My Lead Dog Was a Lesbian Read online

  Jeff King, of Denali National Park, trailed Barry into Knik. In the decade since he had made his one and only Iditarod bid, placing twenty-eighth, King had emerged as a champion sled-dog racer, winning the Quest, the recent Kusko 300, and numerous other mid-distance events. None of those victories counted against the competition here. They were tune-ups for the intense, jockey-sized musher’s return to this trail.

  Anxious to test the dogs and himself, Jeff King overtook Lee in a narrow section as the teams were descending a steep slope. It was a lousy place to pass, but the driver from Denali managed it with style, dogs loping, steering his sled past the rookie’s team on one runner.

  The slick demonstration of dog power and control left Barry Lee truly awed. He felt like pulling over and waiting for the snow to settle.

  Daily needed to regroup. He felt lucky to have made it to Knik. That crazy trail out of Wasilla had been lined with badly parked trucks. Already exhausted from the hillside detour after leaving Anchorage, Tom was spent by the time he wrestled his sled past all the obstacles. The dogs dodged through without damage, but his sled had slammed into several of the trucks. Each time Tom feared the blow would finally kill his poor wife, who was still riding in the sled bag. But Fidaa managed to ride it out.

  The passage to Knik was further enlivened when Daily lost his snow hook because of an improperly rigged line. Tom was retrieving the crucial hook, entrusting Fidaa with the dogs, when Jeff King mushed past them. Like Lee, Daily and his wife were impressed by the Denali Park musher’s smooth, powerful dogs. It gave Tom a thrill just watching them. Give me ten years, he thought, and my dogs MIGHT look that good.

  The shoe-company sponsors were gone. They hadn’t bothered coming to Knik, and Tom was sure they were ready to dump him. They probably wished they had given money to the asshole shouting at him in Wasilla. So his own team took an extra minute getting out of the chute. Daily couldn’t believe the way the other racer had carried on.

  Tom rested nearly seven hours in Knik. Midnight wasn’t far away when he adjusted his headlamp, hugged Fidaa good-bye, and pulled the hook, sending his team trotting across the quiet lake. The stars above were bright, and the woods ahead looked friendly.

  Driving the last-place team—thus making him custodian of the Red Lantern in the largest Iditarod field ever seen—Tom Daily laid fresh tracks toward Nome.

  CHAPTER 4

  Early Casualties

  Bonfire parties raged through the forest for miles. The festivities were widely spaced among the thick alders and stands of spruce. I’d be traveling alone with the dogs, then enter a clearing ringed by snowmachines and cheering fans.

  My fleeting lead in the Last Great Race was gone for good. I knew that I’d probably see Nome before catching Swenson, Runyan, and the rest of the serious racers. But I hadn’t completely surrendered my bragging rights.

  “Still ahead of Susan Butcher,” I shouted to the clusters of merry celebrants, attired in thick parkas and fur hats. It was a claim any Alaskan could appreciate. Thick mitts raised toasts in my honor.

  Though well intended, my hurried departure from Knik backfired about ten miles out. Passing through a narrow, tree-lined alley, faster teams kept catching mine, resulting in a series of bruising passes. The trail here resembled an icy gutter. Burt Bomhoff, the old Silver Streak, was one of the few who successfully muscled his sled past us without slamming into my leaders. The blows left Rainy and Rat increasingly skittish, further slowing down my team.

  It got so bad that I stopped each time someone approached and ran forward to protect my dogs. That was the situation when Dee Dee Jonrowe tried to pass. Her dogs were sailing ahead when her sled snagged my snow hook. Jonrowe continued on, probably unaware of the problem, and dragged my sled backward through the team, scattering dogs everywhere until the lines finally tightened, halting Jonrowe’s progress.

  “Sorry,” she said, noticing the predicament at last.

  Freeing my hook, Dee Dee casually tossed it back.

  I was left standing knee-deep in a spaghetti pile of tangled lines. Seventeen dogs were balled up against my reversed sled. More than a few were growling.

  Tying a midsection of my gang line to a tree, I began methodically sorting out the dogs.

  Bill Cotter, a bona fide contender in this year’s race, rolled up behind my roadblock.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Sorry, I got a big tangle here.”

