Broken Trails

Scotch murmured greetings to those who were awake, seated around a table as they nursed hot coffee and breakfast. A dry erase board hung from one wall, listing the mushers and their times in and out of the checkpoint. Lainey snorted as she saw her name by her bib number, then scanned through to see how others were doing. It seemed that all the previous champions were either here now, or only just left. Which meant Scotch still had a good shot at winning. Lainey knew better than to put herself in that category; Scotch was holding her team back to get Lainey through the worst of the first part of the race. After that, Lainey would be on her own with some decent experience under her belt to help her get the rest of the way to Nome.

“Lainey.” She turned away from the board, seeing Scotch waving her toward the stove. They found spare space on several cords draped across the room for their wet things. Lainey used the velcro straps on the dog booties as clothespins. Several bunks lined the room, but none were available. Even the floor was littered with mushers napping. Lainey discovered a bare corner and dropped her sleeping bag there. Scotch joined her. They used Lainey’s bag to make a nest, and Scotch’s to cover them. Soon they were snuggled together. Lainey’s sleep-fogged mind wandered about as she drifted off. The floor was cooler, and her sinuses did not bother her as much. Would anybody notice she and Scotch sleeping together under the noses of the Iditarod committee and fellow mushers? Would anybody care?

She turned on her side, cuddling closer. Just her luck. She finally got to sleep with Scotch, but was too damned exhausted to do anything about it.

Lainey pulled out of the Rohn checkpoint at precisely twelve thirty-eight PM. She was third in a convoy of six mushers, a rather odd experience considering the solitary nature of running dogs. The next twenty miles of trail was considered reason enough to set aside competitive differences. As Scotch said, out here they could use all the help they could get to slog through the next stretch.

Drew Owens had delayed his departure to lead the procession with Scotch tailing him. Lainey came next, followed by one of the veterans that had been playing catch up with Scotch. Behind Georgio Spencer came his youngest son, Roman; Lainey had met the younger man at the mandatory rookie meeting in December. Bringing up the rear was the second veteran chasing after Scotch, Jon Waters, a three time champion of the race.

They left the checkpoint, mushing into a brisk wind. It had not seemed so rough in the protection of spruce trees where the dogs had slept. Despite the warmer temperatures of the afternoon, the gusts now chilled her face and caused her eyes to tear. Lainey fumbled for the goggles in her personal bag, relieved as the biting sting dissipated. She pulled her scarf up to cover the lower half of her face.

The wind had scrubbed the trail of snow, leaving patches of gravel and sand as they traveled along the bank of the Kuskokwim River. Driftwood piles haphazardly dotted the landscape, some coming perilously close to the trail. In other places the heat of the day, below thirty degrees but still rather warm for the animals, had resulted in over flow from the river. When they were not on dry land, they slipped over ice covered in a sheen of water. More than once the dogs lost their footing as they trotted, stumbling as their feet slipped out from under them. None of them fell, though, for which Lainey was greatly relieved.

Trail markers were few and far between. According to Lainey’s notes, they were supposed to cross the river at some point, but for the life of her she could not see anything on the other side to indicate where the trail was. Owens, who was a good hundred yards ahead of her suddenly veered southwest across the wet ice. Lainey followed him and Scotch, squinting into the distance. It was not until she was halfway across the river before she saw the reflective markers. She wondered how Owens had seen them. Or did he simply know its location from previous races? If that were so, there would be some bewildered rookies getting lost out here. She certainly would have missed the signs.

Lainey was glad when they headed into a stand of trees. Her team picked up a little speed now that they had better purchase on the trail. She felt the belated tingle of blood warming her cheeks now that they were not being blasted by wind, though a breeze still teased the ruffles of her badger fur hood.

The trail remained smooth and relatively straight, clear of debris and far enough away from potential sweepers. It was sort of nice to just let the dogs run, not a care in the world. Lainey frowned. This placid little excursion would end soon. The Farewell Burn was somewhere out there, and she did not travel in a pack of mushers to enjoy the day. Still, the area was a pleasant one, sunlight sparkling off snow, crisp and clean. She fell to temptation and pulled out her camera for a few shots, even turning around to take photos of the mushers behind her. She smiled when Georgio waved and grinned at her.

She put the camera away just in time to follow an abrupt right turn. Her heart skittered in anticipation, but rather than the roller coaster of the Burn, the trail began a gradual curve to the left. Still mellow, still calm, she began to fidget. How far away was the Farewell Burn from Rohn? She dug out her notebook and flipped through the papers, keeping one eye on the trail, one elbow hooked over her sled to keep from losing her balance. Eventually she pieced together that they had a little while to go before all hell would break loose.

They broke from the trail onto another river. Here, too, the ice hid beneath a layer of water, making things slick for the dogs. The trail did not linger long here, taking a left and climbing up a steep bank. Before Lainey became complacent, they were back onto another creek. This section of trail was horrible, with irregular driftwood piles, slippery surfaces, and bared gravel. Surely when this creek was thawed, it boasted white water from the amount of rock sticking up to mar the ice. Her sled bucked and writhed under her as she fought just to stay on. Getting off the creek did little to ease the journey.

She saw Scotch crest the hill ahead and dip over the other side. That was Lainey’s only warning before she arrived at the apex of a small hill. Beneath her, she saw a ravine, the path to it a short one. At least it was not as bad as switchbacks at Happy Valley. Her trip down was fast and smooth compared to the trail leading up. At the bottom, she called the command to the dogs for a sharp right turn. Lainey gaped at the upcoming hill. The climb was a nearly vertical one and she watched Owens urging his dogs up, pushing his sled behind. She swallowed, hoping the trail was good enough for the dogs to get some purchase. There was no way she was strong enough to push a five hundred pound sled up that incline. Then she had no time to worry about being crushed by a backsliding sled. Scotch was already halfway up the hill and Lainey at the bottom.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” she called to her team, getting off the runners to help muscle the sled to the top.

The dogs put their backs into it, and though they slowed considerably, they slogged to the top of the hill with effort.

There was a short jog left through some trees and she came out onto an upper section of the ravine she had just climbed. Tracks on the trail here indicated that others had not been so lucky. Rather than remain on the marked trail, their dogs had continued the left turn, rushing them to the bottom of the ravine to climb that vertical hill all over again. Lainey was glad for the experienced leaders, both on her team and the mushers in front of her. Her dogs followed the scent of the dogs before them rather than that of those who had erred in the recent past.