Iditarod Nights (12 page)

Her goggles frosted over. She swiped at the
lenses but they frosted again within minutes. She lost sight of the
trail markers, lost sight of Handsome and Ranger, then Toolik and
Treker.

Are we even going in the right direction
anymore?

She pulled her goggles off and attempted to
peer through the fir edge of her parka hood. Ice crystals formed on
her lashes and froze her right eye shut. She rubbed at it with her
mitten and put her goggles back on. Unless the wind had changed
direction, they were still headed toward Elim. She hoped.

***

The trail across frozen Golovin Lagoon ran
straight and monotonous. After the slow grind over Little McKinley
and maneuvering an icy descent into the wind of the bay between
Elim and Golovin, Dillon let his dogs set the pace. He peddled at
the back of the sled as an endless stream of trail markers lead the
way toward the flashing airport beacon of White Mountain
checkpoint, seventy-seven miles from Nome and where they'd take
their mandatory eight-hour layover. His face numbed by the wind
that blew down the river, he felt caught in a time warp, his dogs
running in slow motion, the beacon like a mirage in the desert,
never getting any closer.

As the afternoon lengthened, tedium set in
and his mind drifted. He didn't want to think about the dead man
but did anyway. He'd thought himself purged of the memory, or at
least had it buried deep enough to stay unseen. But claustrophobia
shadowed him, tried to trap him in a room he swore to never enter
again. A room of nightmares and flashbacks and chaos.

Shake it off, damn it.

He realized his dogs had picked up their pace
and the airport beacon was no longer a distant mirage. Checkpoints
meant food and rest and attention from the locals, three items high
on a dog's list of things to get excited about. They swung around a
bend and saw White Mountain spread out along the bank of the river.
Dillon checked in at 5:21 p.m., loaded his dropped bags onto the
sled and followed the volunteer to the parking area. He went
through the routine of feeding and bedding his team for the long
stay as the sun set and darkness settled in.

Later, he walked to the community hall in
search of a hot meal. While he enjoyed a bowl of stew, he overheard
a group of mushers talking about a ground blizzard between Koyuk
and Elim – minus twenty-eight degrees, fifty-mile-an-hour
winds.

"Nothing's getting through there," one
commented.

"Anybody caught in it?" Dillon asked.

"Maybe," a woman with loose dark hair and
sleep-droopy eyelids replied. "That rookie lawyer should have
checked in at Elim by now but nobody's seen her."

Dillon's spoon stopped partway to his mouth,
a sudden uncomfortable knot in his throat. "You mean Claire
Stanfield?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"What's her GPS tracker say?"

"It's not moving."

Chapter 20

A maelstrom of white assaulted Claire as she
searched for the reflection of a trail marker in the light of her
headlamp. She needed to find shelter for herself and her dogs.
There was supposed to be a cabin twenty-five miles from Elim, but
she feared she could be standing right next to it and not see it.
The longer they blindly thrashed on, the greater the odds of
getting lost. If they weren't already. What if the wind had
shifted? What if they'd been going in circles?

Be strong for me.

"Mama?" The wind ripped the question from her
mouth, scattering it like confetti. "Mama, is that you?"

Oh God, I'm hallucinating again. The thought
sent a jag of panic through her. How could she take care of her
dogs if she couldn't trust what she was seeing or hearing?

They'd have to stop now, cabin or no
cabin.

"Whoa!"

The dogs didn't need any further
encouragement. Setting the snowhook, Claire made her way forward,
shining her light on each dog, calling names as she went – Sugar,
Daisy, Harmony, Sam. Putting the right name to the right dog helped
her focus. Ginny, Mama's Boy, Zach. They wore their jackets against
the heat-sucking wind. She checked ties and snaps, straightened and
tightened where needed, checked booties, wiped a mitten over
frosted faces.

She reached the front of her team. "How's my
Handsome man?" He cast her a doleful look as she de-iced his face.
The poor guy had been taking the brunt of the weather, running lead
with Ranger. He'd clearly had enough. Another jag of panic,
stronger this time. Handsome was her rock. What would she do if he
quit on her?