  “Well, we’re going to have a big pileup in a minute,” he said.

  “Blame it on Dee Dee Jonrowe!” I shouted, feeling like an abused hit-and-run victim.

  Cotter’s fears were realized as Roger Roberts, the cocky Loafer from Ophir, barreled into him from behind. Curses flew through the woods as Roberts tried to pass Cotter, creating another tangle.

  “Sorry Bill,” I said as Cotter finally passed me after a 10-minute delay.

  The Loafer cursed as he followed Cotter on by. Couldn’t blame him. I was a lousy rookie. He was a three-time veteran with hopes of winning real money. Then he turned and kicked Rainy as he passed her. He deliberately kicked my lead dog!

  “You son of a bitch!”

  He was lucky Cyndi’s .357 was stowed in the sled. In my state of mind, I might have shot him.

  Young Daphne couldn’t handle the freedom of traveling in a long Iditarod string. Each dip or bump caused a break in the tension of the gang line, the center cable that connected the pairs of dogs from the leaders back to the sled. Daphne kept taking advantage of the slack in the gang line to leap to her partner’s side to catch a paw in one of the lines. An experienced sled dog might hop for a few steps, but usually cleared such easy tangles with a swift kick. Not Daphne. The little black-haired dog merely looked back at me, stumbling forward as she begged for another rescue.

  On, perhaps, Daphne’s hundredth tangle in the first 15 miles out of Knik, Gnat crumbled. He lay whimpering in the snow, squealing horribly as I tried to raise him to his feet. When I backed off, he just stared at me in abject surrender. Why did I ever agree to bring this quitter?

  But Gnat had smacked that tree. Something could be seriously wrong. Unhitching him from the team, I loaded Gnat in the sled bag. Seventy miles from Skwentna and over a 1,000 miles shy of Nome—I had my first passenger.

  The sun was setting on the first day of Iditarod XIX. I heard a dog team behind me, closing fast. The musher was wearing a bright red parka. As the lead dogs nipped at my heels, I recognized the driver. It was the Butch.

  “You want to pass?”

  “Not here.”

  By waiting for the point where the trail branched into several interweaving paths, she eliminated the risk of contact with a rookie’s potentially ill-mannered team. Butcher urged her dogs ahead, leaving me to admire her form. Hell, it was thrilling. We shared the trail with the Iditarod’s defending champion, if only for an instant.

  Coal black darkness filled the thick forest. Cricket and Daphne had taken advantage of my ineptitude to suddenly backtrack, twist, and turn, knotting the team in what my headlamp revealed was another unbelievable tangle. I was shifting bodies to sort out the mess when Gunnar Johnson drove his dogs past us, then abruptly stopped.

  “Do you think you could get it?” shouted Gunnar, shining his headlamp at a spot roughly 20 feet behind me. His snow hook, completely unattached, rested in the center of the trail.

  It was a tense moment. The hook lay in the direction no musher wants to walk: backward from the sled, where even a lunge can’t prevent the team from escaping.

  “I’ll stop your team if they get loose,” he said, pleading.

  I gently let go of my sled and tiptoed back. The dogs remained quiet as I picked up the hook and carried it to him.

  “You owe me one.”

  Mike Madden caught me at the bottom of a hill, where I was providing Daphne with yet another assist.

  “Hey, Madman, I led the race for twenty-five minutes.”

  “So what are you still doing here?” Madden had made
up some two and a half hours already. “Let’s get out of here O’D. Let’s go to Skwentna.”

  Though my dogs exuberantly chased his, Madden’s headlamp floated steadily away. Fair enough, I thought. I’ll catch you in Skwentna.

  The strains of the last few weeks were catching up. I caught myself dozing before the team even reached Flat Horn Lake, a mere 3 5 miles from Knik. A crackling bonfire cast dancing shadows on the bordering bank. A half-dozen teams were camping, including one of the Russians and Don and Catherine Mormile. Pulling my team off the trail, I stomped the hook into the crusty snow.

  I threw the dogs frozen chunks of liver and beef. Leaving them contentedly chewing, I walked over to the bonfire, hoping to beg a soda. Cyndi had filled my thermos with Tang mixed so strong it was more suitable for peeling paint than drinking.

