An argument erupted, leading to a further delay. The trailbreakers finally left, but time had run out. It was a sunny day, and the trail was soft, too soft. When Redington tried to leave, still comfortably ahead of the pack after a five-hour rest, his dogs sunk to their armpits, awash in the mushy powder. Old Joe wisely retreated to the checkpoint, giving the trail more time to set. Butcher, Buser, and the other young hounds arrived during the delay, smelling blood for the first time.
“Good to see you so upbeat,” said race Judge Bill Bartlett.
“Why not,” I said. “This is fun, and it sure beats working.
“I’m not staying long,” I added, grinning through the ice clinging to my beard and mustache. “I’m picking up a headlamp, getting a beer at McGuire’s, and then I’m out of here.”
The time had arrived to execute the Coach’s strategy. McGrath, population 550, was a big noisy village. Iditarod teams seldom get much rest here. And the town has so many distractions that mushers inevitably waste a lot of time. So Mowry’s plan called for giving the dogs a short break, then pushing on to sleepy Takotna, about 25 miles ahead.
Bedding the dogs near the airstrip, I went shopping for a new headlamp. The prospects weren’t good. Alaska Commercial, McGrath’s main retail store, had already closed for the night. Checker Chris O’Gar came to my rescue. She fetched the manager, who graciously reopened the store and sold me a $32 headlamp. It was a cheap toy, producing a feeble, unfocused beam. But you take what you can get.
A package was waiting for me at the checkpoint: a box of chocolate chip cookies, baked by Shelley Gill, my old Frontiersman boss. “Congratulations,” read her note. “You’ve survived the hard part. The rest is a breeze.”
Terhune had planned from the start to take his layover in McGrath. The decision was dictated by his poor eyesight, which necessitated his using extended-wear contacts. Terhune hated the feel of the damn things, but glasses and mushing don’t mix. He could hardly walk outside in his heavy gear without fogging his thick glasses. The choice boiled down to wearing contacts or mushing blind, and McGrath was the first stop where he knew he could count on finding a cabin warm enough so that he could disinfect the lenses without freezing them solid.
As in most villages, families signed up to host Iditarod mushers. Famous mushers such as Butcher, Runyan, Swenson, or Redington, were coveted guests. Most veterans had friends they stayed with year after year. Terhune, an unknown rookie, landed in a house overrun with three mushers, more than a dozen Iditarod pilots, vets, and judges, and an even larger complement of dogs. Though exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. The noise and clatter left him feeling bitter: big-name mushers wouldn’t put up with cramped conditions like this. Terhune continued brooding until the final tick on that 24-hour clock.
McGuire’s Tavern holds an illustrious place in Iditarod lore. In years past, when locals such as Eep or Babe Anderson had a shot at winning, loyal friends sought to derail the competition by offering them free drinks. Iditarod has become so competitive that top racers seldom risk visits to McGuire’s anymore. But I claimed a bar stool with pride.
The bartender greeted me with a bowl of chili. Another Iditarod supporter sent over a free beer. I stayed for about an hour, soaking in the warmth and conversation. Walking to my sled, I tap-danced in my bunny boots.
At 9:30 P.M., precisely two hours after our arrival, I yelled, “Get up!” Dogs that weren’t already standing rose and stretched. Little Raven began barking. “All right,” I cried, reaching for the hook. “Let’s go get the Poodle Man!”
The sled slipped forward. Ahead of me, the dogs trotted toward a gleaming string of markers, leading into the darkness.
Takotna was supposed to be a short 23-mile hop. Three hours out of McGrath, I cursed all map makers and their unholy spawn. This trail climbed forever, bumping over snowmachine moguls, with no end in sight. At last, I saw a cluster of lights. The promised land beckoned. Tiny Takotna was famous for greeting every Iditarod team, from the first to the last, with hot water for the dogs and a hearty meal for their driver.
The checker, a local musher, was apologetic. “We didn’t expect anyone before morning,” he said.
Five days had passed since Butcher had led the first wave of teams through the village. With a lull expected tonight, the fire under the water barrel was left unattended. A skin of ice covered the surface of my complimentary “hot water.”
The walls of the community center were lined with a neat gallery of mushing photos. I found a huge spread of food waiting, and several nice locals eager to host a tired musher. Did I need anything? Anything at all? What did I think of the race so far? Afterward one of the women guided me to a quiet library, where I bunked out on the carpeted floor.
I was awakened, as requested, at 6 A.M. The dogs, after more than four hours of rest, would be primed. I felt worse off for my own 90-minute snooze. My body was rebelling, but I staggered to my feet. The race clock was running again.
The Coach’s strategy called for bolting from Takotna, thus sealing my lead over the teams still napping in McGrath. The concept — so exciting in the kitchen at home — felt awful in the flesh. Before lying down to rest, I had asked the Takotna women for booties I might salvage and for a needle to patch the chewed harnesses in my sled.
“I wouldn’t use thread on those harnesses. Use dental floss, it’s tougher,” one woman told me.
Six hours after arriving, I left Takotna, packing a box lunch prepared by the checkpoint volunteers, a big bag of salvaged booties, and a dental-floss dispenser with several needles tucked inside. The Coach’s plan had vaulted me a dizzy three or four spots ahead in the standings, past Lee, Garth, and Daily. Not to mention Peele, who finally captured sly Charlie in the Burn that very morning. Mushing for Ophir, I traveled in sole possession of sixty-second place, approximately 30 hours behind the next teams.
Little Cricket limped terribly on the road out of town. I checked her over, but found nothing wrong. If the mysterious malady had shown up in a bigger dog, I would have turned around and dropped it at the checkpoint. Cricket was so small that carrying her, if it came to that, wouldn’t be a problem. Watching closely, I left her in the team. She limped for about two miles, then straightened up. Over the 35 miles that followed, Cricket was her old self, keeping a taught tug line and briskly trotting with no hint of strain.
I was also watching Cyrus with considerable concern, but that wasn’t a new development. He hadn’t looked good since his foot problems surfaced at Rohn. Rattles’s pup was a changed dog, and not for the better. He was listless. His ears were down, and his tug line, running in wheel, was often slack. He wasn’t even ripping off his booties anymore — the one good sign since I had devoted a lot of time to keeping his paws medicated.
The Coach would have dropped Cyrus in an instant. “Remember, O’D, you’re only as fast as your slowest dog.” I was not sure why, but I wasn’t ready to give up on Cyrus yet.
The 38-mile trail to Ophir followed a closed seasonal road through a valley flanked by savage mountains. “Weight Limit” signs were posted at several small bridges, specifying tonnage restrictions for various vehicles. I snapped a picture of my dog team trotting by one of the signs.
The morning was cool and clear. The team made good time behind Chad and Raven, our fair-weather duo. Despite an increasing number of cabins alongside the road, the valley was marked by a disturbing stillness. No welcoming smoke rose from the cabins here. They were entombed, cold and lifeless. The eerie spell was broken by a hand-painted sign taped to a trail marker: “Ophir, 5 miles,” framing a sketch of a smiling coffee cup.