t had much chance to run him with the team; if I can get him to go consistently up front we’ll have real speed, but he’s a big question mark.

I’ve got several co-leaders who can run up front to help the leaders. Little Maybelline is up front now with Socks; she’s irrepressible as always and can often tease him into tacking a couple of miles an hour onto his normally stodgy pace. I sometimes think Socks (who is eight years old) speeds up when she’s around in order to impress her. Batman is also good up front, and I know he runs well with Pullman. Bea is usually a good front-ender, as is Steel, another dog I borrowed from the Barrons’ lot at the last minute. Wild Thing is also a known quantity in the wheelhouse, but she can be notoriously moody.

Back in the engine room, I’ve got Bear, Yankee, Rocky, and Kisser, all big, powerful Iditarod veterans and rock-solid under every condition I’ve ever seen. I’ve also decided to take Panda (Socks’ daughter), a promising two-year old; she’s done well all year and can run up front if she feels like it. I’d really like to get her to Nome, or at least as far as I can, so she’ll have the experience for next year’s race. Finally there is Silvertip, my three-quarter wolf and erstwhile personal companion who has become quite a good sled dog, if a somewhat improbable one.

Convoys of teams are not unusual, particularly early in the race, or when difficult trail or bad weather is expected. These five teams on the Yentna are quite content to play follow-the-leader for awhile, occasionally chatting back and forth and checking out each other’s teams.

Putting together this lineup involved some painful trade-offs. I left behind Weasel — one of my favorites — and Rhythm, two good co-leaders and Iditarod veterans, in favor of the Barron dogs; I don’t know if I’ll regret that decision, but what’s done is done. Anyway, I’ve stacked the deck as much as I can, and all I can do now is play my hand as the circumstances permit. Besides, I know every musher on the trail has gone through the same quandary I have: leaving good friends behind on the journey of a lifetime is one of the hardest things anyone can ever do.

I review all of the players as we trundle down the trail to Knik. As I expect, we get passed by several teams — including Rick Swenson’s superbly conditioned powerhouse — which means I’m drifting back to the tail end already. I expected this, though, and my plan is to just keep pushing this first day to get back up into the middle somewhere. If last year was any indication, I need to make sure I get to Skwentna before we take a long rest. I can see what things look like down the trail once I’m there.

We make good if not spectacular time to Knik, passing hundreds of spectators lining the route. Since the trail parallels a main road there is a constant flow of cars and trucks with horns blowing and well-wishers waving and shouting. Many of them stop to take pictures and I eventually give up trying to wave back at everyone. None of it seems to be bothering the dogs, but like me, I’m sure they will be glad to get out on the trail, away from the hubbub.

Bert and my handlers are waiting at Knik. We disconnect the second sled and I spend a few minutes checking booties and making minor adjustments to the gangline. It’s already hot, above freezing, and the bright sun promises a miserable next few hours for the dogs. Nevertheless, we have to press on to stay on schedule. I’m not too worried about overheating because we’ll be going very slowly. It will just be a long, slow slog over soft trails; like the rest of the trip, it’s something we must do one step at a time, until we eventually get to Nome.

The trail leaves the road system at Knik, but roads are a relative concept in Alaska in the winter. This end of the Iditarod Trail is a thoroughfare for droves of snowmachines, and the race itself provides a grand excuse for a series of parties stretching for 100 miles.

Accordingly, hundreds of motor mushers share the trail with us, most of whom are fortunately considerate of the dogs. There are the odd few, however, who roar by the teams without realizing how unnerving and potentially dangerous they can be. I try to be patient as we plod on; nightfall will chase most of the snowmachiners back to town and should bring cold temperatures to firm the trails.

As we pound on through the afternoon we play leapfrog with a dozen other teams. Most of the fast movers have pulled ahead and we back-of-the-packers have pretty well sorted ourselves out. Some are veterans running young teams to Nome for seasoning, a few are semi-veterans like me, and the rest are rank rookies like I was last year.