She looked to his running mate, wiped ice
from the little dog's mask. "How's my Lone Ranger doing? You've
been here before. Any idea where that cabin is?"

The wind howled, but the undaunted husky
tossed his head and leaned into his harness as if eager to go. Matt
told her Ranger was her best bet in blizzard conditions. She didn't
fully appreciate that fact until she squinted in the direction the
dog pointed and the light from her headlamp flashed across the
board siding of a cabin. She blinked and looked again.

"Holy crap, you did it!"

***

His dogs slept. He needed sleep too. Every
step took a monumental effort, every action a long, thought-out
process, as he paced and waited. The Iditarod volunteer he
questioned said Claire left Koyuk ten hours ago. Under normal
conditions, that stretch of trail should take five to seven. She
could be stopped at a shelter cabin, but there was no way to know
for sure. Stopped could also mean waiting out the blizzard
trailside just yards from a cabin she didn't see. Dillon knew she
could take care of herself, but he also knew how bad things could
go for even the most experienced musher.

"Damn it, Claire. Where are you?"

He vowed to tell her everything. No more
secrets. Just let her be safe.

***

The sun warmed her face and made her head
itchy. She loved August and loved digging up weeds, watering the
tomatoes and picking lemon cucumbers. The cucumber leaves prickled
her hands as she moved them back to see what they might be hiding.
There, plump and round, dark yellow, almost toasty brown, on top.
She pinched the cucumber from the vine, rubbed the tiny black
spines off with her fingers and took a bite. Mama had her head
under the green beans draping from the tall trellis, just her red
shorts and tan legs showing. Mama had beautiful legs. Daddy said so
all the time.

"Honey, empty the colander for me, please?"
she called.

"Okay." She ran barefoot between the grow
boxes of lettuce and spinach and took the colander full of green
beans from her mama's outstretched hand. As she turned toward the
picnic table, she stuck a long bean in her mouth and snapped the
crisp skin between her teeth.

Mama laughed, her head still hidden under the
vines. "No wonder you're not hungry at mealtime."

She liked the sound of Mama's laugh. Bells
tinkling. That's what it reminded her of. A big bowl already half
full of green beans waited on the picnic table. Another bowl was
filled with cherry tomatoes. She took one and popped it into her
cheek, then took another one and popped it into her other cheek.
Chipmunk cheeks.

"I need that colander back," Mama called.
"Did you get lost?"

She giggled. Silly Mama. You can't get lost
in your own garden. "I'm coming!"

I'm not lost...

Claire woke. Not in the garden, but in
darkness. The taste of cherry tomatoes lingered in her mouth. She
reached for her headlamp and turned it on. After securing her dogs
and sled on the sheltered side of the cabin, she had spread out her
sleeping bag inside and fallen asleep.

"I'm not lost," she said to the quiet.

Silence answered her.

"The wind's stopped." She flung back her
sleeping bag and shoved her feet into icy boots. Time to get back
in the race.
I'm coming, Mama!

***

"You're the guy sweet on that lady lawyer,
aren't you?"

Dillon looked up from smearing salve on
Rocky's paw. He recognized the musher standing over him as one of
the two who'd ribbed him for shaving at McGrath checkpoint. "Has
there been news?"

The musher grinned through his shaggy
moustache. "Looks like you're gonna need to dig that razor out. She
and her team made it to Elim safe and sound."

Chapter 21

Fifty-five miles separated White Mountain
from Safety checkpoint. The trail climbed barren, exposed ridges,
ran along twelve miles of the shore's driftwood line subject to
eighty-mile-an-hour gales and white-outs, and moved through a
series of natural wind tunnels, "blow holes," localized and
violent, much like the ground blizzard Claire experienced between
Koyuk and Elim. It was a stretch of trail that could make or break
a musher within a few hours of reaching Nome.

Knowing this made Dillon more conscious than
ever of the weather report when he prepped his team to leave White
Mountain checkpoint. Calm conditions. At 1:21 a.m., he and his dogs
headed out, ending their final mandatory stop.

