Iditarod Nights (9 page)

Suggesting she might finish the race ahead of
him had been an entertaining thought while it lasted. She smiled to
herself. As long as she got her team to Nome, making him wait for
her had its appeal too.

Chapter 13

After a five-hour rest at Rainy Pass
checkpoint, elevation 1,800 feet, Dillon and his team began the
long, uphill climb toward Rainy Pass summit, a valley that cut
through the mountains at 3,160 feet, the highest point on the
Iditarod Trail. A layer of clouds rolled over the surrounding peaks
and the air cooled as the afternoon grew late. Dillon couldn't have
asked for a nicer day. When he came through this area two years
ago, whiteout conditions obliterated the trail and reduced
visibility to an ass-tightened adventure. But even on a bad day,
this country fed his soul. He breathed deep, pulling it into his
lungs.

"Looking good up there, Chevy." He'd put
Chevron in lead with Bonnie, giving Maverick a rest in the middle
of the pack. They'd need the little dog's agility over Mav's speed
once they started their descent into the gorge. "That's my girl,
Bonnie."

The trail steepened as they neared the
summit. Dillon peddled from the back of the sled to help his dogs
push through the soft snow of avalanche territory. "Come on, kids.
Hike." They traveled face-first into the wind channeling down the
valley. The muscles in Dillon's legs burned. "Almost there. Hike.
Hike."

And then they were over the top and dropping
into the heart of the Alaska Range. The trail narrowed and twisted
through stunted willow brush and rocky ravines. Dillon alternately
rode the drag to keep the dogs' speed in check and steered to avoid
the pits and bumps and snags of Pass Fork.

"Easy. Take it easy." He maneuvered the sled
around a boulder jutting into the trail. "Come on. Easy."

Five miles later, the trail opened onto the
wooded valley of Dalzell Creek. "Alright. Good job, kids."

The smooth run lasted a couple miles before
the trail swung to the south side of the valley and made a sharp
climb to a forested shelf. Dillon braced for the rollercoaster drop
into Dalzell Gorge.

"Hang on. Slow. Take it slow."

For the next two miles, the trail descended
hundreds of feet, jumping back and forth across Dalzell Creek on
narrow snow and ice bridges that spanned open water. Trail marker
ribbons tied to the trees snapped by. Mountain cliffs closed in on
both sides, mocking Dillon's claustrophobia.

Guy's hind legs flew out from under him, but
the team's momentum helped him regain his footing in a couple quick
strides. "Watch yourself, big man. That's my powerhouse."

Thanks to the great work of the Iditarod
trail-breaking crew and recent snowfall, the going was easier than
Dillon had seen it in the past. He thought they might actually get
through the gorge without any problems, when the middle of the team
cut a turn too tight, tangling Guy and Annie in a clump of willow.
"Whoa! Wait!" Setting the hook, he tramped to the front of the sled
to free his wheel dogs and line-out the team. Tramping back to the
sled, he pulled up the hook. "Okay, take it easy."

A few yards later the team tangled again and
he repeated the process. The two-mile stretch of trail felt like
twenty before it leveled and broke out onto the Tatina River.

"Good job, kids. We did it. Straight
ahead."

Glare ice caught the last of the day's light,
making the surface of the frozen river shine like wet glass. The
dogs kept a steady pace. Dillon spotted overflow – where water
below pushed up and over the ice – along the bank, far enough away
that it wasn't a threat.

At 7:15, they reached Rohn checkpoint – a
Bureau of Land Management cabin sheltered from the wind by tall
spruce trees. Ideal for getting some rest. Other teams had arrived
ahead of them and were in various stages of settling in.

"I'm staying," Dillon told the checker.

In the time it took to collect his drop bags,
lay out straw for his dogs, inspect paws and dispense snacks, set
up the cooker and shovel snow to melt for water, exhaustion set in
hard. He'd slept maybe six hours in two days and 188 miles. Numb,
he sat with his headlamp aimed inside the three-gallon pot and
stared at the tiny bubbles forming and bursting on the bottom.
What's that saying about a watched pot?

Who cared. His eyelids drooped.

A dog's sharp yip yanked him awake. Bands of
green and blue shimmered across the night sky.

I never get tired of seeing that.

