Brian O'Donoghue: My Lead Dog Was a Lesbian: Mushing Across Alaska in the Iditarod--The World's Most Grueling Race

Leo was holding an old kerosene lamp, which had been burning since the race started March 2. “Go ahead,” he said, “blow it out.”

Nome’s checker then handed me a shiny red lantern topped with a brass dog. Cheers resounded on Front Street as I hoisted it above my head.

It was official: the Iditarod was over.

It was payback time. From the instant I touched the arch, I began falling apart. The sun’s glint on the snowy street seemed overly bright. Surrounding voices merged into a locker-room din. I felt that hot glow of staying awake all night, utterly drained, yet too excited to slow down.

On cruise control, I used the Nome Nugget’s phone to file a story with Joling. We were wrapping it up when a woman from the Nome Kennel Club barged into the office and passed me a note.

“Brian,” it read, “your dogs are at the lot. They were unharnessed, tied, bedded down — and your food is on your sled — at the end of your chain line. You need to go feed them and check them. Welcome to Nome.”

From her look, I could tell she took me for an uncaring bastard, a person who’d drive poor dogs 1,000 miles and cast them aside.

“The dogs just had a hot meal in Safety,” I said cupping the phone. “I doubt they’re even hungry.”

The woman’s face softened. Maybe I wasn’t quite the monster.

“I’ve seen the club’s operation here in Nome,” I added. “I trust you folks put the team in a good spot. Give me a minute, and I’ll be down to check them out.”

The dogs were lounging on straw in a cargo yard on the edge of town. My team’s picket line was flanked by dozens more. The chains were strung between tall containers, which provided shelter from the wind. On rubbery legs, I took my cooker pan and fetched hot water from the checkpoint. As the food soaked, I gave each dog a special rubdown.

“We made it, guys,” I said, gathering the pans after feeding. “Take tomorrow off.”

Listening to the banquet speeches, I felt feverish — the product of windburn and cold beer. Bill Jack, seated across from me, eagerly rehashed his own dramatic finish. The Nome rookie had placed a respectable twentieth, after leapfrogging past 30 teams in the coastal storms.

“Admit it,” Jack said, “you planned to finish last and win that Red Lantern.”

“No. No. No,” I said, wearily. “You’ve got it all wrong. I did everything I could to dodge that bullet for seven hundred miles.”

With great solemnity, Leo, the old Nome checker, presented each of us with an Iditarod patch, an official finisher’s belt buckle, and a check for $1,000, which was given to every musher to complete the race that year. I’d counted on that money to get us home.

After formally accepting the Red Lantern from Leo, I briefly talked about the setbacks that had sealed my fate. Daily caught the frustration in my voice as I described the mutiny at the dump, but even he, our convoy’s sensitive soul, laughed so hard tears dripped from his chin.

* * *

Decked out like a banker in suit, vest, and tie, Swennie took a front-row House gallery seat in Alaska’s state capitol. An excited buzz spread through the chamber. Lawmakers swiveled in their chairs to get a look at the master musher in the flesh.

At last, the anticipated moment arrived. The representative whose district included Two Rivers rose and read into the record a citation celebrating my neighbor’s come-from-behind victory and his reaffirmed status as Iditarod’s all-time champion.

After the hurrahs subsided, Swenson said a few polite words. The champ was in good form on this, Rick Swenson Day.

I was seated at the press bench immediately in front of the gallery. Swennie stuck around after the citation, wearing a thoughtful expression as he watched his government at work. After a while he leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder.

“You sit through this bullshit all day long?” whispered the champ.

Later a reception was held for Swenson at the governor’s mansion. With Gov. Wally Hickel out of town, it seemed natural to find Iditarod’s all-time champion playing lord of the big white house. Amused by our first and last combo, others in attendance put Swenson and me together for a picture. I gave someone my camera to get a shot, but my flash batteries were dead. The misfire summed up my life.

The champ was being chummy. “I wouldn’t know myself — because I’ve never been there,” he said, “but I’ve always heard it’s tough on you guys in the back. How long did it take you?”