As they rounded the shelter of the hill
behind White Mountain, a place where north winds were common, the
weather report proved accurate. The wind remained calm until the
descent onto Topkok River, where they hit glare ice and
twenty-mile-an-hour gusts blasted them sideways. Dillon wrestled
into his wind jacket and turned his headlamp on to locate the
reflective tripod markers. "Gee, Deshka! Gee!" he shouted when he
realized the wind had pushed them off course.

Behind him bobbed the headlights of three
other mushers. If he lost the trail, he'd have company.

Two hours later, the gusts let up and one
headlight caught and passed Dillon's team. In his wind-battered
exhaustion, he couldn't tell who the musher was. The other two
teams following them dropped back.

The weather held as they traveled the
driftwood line that separated them from the sea ice and open water.
The moon came out, bathing the vast shore in ghostly white
radiance. Dillon turned off his headlamp. As his dogs ran,
nostalgia set in. He was almost home, the place he'd taken refuge.
This place, Alaska, was as close to heaven as he figured he'd ever
get. He wanted to share it with Claire, wanted a chance for
whatever they had together to become more. But any hope of that
happening stemmed on his being truthful with her.

The whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.

Talking about his past opened a door he
didn't want to go through. But the beast he'd locked up had begun
pushing its way out, pushing against its years of solitary
confinement. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it
contained. The beast scared him. But losing Claire scared him
more.

Moonlight had given way to sunrise when
Dillon and his team reached Safety checkpoint. He treated his dogs
to a quick snack and put on his bib for the final twenty-two miles
to Nome. The dogs sensed home and didn't waste any time getting
back on the trail.

"You know where we're at, don't you, Deshka."
Her ears flicked at the sound of her name. "Guy, you old hound. I
bet you're dreaming of a cushy nap!"

They followed the Nome-to-Council road past
Cape Nome, where they encountered moderate wind at their backs
before cutting down to the beach. The light towers of the airport
blinked in the distance. Two miles out, Dillon heard the fire
department siren announce their approach.

"Almost there, kids!"

They swung up a ramp with life-size gnome
cutouts holding signs that said "Mush ahead to a warm bed" and
"There's no place like Nome." Amen to that, Dillon thought.
"Haw!"

The team turned left onto Front Street and
headed for the burled arch half a mile away. A white police
vehicle, red and blue lights flashing, escorted them to the finish
chute where Dillon spotted Frank waiting. He'd know that wild red
hair and beard anywhere.

"Welcome back!" Frank hollered.

"Thanks! How's Bonnie?"

Frank fell into a trot alongside the sled.
"She's doing good. Mav too. Course Clyde perked up as soon as he
saw his sister."

People lined the fenced chute the final
couple hundred feet. Some called him by name – neighbors, shop
owners, people he was sure he knew but his tired brain couldn't
place. Deshka passed under the burled arch and Dillon stopped the
sled. Time, 11:31 a.m. They'd finished the race in ten days, twenty
hours, and thirty-one minutes, placing twenty-third.

A checker congratulated him and began to
inventory his gear. Volunteers held his sled so he could walk the
length of his team, give each dog an ear rub or pat on the head.
"Good job, Pete." "That's my Blackie." "There's Elliot with energy
to spare." When he got to Deshka, he dropped to his knees in the
snow and wrapped his arms around the husky's neck. "I couldn't have
done it without you, girl." She licked his frosted check.

He stood and saw Janey and Andy. The boy gave
him a hug that challenged his worn-out legs. "You made it!"

"Hey, sport."

Janey beamed. "Congratulations. Matt wanted
to be here, but somebody had to mind the store at home."

"Thanks for coming." Dillon swallowed the
lump in his throat, feeling stupid for getting emotional. He blamed
it on fatigue. "It's good to be home."

Janey pulled the man standing behind her
forward. He looked uncomfortable in his new arctic gear, bundled up
so tight only his face showed. To someone who'd come off the frozen
sea ice moments earlier, Nome's 7 degrees felt balmy, but Dillon
didn't figure the man wanted to hear that.
He belongs in an
expensive suit, commanding the attention of a judge and jury, in a
city where it rains a lot.

Dillon's intuition proved correct when Janey
made introductions.