achievement, surviving storms on foot, was evident as the mushers in Nome awarded the pair jointly the Iditarod’s “Most Inspirational Musher Award.” The wind-scorched Eskimo had extra incentive pushing him toward the finish line; Garnie had to finish the race or forfeit the new pickup he had won in Skwentna.
The scars of the race were most evident on Adkins, whose windburned face was a swollen mass of scabs as he stepped forward to collect his $5,000, nineteenth-place check. The Montanan was also presented with the Sportsmanship Award for rescuing Whittemore on the ice outside Koyuk. Several dogs had died during the storm, and both men had been hypothermic and frostbitten by the time they reached the village. The worst part of the experience, Adkins told the crowd at the banquet, was when village medics had stuck a rectal thermometer up his ass.
“That was probably the most embarrassed I’ve ever been on the Iditarod,” he said.
Five more teams mushed into Nome before the banquet broke up. The last in was Redington. He checked in under the arch just before midnight, in thirty-first place. Cheers resounded through the armory hall at the announcement of Old Joe’s arrival.
The custody of one more award remained unsettled as the main banquet ended. Its ownership floated among a select few of the 29 mushers left on the trail. It wasn’t something anyone particularly wanted. Call it a booby prize. Such is the status of the Iditarod’s Red Lantern.
A sudden cry shattered the peace within Old Woman Cabin. Asleep on the floor, I awakened to find Sepp Herrman standing in the center of the room. The disheveled German was hurriedly collecting his gear.
“I’ve got to sleep outside,” the trapper mumbled, tightening the laces on his mukluks. “Where I live, I hardly hear nobody. I can’t take a house of snoring men.”
CHAPTER 10. Harley’s Nose
Terhune awakened in excruciating pain. Another musher examined his eye with a headlamp to no avail. Jon assumed the pain came from a speck of dust or some other irritant caught under his damn contact lens. It would happen at a place like Old Woman, a cabin with no running water, when his lens fluid was outside frozen solid in the sled. Unalakleet was only 45 miles away. Looking at his filthy hands, Terhune decided to clean his contacts when he reached the village. A little pain wasn’t going to kill him.
It was a glorious day. Daily stayed behind, taking his time. The rest of us leapfrogged past each other, trading positions, letting the dogs find their own gleeful pace. I traveled with Terhune for the most part. The last miles to the Bering Sea coast flew past in a blur of rolling hills, fat spruce trees, and winding river curves.
Several snowmachines buzzed past us as we neared the village. They swung around and waited on the flats. One of the machines was hauling a huge sled packed with gear. Rich Runyan had accomplished his lonely mission. The radio operator waved and fell in behind the dog teams for the final mile.
A jumble of structures, power lines, and smoke rose at the end of the flats. It was Unalakleet, the largest village on the trail, and home to about 900 Inupiat Eskimo villagers, an airport served by Alaska Airlines, a satellite uplink station, and a medical clinic. And most significant to me, the gateway to Alaska’s ice-locked coast. Nome, that almost mythical destination of ours, lay just 270 miles to the northwest.
The sun was setting as I approached the checkpoint, located by the village’s school gym. I parked my team alongside a building across the street. Cooley and Williams already had their teams bedded in straw, and Daily soon joined us. A woman told Tom she’d drawn his name and had dinner waiting at her house, just down the street. I asked her if there was a restaurant in town. After two days of dining on crackers and raw Spam, I’d pay nearly any price for a fat cheeseburger. She gave me directions but told me to hurry. The place closed in half an hour. I sighed realizing that promised burger was out of reach. The place would be closed by the time I finished feeding the dogs.
“We have plenty of stew,” she said. “Why don’t you come over, too.”
A reed-thin gray-haired villager struck up a conversation. His name was Mugsy, and he bragged about his feats as a champion sprint driver decades ago. The old musher smelled like booze, but he was entertaining. His stories were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the last person I ever expected to see.
“They told me I could find you guys back here,” said Barry Lee. “Hey, Tom, your dogs looked really good coming into the village.”
It was painful to see a musher, and a friend, who had traveled so many miles with me, but who was now out of the Great Race. If only he had come with Daily and me. If only we had waited in Grayling.
“Someday I’m going to write a book about this, Barry,” I blurted out. “I’m going to dedicate it to you.”
One of my dogs growled over a snack and I turned away. The distraction lasted a couple of seconds, but when I looked back Lee was gone.
“Am I going crazy,” I asked Daily, “or was Barry just here talking to us?”
“I saw him too,” he said, wonderingly. “He did sort of vanish.”
But I wasn’t having visions. Lee had flown into Unalakleet with his dogs and was waiting for a connecting flight to Anchorage. Earlier that day, Barry had got in an argument with local mushers, who thought we were “wussies” for traveling so slow.
“So you’re Bobby Lee’s brother,” the man said. “Should I tell him you’re a wussie, too.”
“You don’t know what they’re going through,” Lee said. “You have no idea.”
Lee had spent the afternoon watching for us from a bank overlooking the trail. Lee had greeted Herrman, the first one to town. He had talked to the Mormiles, Johnson, and Lenthar. He had helped Terhune park his dogs and had discussed feeding schedules with Plettner. And he had assisted Cooley with his blood tests. This had enabled him to prolong his involvement in the Iditarod, if only for a few hours. Seeing us, he knew it was time to say good- bye. He took off because he was crying.
Daily didn’t have time to dwell on Lee’s disappearance. His fancy boots were wet again. Tom was changing them, with his back to Mugsy, when the old musher calmly stepped on the runners of Tom’s sled and pulled the snow hook. In the excitement of the big village, Daily’s dogs hadn’t settled down. They were antsy and took off at the graying racer’s command, loping down the center of the busy village street.
Throwing his boots aside, Tom Daily chased his Iditarod team down the street in his socks. Doc and I watched in astonishment as the villager dodged head-on traffic from cars and snowmachines and gradually pulled away. The guy could drive dogs, you had to give him that.
The infection in Terhune’s eye warranted immediate attention from a specialist. The medic at the Unalakleet clinic advised the musher to consider flying to Anchorage for treatment at a real hospital.
“There’s no way I’m going to scratch,” declared Terhune.
Though his back also hurt and his hands were throbbing from a brush with frostbite, Terhune refused to accept any medication for the pain. He was worried that painkillers would make him sleepy. He settled for having his bad eye flushed out and treated with antibiotics. The musher left the clinic with a pocket full of pills and sulfa drops, shrugging off warnings that he could suffer long-term complications if the infection worsened.
Tom Daily found his dog team parked in a driveway a few blocks from the checkpoint. The sled bag was open, flapping in the wind. Dog pans and other small items were blowing across the yard. The woman who met him at the checkpoint greeted Tom at the door of the cabin. The old racer was her uncle.
The cabin was gloriously hot inside, spiced with the aroma of rich caribou stew. We passed a fine evening listening to Mugsy’s stories. In the background, a child was watching
Not long after dinner, Mugsy, the woman, and I cleared out, leaving Daily alone in the cabin.
“Whatever you do,” the woman said as she departed. “Don’t let my uncle in if he comes home drunk.”
Daily didn’t like the sound of that warning. The last thing he wanted was to become ensnared in a family