“Over twenty-two days, nearly twice as long as you.”

“Well then, you’ll have twice as much to write about, won’t you?”

The snow had melted, even in Fairbanks, by the time the lawmakers and I headed home. Howls sounded as soon as I pulled into the Deadline Dog Farm’s driveway. Out in the lot, the dogs greeted me like a lost brother. Licks all around.

The reception demonstrated, once and for all, that I hadn’t lost anything important. I wanted to mush the Iditarod Trail, and I had. I dreamed of starting first, and that had come true. The rest? Well …

In the kitchen that night, I unveiled my new plan to Mowry.

“I want to put up a sign by the end of the driveway,” I said, nodding toward the glittering memento on our bookshelf. “A sign saying ‘Home of the Red Lantern.’”

“Over my dead body, O’Donoghue.”

Someone shakes my shoulder. “Get up! Get up!” the man says, an Inupiat accent coloring his voice. “You told me to wake you.”

Wind howls outside the steamy-warm cabin. My body is stiff, wooden. I’m so tired I could cry. Where the hell am I?

“It’s time to go,” the man insists. “The next checkpoint isn’t far.”

Another checkpoint? What? That makes no sense. “The race is over,” I cry.

Searching my clothes for proof, I find the buckle and the patch. “See,” I say, showing them to the man. “I already made it to Nome.”

The checker, faceless, shakes his head. “Your dogs are waiting,” he says.

Wind rattles the cabin walls. A strong aroma of coffee tickles my nose. I sigh, not understanding, but accepting. Time to go.

That’s when I awake, drenched in sweat.

For months after the race, the nightmare replays almost nightly. Each time I’m victimized by my own conditioned response: Rainy and the team need me. I can’t let the dogs down.

1. Rick Swenson: 12 days, 16 hours, 34 minutes, 39 seconds 2. Martin Buser 12:18:41:49 3. Susan Butcher 12:21:59:03 4. Tim Osmar 12:22:33:33 5. Joe Runyan 12:22:36:30 6. Frank Teasley 13:12:27:57 7. Dee Dee Jonrowe 13:13:44:10 8. Matt Desalarnos 13:13:44:35 9. Rick Mackey 13:13:54:39 10. Bill Cotter 13:13:57:28 11. Kate Persons 13:14:20:59 12. Jeff King 13:14:24:40 13. Jacques Philip 13:15:07:39 14. Jerry Austin 13:17:10:51 15. Michael Madden 13:20:06:26 16. Ketil Reitan 13:21:54:12 17. Lavon Barve 13:22:20:14 18. Peryll Kyzer 14:16:26:26 19. Terry Adkins 14:16:46:51 20. Bill Jack 14:19:38:14 21. Beverly Masek 15:09:03:51 22. Laird Barron 15:10:07:15 23. Joe Garnie 15:11:53:33 24. Rick Armstrong 15:12:24:07 25. Linwood Fielder 15:23:45:15 26. Burt Bomhoff 16:08:48:36 27. Dan MacEachen 16:09:08:46 28. Dave Olesen 16:10:01:52 29. Raymie Redington 16:10:02:23 30. Dave Allen 16:10:25:26 31. Joe Redington Sr. 16:11:56:56 32. Jerry Raychel 16:17:51:17 33. Mark Nordman 16:17:55:38 34. Malcolm Vance 17:09:30:00 35. MacGill Adams 17:10:10:13 36. Nikolai Ettyne 17:10:53:00 37. Alexander Reznyuk 17:11:54:12 38. Tony Shoogukwruk 17:12:34:11 39. Rollin Westrum 17:13:44:00 40. Brian Stafford 17:15:35:48 41. John Suter 17:18:23:31 42. Roger Roberts 17:22:08:00 43. Larry Munoz 17:22:59:52 44. Jim Cantor 18:00:02:00 45. Terry Seaman 18:00:08:35 46. Kazuo Kojima 18:00:29:28 47. Rich Bosela 18:00:50:45 48. Pat Danly 18:02:23:36 49. Dave Breuer 18:04:49:29 50. Chris Converse 18:05:09:50