Claire. Her eyes made him think of Jack
Daniels, the seduction of that first swallow and the warmth it
generated in his belly. He hadn't taken a drink in six years, nine
months and...long enough he'd lost track. But the sharp,
not-quite-sweet taste lingered.

Like the after-taste of Claire's mouth
pressed to his. Thinking of her made him ache for tangled sheets,
skin pressed to skin, things he hadn't allowed himself to need in a
long time. Linked to a past he'd worked hard to bury, wanting her
was complicated. He told her she could have whatever she wanted,
but was he prepared to give it?

What if she wanted the truth?

***

Claire and her team made good time down the
Happy River Steps – a narrow, tree-lined, wild ride of switchbacks
that descended the canyon. She was confident the guy with the video
camera at the bottom of the last step shot prime footage of her
demonstration on how to navigate a heavy sled while being dragged
behind it. She wished later she'd given him her contact information
so he could send her a copy.

Her dogs rested at Rainy Pass checkpoint and
she dried clothes. The heat inside the lodge clogged her sinuses,
the concentration of smells a harsh contrast to the cold, almost
odorless outside air. Five hours later, they pushed on under the
full moon's ivory light, traveling through miles of ethereal
shadows. Dillon hadn't exaggerated when he said the Iditarod Trail
had a raw beauty. Even the sharp, cold wind moaned a song uniquely
its own as Claire and her dogs crossed over Rainy Pass summit.

She spilled the sled twice on the stretch
down Pass Fork, and the adrenaline-pumping drop into Dalzell Gorge
tested her sled driving skills skirting rocks that didn't get out
of the way. They reached Rohn checkpoint at 3:25 Tuesday morning,
missing Dillon by four hours.

On the seventy-five-mile stretch to Nikolai,
beleaguering winds swept the sandbars and gravel of Kuskokwim
River's South Fork clear of snow. Claire muscled the sled around
driftwood tangles and glare ice. She and her team confronted the
Buffalo Tunnels – narrow tracts of exposed dirt, rock and tussocks
wallowed out by roaming buffalo in the area – and managed to avoid
any wrong turns. She stopped trailside to snack the dogs, check
their feet, and repair the sled's cracked brushbow with duct tape
and wire.

Crossing the Farewell Burn – once a wicked
path of snags and stumps through the remains of a massive forest
fire that consumed over a million acres in the late '70s, now a
groomed stretch of intermittent dirt and new growth – she stopped
trailside to snack, check feet, and replace sled runners. She met
one challenge after another with increased confidence in herself
and her team. Muscles she didn't know she had complained from
pumping and ski-poling to help her dogs power up hillsides and
through soft snow. Fogged by lack of sleep, everything took longer
than expected, from dog care to reaching the next checkpoint.

She'd never felt so alive.

Behind them, the Alaska Range stretched
northeast, more a respected friend than imposing foe now. Low
clouds concealed the highest of its stunning, rugged peaks. Claire
dug out her camera, remembered telling Dillon about the man who
gave it to her, and smiled. Yep. One hell of a vacation. She
recorded several images before moving on.

The trail over the windblown flats heading
into Nikolai ran west-northwest, a level straightaway of punchy
snow and sparse brush that seemed to go on forever. Claire talked
to her athletes often. "Good dogs!" "How's my Handsome doing up
there?" "Straight on, Ranger." "Looking good, Ginny girl." The
constant chatter kept them alert and prevented her from nodding
off.

When she checked into the quaint Athabascan
village of Nikolai at 5:28 p.m., they'd been on the trail almost
nine hours and were 263 miles from Anchorage.

Chapter 14

The onset of evening cast long, dark fingers
across the landscape as Dillon and his team reached Big River, the
halfway point between Nikolai and McGrath. The trail took an abrupt
drop and turned west, headed toward the Kuskokwim River. For the
past three hours, they'd been cutting cross-country along a series
of frozen lakes and swamps interspersed with wooded stretches in a
blur of sameness. Travel on the river was hard and fast, the
temperature dropping. Dillon decided to give his dogs a few more
miles to shed the day's heat before stopping to put coats on them.
He couldn't be more pleased with their performance so far: healthy
appetites, good skin elasticity, positive attitudes. Their
five-hour stay in Nikolai did them good. And the mound of spaghetti
the locals served him at the school cafeteria had been worthy of
seconds. Sure beat reconstituted stroganoff with mystery meat from
a foil packet. He wondered how far back Claire was and hoped she
didn't miss out on the feast.