  I had a nice conversation with a young couple curled up near the fire, but they didn’t have anything to drink. Chewing snow, I returned to my camp. The team was resting peacefully. I stretched out on top of my sled bag. The dogs can use this, I told myself.

  Dawn was not quite breaking. My team trotted past the quiet remains of Susitna Station, bringing the Big Su River into view. Little more than a month had passed since I had last made this crossing to retrieve Beast and Gnat after the Klondike 200. To the southwest, Sleeping Woman reclined across the horizon, luxuriant and majestic as always. The river itself was barely recognizable. New folds in the snow-covered ice gave the landscape the appearance of a huge rumpled comforter. Crossing the river the trail rose and fell as much as ten feet between each wrinkle. The team and I crossed the river like tiny ants.

  Entering the Yentna River, I came upon a cluster of tents. Sagging banners proclaimed a rest stop sponsored by a long-distance telephone company. The fire was smoldering. I wasn’t planning to stop, but then I spotted a cardboard box with a fruit-juice logo. Thank God! I was desperate for something to quench my thirst.

  Rummaging through the supplies left on an outdoor table, I found plenty of juice packets. Each one frozen solid.

  One of the hosts stumbled out of his tent. While I babbled about the Death Tang, he found me a couple of semi-thawed juice cans. I chugged them. Stuffing a few juice containers in my pockets, I prepared to depart.

  The guy stopped me. “For some reason, teams leaving our camp are having problems with that tree,” he said, pointing to the left, toward a low-hanging branch leaning over the river.

  “Sure, sure,” I said, wondering why anyone would stray so far from the marked trail.

  When I pulled the hook the dogs bolted left and dashed under that low branch. The route wasn’t the one flagged by trailbreakers; it was the path countless dogs had already picked. And any dog that came later was bound to check it out. Trailing other dog teams in a crowded race field, most leaders are so reliable about following the common path that it’s easy for a musher to slip into autopilot. This time I was almost knocked flat.

  It was bright, incredibly bright on the river, as it can only be with snow reflecting the sun from its white surface. Hundreds of weaving paths stretched before us, attesting to the heavy traffic accompanying the race. People scooted by on snowmachines. Small planes flocked overhead like migrating birds. Many of the planes looped past two and three times, often tipping their wings in salutation. Some buzzed the team, passing so low that Screech, Cricket, and the other shy dogs dropped their ears.

  I saw a team camped in the middle of the river. As I approached, the musher waved his arms for me to stop.

  “I’m really in trouble here,” Joe Carpenter said. “Bad, bad trouble.”

  I looked around. A beautiful day was taking shape. There weren’t any holes in the ice. His dogs looked peaceful. He was outfitted in a fine blue Northern Outfitters parka. So what’s the trouble?

  “The team quit on me,” Carpenter said. “The dogs won’t go. Won’t go at all.”

  I suggested that he rest them, maybe in the shade by the bank.

  “No, no,” Carpenter said. He explained that he had no food, no supplies and HAD TO GET TO SKWENTNA without delay.

  The Coach had warned me to stay clear of mushers who were losing it. Carpenter, wide-eyed and panicked on this peaceful morning, fit the description. Well, I was going his direction. Wouldn’t hurt to try.

  “I’ll pull in front,” I said. “See if you can get your dogs to chase mine.”

  The jump start worked. Carpenter’s team chased us. But, alas, his swing dogs began overtaking his leaders.

  “Ride your brake,” I shouted. He needed to keep his team lined out—moving slower, perhaps, but moving.

  Instead Joe screamed holy murder. His leaders faltered under the verbal abuse. I left him there on the frozen river, yelling at his demoralized dogs.

  Dozens of resting dogs dotted the snow fronting Yentna Station’s big log cabin. The skies were sunny, and the temperature was pushing the 40s. And there was John Suter slipping coats on the dogs responsible for his notoriety as the one and only Poodle Man. Most Iditarod veterans were embarrassed by the presence of Suter and his poodles, whose fur was so ill suited to Arctic conditions that they stuck to the ice when they slept.

  As a rookie, Suter had stunned Mowry and five other Iditarod mushers when he passed them in a storm on the final day of the race. The team’s complement of Alaska huskies made that possible, but those dogs got little credit in the publicity surrounding the three poodles who had gone the distance, or the four who made it a year later. Poodles were Suter’s ticket to network TV appearances and the pages of Sports Illustrated. As John Suter liked to brag: “There’s five billion people on the planet, and only one of them mushes poodles.”

