Broken Trails

Decided, Lainey carefully put away the paperwork, mindful not to lose it to a gust, and ordered her team toward shore. She still had a two hour lead on the next musher out of White Mountain. If the winds kept up on Topkok, she doubted anyone would be catching her anytime soon.

It seemed to take forever to return to the dunes, but they finally made it. Going was slow as Lainey let Trace and Montana pick their way along. The ever present wind mellowed but she kept close tabs on its location. Experienced mushers had been known to get lost in this area, the wind and snow blinding their dogs until they found themselves on sea ice and heading toward open water.

Soon they picked up the Iditarod trail as the markers reappeared along their path. It was heavily marked here to keep the racers aware of the dangers and pitfalls of the uneven trail. It seemed there was a reflector or wildly fluttering caution tape every three feet, and Lainey wished there had been that much care to point out the trail on the other side of Topkok. Regardless, visibility was much better down here than up on the summit, and she was able to navigate the tangled mass of driftwood and brush with minimal difficulty.

They passed another cabin, this one called Tommy Johnson’s in her notes, and the trail filed between the ocean beach on one side and another frozen lagoon on the other. Several miles later they crossed the Solomon River. Lainey was careful to keep to the marked trail here. Visibility was decent enough but the driftwood barrier between the beach and sea was breached because of the river mouth here. If she were to get lost and head out onto sea ice, this would be the place to do it.

Safely past, they continued onward. The wind lightened more and Lainey took the opportunity to grab a snack while she could. She watched as they neared the Bonanza Ferry Bridge where the Nome-to-Council road met the mainland from the spit she traversed. Somewhere north of the bridge was the Last Train to Nowhere, a series of steam locomotives rusting away after their heyday in the early 1900’s. In the dark, her head lamp did not shine far enough to illuminate them.

Then they jumped onto the road which was bare gravel in places due to the winds. She grinned, knowing they were close to Safety, in more ways than one, and urged her team to stay on the shoulder and follow the tracks of other mushers. What wind there was now flew up her back, relieving them from the constant cross breeze that had threatened to knock them down.

The next ten miles were a cinch compared to the previous forty. Up ahead was a bridge that lead into Safety, but the trail dropped down to the left. From there it rose and deposited Lainey and her team at what looked like a warehouse on the other side.

They had made it to the Safety checkpoint.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“ONE OH FOUR and forty-eight seconds,” the checker said, marking the time on her clipboard. “You look like you’ve been sitting in a freezer for the last six hours. How’s the trail?”

“Not too bad for the most part,” Lainey said, signing in. She had to pull her face mask off to talk, and it crackled with frost. “But the wind’s blowing fierce on the third ridge and on the trail between the cabins.” She opened her sled bag for the mandatory inventory and grabbed a bag of moose liver treats for her team.

“Visibility bad?”

“Surprisingly, no,” she said. She waited for the veterinarians to finish checking her team. “On Topkok it was bad, but not on the coast.”

The checker nodded. “Good. I’ll radio that back to White Mountain then. Maybe you won’t be the only lucky one tonight. We had a couple of mushers pinned at the Kennel Club cabin for a few hours yesterday.”

Lainey followed her normal procedures - feeding, massaging, salving, and putting on fresh booties. When she returned to her sled, she donned the racing bib she had started with. The rest of her gear went into three piles; one to keep, one to discard, and one to ship back to the kennel. She was only twenty-two miles from Nome and the less weight she carried, the better.

Once everything was divvied up, put into shipping bags or piled in the donations pile by the checkpoint entrance, Lainey carefully inventoried what remained. The packet of promotional materials and her mandatory gear stayed with her. She kept only one of the coolers, the one with the team’s next meal soaking, and left both of the cookers and their pots to be returned home.

Again she checked the demanded gear. She had heard of mushers forgetting their axe or the promotional items having to turn around and mush back to pick it up. No way was she going to give someone else the opportunity to pass her. She sat on the edge of taking the Rookie of the Year award and any backtracking she did would handicap her.

Finally satisfied, she checked out of Safety and headed for Nome and Scotch.

The trail stayed with the road for half the stretch and the wind remained at her back. A lot of snow machine traffic during the winter kept the snow packed here and the going was one of the easiest sections Lainey had seen in a while. It was not as featureless as the path to Shaktoolik had been, for which she was grateful. An easy trail that did not involve mind numbing boredom was always a good thing. Occasional areas of construction spiced things up and her team veered past berms and dipped into the infrequent ditch, but otherwise it was smooth mushing.

Ten miles passed quickly before the trail slipped off the road and onto the beach. For the first time in days, Lainey began to see signs of living human beings on the trail. Headlights from a car moved slowly on the road she had just left, pacing her run as she crossed snow covered sand. She wondered if it was a press car or an avid fan. At this early hour it could be no one else.

The car followed the road for the next five miles of her trek. Then it went over a bridge while she and her team dropped down to cross the Nome River. Three more miles to go. She could almost taste Scotch, a combination of the woman’s natural scent, coffee, French toast, and syrup. Lainey swallowed. Nearly there.

Radio towers loomed to her right, their warning lights blinking, and the car on the road continued to pace her. She heard snow machines buzzing in the distance, coming closer as volunteers came out to check on her. A stupid grin crossed her face and her dogs echoed her sentiment, tails wagging and a frisky edge entering their steps. Her three trash talkers - Chibee, Montana and Himitsu - began yipping at their approaching company and the team picked up some speed.

“Almost there, guys!” Lainey called as she saw the lights of the first snow machine.

Two of the vehicles approached, each carrying two people who waved at Lainey. She waved back and they swung around to tail her. She was glad they stayed well enough back to not over excite her dogs. Chibee looked like he was ready to make an escape attempt and run with the newcomers rather than his team.

The car on the road slowed to a stop and the trail took a sudden turn off the river and up a steep embankment. On the other side, she saw the familiar view of Front Street, the famous burled arch of the Iditarod finish line crossing the road ahead. Flashing police lights caused her to blink, used to the darkness on the trail. She verified that the car that had been following her was press by the radio logo on the door.

It felt so odd to travel down this stretch of road. A year ago, she stood on the sidelines with the racing fans and news crews, taking photos of the half crazed men and women as they pushed their dogs and themselves to the limit for … what? A chance to torture themselves for ten to sixteen days and a thousand miles of deprivation? Ill equipped for the cold, freezing her ass off, Lainey had spent the entire time thinking the people here were loony while she daydreamed of a Mexican Caribbean gig.