The trail climbed the bank and headed into
the woods again. "Easy," he said. "Let's not get wrapped around a
tree."

Half a second before Bonnie and Maverick ran
out of sight around a bend, he saw their ears shoot forward and
felt a burst of speed from the team. "Easy. What is it?"

The sled cleared the corner and he saw a
thousand pounds of moose in the middle of the trail, head down and
swinging side to side, ready to charge.

Dillon stood on the brake. "Whoa!"

But there wasn't time. The team's momentum
tangled Bonnie and Maverick under the moose's belly before churning
to a stop. Dillon stomped the hook as Maverick bit at the moose's
leg and it kicked out. Bonnie caught the blow. Her high yelp cut
the air and she went down. The rest of the dogs barked and howled
to get a piece of the action. Dillon threw his gloves aside,
bellowed "Get out of here!" hoping to scare the beast off, knowing
there wasn't a chance in hell it would listen to him. He dug in the
handlebar bag for the .45 and continued to yell at the moose as it
continued to kick his dogs. Time slowed, each pulse throb in his
ears a heart-tearing scream.

He aimed and fired.

The pistol bucked, no louder than a cap gun.
The smell of cordite mixed with the stench of stale pizza. The
bullet impacted. The suspect took a step back, then recoiled and
dropped to his knees, grabbed at the glistening wet spot spreading
across the front of his dark sweatshirt. Surprised eyes, too young,
pleaded for help. Bloody fingers reached out –

A dog cried. Dillon blinked. He saw the moose
lumber down the trail and into the woods. The snow at the front of
his team bled.

Chapter 15

Claire reached McGrath a few minutes before
nine on the morning of day four. Her dogs looked good enough to
keep going a couple more hours, and that's what she planned to do
once she picked up her bags and swapped her broken sled for the one
she'd had dropped at the checkpoint. Though McGrath was a popular
spot for mushers to take their mandatory twenty-four-hour layover,
Matt suggested she avoid the hectic hub and take her twenty-four at
the next checkpoint, Takotna, twenty-three miles away.

But when she signed the log, she noticed
Dillon had checked in nine hours earlier. "Bib eighteen's still
here?" she asked the volunteer.

"He tangled with a moose and needed time to
get his dogs taken care of."

"Anything serious?"

"One of his leaders had to be dropped."

Claire's stomach clinched. "I've changed my
mind. I'm staying."

***

McGrath checkpoint's water cooker outside the
Laundromat made dog food prep easier and quicker. Claire intended
to take advantage of the coin-operated shower later too. And sleep.
Hours of it, if possible. Her boots felt weighted in mud as she
went through the motions of feeding, checking feet, laying out
straw and putting coats on her marathon runners to keep them
comfortable during their much-deserved snooze.

On her way to the community center, she
passed by Dillon's dogs curled in slumber. Bonnie wasn't among
them. His other lead dog –
Maverick?
– wore a heat wrap on
one front leg. An injured or sick dog was her greatest fear. She
could only imagine what Dillon must be going through.

The smells of fried potatoes, bacon, sausage
and fresh-brewed coffee lured her into the community center. A
clatter of kitchen noise competed with scattered conversations,
punctuated by the occasional belch or gaping yawn or burst of
laughter from mushers in varying stages of exhaustion and hunger.
Cold weather gear hung from slumped shoulders or littered the backs
of chairs in a riot of colors. The concentration of body odors
pressured Claire's sinuses.

She spotted Dillon sitting at a table in the
corner, his hands anchored around a mug. When she pulled out the
empty chair next to him, he started and glanced up. The haunted
look in his eyes scared her.

"Hey," she said and sat down.

"Hey yourself," he answered, his voice
raw.

"Is Bonnie okay?"

"She has a concussion. Needs stitches.
Nothing she won't recover from, thank God."

"That's a relief. How are you doing?"

He stared at the mug in his hands. "I can't
stop shaking."

"I'm sorry, Dillon." She ached to hold him,
tell him he'd be alright when she really didn't know if he would.
She didn't want to presume she knew what he felt. And she sure as
hell didn't want to cry. But tears pressed behind her eyes. She
fell back on the one thing people always relied on in moments of
hardship or crisis. "Have you eaten yet?"