  Mowry dedicated his second Iditarod to beating the Poodle Man, which he did. I wasn’t as competitive as the Coach, but I didn’t intend to lose to Suter.

  Ken Chase saw me throwing my dogs chunks of whitefish. He asked if I had any to spare. The Athabaskan from Anvik was one of the mushers who had defined Iditarod in the early days. He was renowned for racing with a light sled, trusting good dogs and a lifetime of experience to overcome any lack of supplies.

  Mushing toward Unalakleet several years before, rookie Mark Merrill had been flagged down by a trapper traveling by snowmachine. “Man, you’re crazy,” the fellow said. “A bad storm’s coming this way.”

  Merrill, a proud woodsman from Willow, spent several hours building himself a survival shelter.

  “What are you doing?” Chase asked, mushing up from behind. He was amazed that someone would stop with a storm moving in.

  Merrill told him about the snowmachiner’s warning.

  “Trappers! They aren’t dog mushers,” the Indian snapped. “What do they know!” He advised the rookie to quit wasting time and get moving to Nome.

  Merrill hadn’t ever heard of Ken Chase, and he wasn’t impressed by the stranger’s ragged outfit. He stayed put in his nifty shelter. Within 48 hours, Chase was mushing into Nome, beating Babe Anderson, an old rival from McGrath, by 10 minutes. The failure to heed the old veteran’s advice caused Merrill to spend 2 days pinned down on Topkok Hill, battered by wind so fierce it blew his dogs backward.

  “I didn’t know who Ken Chase was,” Merrill sheepishly told me. But Merrill had come from behind to preserve his honor by beating the damn Poodle Man.

  Chase’s eleventh Iditarod wasn’t going well. His dogs were bummed after cutting their feet on the icy trail out of Knik. A few whitefish might perk them up, he said. Unfortunately, I was only carrying snacks. By the time Chase asked, my one small bag of whitefish was gone.

  The roadhouse radio was crackling with discussions about Carpenter, the screaming idiot “in trouble” down on the river. The musher’s wife and handler were desperate for information. Apparently this was Joe’s second flameout. Five years earlier, Carpenter had scratched in Skwentna. He had better dogs this time, “a great team,” his handler said. What was going wrong? The musher’s friends had access to a plane. They wanted to fly out and DO SOMETHING. The
handler asked Dan Grabryszak to pass a message to Carpenter that there would be a meal waiting for the dogs in Skwentna.

  Dan assured the callers that Carpenter was in no immediate danger. He also gently reminded them that Iditarod has rules limiting outside assistance.

  Barry Lee sacked out in the frozen marsh. Back on the trail by 5:30 A.M., he quickly caught and passed Gary Moore. Two hours later, Lee camped a second time near the Yentna, building a fire and serving the dogs a hot meal. It was part of Barry’s schedule for working his dogs into shape.

  He was napping on the sled when Moore found him.

  “Everything all right, Barry?”

  Lee smiled and waved Moore by, appreciative of his concern.

  He’d hardly closed his eyes before two snowmachiners drove up. It was Craig Medred, a reporter from the Anchorage Daily News, and photographer Jim Lavrakas, who snapped a few pictures of the “sleeping musher.”

  A few minutes later, Lee was disturbed yet again. A bicyclist no less! The guy was training for the Iditabike, an upcoming 200-mile mountain-bike race.

  “There’s a guy a mile or two up the trail who can’t get his dogs to go,” the bicyclist told Lee. “Said he’s been stuck there for nine hours.”

  Nap time was over. Lee got his team rolling to see if he could help. He found Moore rigging a tow line for Carpenter’s team.

  “You know, Gary,” said Lee, as he helped Moore fashion a connector that wouldn’t drag the trailing leaders by the neck, “he’ll be out of the race.”

  “I know, but he doesn’t see any way around it.”

  Carpenter stood on his sled, out of earshot, awaiting Moore’s cue. With the tow line in place, Moore’s dogs ambled forward. The Good Samaritan supported the line to Carpenter’s leaders in one hand.