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

Once the booties are on, I stand up the dogs, hook up their tuglines, and line them out away from the straw. This is usually the point where the mind games begin. The dogs can be somewhat reluctant to leave their comfortable beds, but the veterans all know moving off the straw is the signal to get back to work. Most of my dogs have run the Iditarod more than once and they shake off the sleep and stretch themselves in preparation for moving out. Some of the younger ones take a few minutes and a bit of coaxing to get adjusted.

Just in case, I have one of the checkers guide my leaders through the maze of straw piles from departed teams; left to their own devices, the dogs would poke around in every interesting spot. Fifty yards later we have a clear shot at the outbound trail and I give Socks the “Okay!” to get moving. He doesn’t even hesitate as he pulls everyone forward; I’m only beginning to appreciate his capabilities. It’s too early to think about getting to Nome, but I start feeling better after coming through the first real checkpoint experience of the trip in good order.

The trail out of Skwentna is different from the one we took last year. It stays in the open as it crosses a vast snow-covered swamp, exposing the dogs to the hot sun more than I’d like. They slow down, but keep going. After a couple of hours we finally plod into the tree line about the same time as the afternoon wanes and the temperatures begin to cool.

Now we begin to climb into the Shell Hills. The dearth of snow has turned the trail into a twisting thread which snakes its way up sharp slopes and hairpins itself around huge trees and rocks. The dogs are having a difficult time maneuvering through the maze. They want to run but I can’t let them speed up for fear they’ll injure themselves. At one point the team is strung out across three near 90-degree corners around immovable objects; this is worse than difficult — it’s dangerous.

Despite my best efforts, the sled repeatedly bangs off trees and more than once jerks to a wrenching stop as protruding stumps snag the brake bar. Low-hanging branches wipe me off the sled a couple of times and once I narrowly miss being skewered by a stout branch jutting from the side of the trail like a punji stake. It’s an ugly trail and I wonder how the fast teams kept up their speed as they rolled through here this morning.

After two hours of work we finally pull onto five-mile-long Shell Lake. I’ve spilled the sled several times but everything seems still to be intact. However, Lucky is limping. I stop to check him out but can’t find anything. I leave him in the team, hoping it’s just a sore muscle and he’ll work it out. I’d hate to lose one of my key leaders before the race even gets going.

We move quickly past Shell Lake Lodge and onto the series of swamps leading up to Finger Lake. The trail is better here, consisting mostly of open snow meadows punctuated by short traverses through the trees to the next straightaway. Moreover, the cool of the early evening is beginning to firm up the trail, allowing us to accelerate by several miles an hour.

A couple of miles past Shell Lake, as we enter the area near my 40 wilderness acres on Red Creek, I meet a convoy of snowmachines growling down the trail. They courteously pull over and stop. As I draw abeam them I see it’s several friends from Montana Creek who have homesteaded next to my property at what we now call Red Bluff. They’ve been out to Finger Lake and are just returning.

Last year they waited for me out here for hours, but of course I never showed and they went home wondering what happened. We chat for a few minutes and I assure them things are off to rather a good start this year. We part company on a positive note: they back to Shell Lake and Montana Creek, I and my now-rested team to whatever lies around the next bend.

Shortly we pass the place where I had to camp last year after Slipper quit. I remember the trees, the trail, the view of the mountains — everything is the same, except we’re charging on by without even a second glance. I can now see we’re only a few miles from my land at Red Bluff. I never fully realized one of my major debacles last year actually occurred almost within sight of my own property. Silently I check off another demon on my list as we glide on.

We hardly notice the sun has gone down because the moon is so bright. I only turn on my headlamp when we plunge into the trees, and even then it’s not really necessary. We make fairly good time to the checkpoint, slipping down onto Finger Lake just before midnight.

I had hoped to be able to warm up for a little while and dry out some of my gear, but the checker advises us we cannot go into the lodge and must stay outside. Moreover, we must melt snow for water; apparently, water was available from the lodge during the day, but their well has gone dry. There are six or seven other drivers here and no one is happy about being left out in the cold with no water. Granted, the temperature has been in the 20s all day, but it’s now well below zero under the clear skies.

The worst news is Lucky: the vets look at him and pronounce his shoulder to be injured. At almost any other checkpoint I’d take several hours to work on him and see if he could recover enough to go on, as he has during training runs. Then I’d consider carrying him in the sled until he was well enough to go back on the gangline.

However, there’s no way I can keep him in the basket for the upcoming run to Rainy Pass; this promises to be some of the worst trail on the race and I’d be worried about injuring him further if I kept him in the sled. In any case, conditions here are so austere I don’t think I can take enough time to work on him properly. So I reluctantly drop him; I have a feeling I’ll wish I had him later on.

March 5, 1996—The Iditarod: Finger Lake to Rainy Pass (30 miles); Rainy Pass to Rohn Roadhouse (32 miles)

Those of us stopped at Finger Lake tend to our dogs as best we can and try to grab quick naps on top of our sled bags. Finally we all wake up about two o’clock, miserable and shivering. Without even talking to each other, we collectively decide to leave this decidedly inhospitable place as quickly as possible. Our stay here has been so unpleasant we’d rather face the treacherous Happy River Steps in the middle of the night.

I quickly throw the dogs some frozen beef, bootie up, hook up, and leave. I immediately feel better about being on the trail, even though I know I’m headed for a hazardous section without benefit of daylight. At least the moon is still up and we won’t be completely in the dark.

After eight or nine miles of relatively easy going the trail starts to drop down a series of heavily forested benches to the final “steps” into the gorge. The last couple of miles leading to the steps are simply beyond belief. The lack of snow has worked its evil here and the trail is a duplicate of the one coming up to Shell Lake, only worse because of the sharp, twisting downhills.

In one place, the trail swings suddenly 20 feet up the right side of a ravine in which we’ve been traveling and then drops just as suddenly down again. I can see in the headlamp the entire stretch is a sidehill pitch worn smooth by 50 teams in front of us. There is no way the sled will stay upright all the way through this roller-coaster. The team pulls up and onto the slope smoothly enough, but the sled starts to slide sideways even before we reach the apex. I wrench the handlebar to try to lay it over on the uphill side to keep it from plunging down into the brush below, but I lose my footing. With no further ado the sled flips inverted and shoots down the hill, with me hanging on for dear life and shouting “Whoa!” at the top of my lungs. I zoom past the wheel dogs who look over at me and the sled in what I assume is surprise. All I can do is hang on and try to spit out mouthfuls of snow so I can keep shouting for the team to stop.