one hurt. I wondered if my legs were broken. The dogs sensed my distress. For once, they passed up a chance to drag me.
Nothing was broken. I pulled myself together and resumed the march. Herrman was the first to arrive in Koyuk, checking in at 5:25 A.M. Traveling about 45 minutes behind, I watched the other teams entering the village. Drawing closer, I could see headlamps moving near a brightly lit building. Had to be the checkpoint.
The trail swung left, looping into the village. Observing the activity by the checkpoint, Chad made a beeline for it. Too drained to protest, I concentrated on hanging on as the team crashed through several backyards, dodging parked cars and snowmachines, before finally emerging on the street below the checkpoint.
“Why didn’t you follow the trail?” the checker asked sternly.
“These guys had other ideas,” I mumbled, terrified he might make me reenter Koyuk using the marked trail. I was at my limit, ready to beg. Please. Please don’t make me do that. But the villager was just curious.
A mushing angel appeared at my side.
“There’s a good place for the team over there,” said Catherine Mormile, aiming her headlamp at an open spot between two houses. “Need help?”
“Please,” I said.
After parking the team, I unhitched Raven and tied her to the sled, separated from potential lovers. I heated water for the dogs, petting and scratching them while I waited for it to boil. I served them a meal. Then I grabbed my sleeping bag and trudged inside the checkpoint on leaden feet. The long room echoed with snores. Finding a clear spot near a video machine, I carefully spread my sleeping bag on the floor and flopped on top of it. Still dressed in my snowmachine suit, bunny boots, and three layers of facial masks, I fell asleep instantly.
I was falling off the sled. Reaching for the handlebar, I awakened inside the Koyuk checkpoint. I wasn’t capable of sleeping more than a few hours anymore. None of us were. Trail rhythms were too ingrained.
Feeling groggy, and a little foolish about awakening with a lamp still strapped on my head, I went outside to check on the dogs. They were fine, luxuriating in piles of fresh straw, which I didn’t even remember spreading. I threw each of them chunks of frozen beef and liver.
It was gray and blustery. Gusts of wind picked at a mound of Iditarod trash outside the checkpoint and sent scraps dancing in the street. Inside the checkpoint, the others were talking about staying awhile. A monster of a storm was on the way.
Sticking around sounded fine to me. The dogs and I were running on reserves. I walked over to the Koyuk general store. Strolling down the aisle, I found myself staring at a packet of spaghetti. Practically drooling, I scooped up the noodles, a fat brick of hamburger, and sauce.
There was a long line at the cash register. Waiting my turn, I realized that I had other needs besides food. I crossed my legs. I shuffled from foot to foot. There was a white outhouse across the street. I could see it in my mind. It wasn’t far. I was close to making a run for it when my turn came at the cash register. I collected my change, and bolted for that outhouse.
I threw down my shopping bag. I yanked the suit zipper, the vest zipper, pulled up my fleece shirt, fumbled with the drawstring on my pants … and … sighed as the burning stream ran down my right leg and pooled inside the rubber boot.
The wind was blowing even harder, if that was possible, when Daily left the shelter cabin at Lonely Hill. But it was daylight. He could see a marker, maybe two. And, if he waited any longer, dog food was going to become a problem.
The team hadn’t gone more than a few miles when Bogus quit again. Daily tried each of his leaders. Each refused to go. On a hunch, he placed Diamond — the slow leader he had bought from Barve — in front. The dog balked. So Daily bit him in the ear. That got Diamond’s attention. Moving at one mile per hour, the old dog led the team across the ice, traveling marker by marker.
In Koyuk, like many Alaska villages, most homes lacked running water. People made do with a public shower and laundromat. I made an emergency visit, toting an armload of dirty gear and chewed dog harnesses. After loading the washer, I climbed in the shower and soaked for the second time since leaving Anchorage. While I waited for the laundry to dry, I patched the dog harnesses. Part of me was embarrassed at squandering racing time in a laundromat. But, even barring my outhouse mishap, having clean clothes was beneficial. Sweat reduces thermal protection in cold-weather gear. The final miles would be warmer thanks to this village pit stop.
Later, I walked over to the village school to see if I could borrow a Coleman stove to cook my spaghetti.
“The kids in the village really enjoy seeing you guys,” one teacher said. “Most of the mushers pass through the village in such a rush they don’t often get a chance.”
I’ve always enjoyed talking to school groups about my profession. I offered to return in the morning and speak to an English class about careers in journalism, or just talk about the race, if that’s what the kids wanted. My presentation was scheduled for 9:30.
Owing to the approaching storm, a scheduled basketball game with another village had been canceled. Concern was also growing about Daily, who had left Shaktoolik the night before. Villagers were talking about sending out a rescue party when Tom was finally sighted in the distance, late Thursday afternoon.
I was talking to an AP reporter on the pay phone when Tom walked in. I collared him, Herrman, and a few other mushers who happened past and put them on the phone for interviews. It was part of my campaign to make sure the Iditarod headquarters didn’t forget us.
“You should see O’Donoghue,” Daily told the reporter. “Skin’s falling off his face. He looks hideous.”
I was a little nicked, that’s all. Coming across the ice, wind had leaked between my goggles and the face masks and burned a line across my cheeks and nose. The shower had left the branding raw and bloody. It looked worse than it felt, but I was embarrassed by the way people kept gasping.
Later, Daily trudged up to the laundromat with a load of his own. Cooley was already there and had beat him to the bathroom. Tom shrugged and put his clothes in the washer. Long minutes passed. Cooley remained busy in the bathroom stall. Finally, Daily couldn’t wait any longer. He knocked. There was no response. Yanking open the door, he found Doc sitting on the toilet, sound asleep.
Back in the checkpoint, I cooked my spaghetti feast in a dog pan. Other mushers laughed as they saw what I was doing.
“You’re not going to eat all that yourself, are you?”
“Watch me.”
We were shell-shocked. Twenty days on the trail, and Nome was another 170 miles yet. But no one was complaining tonight. Half a dozen mushers agreed to accompany me to the school in the morning. Don Mormile was in rare form, mumbling songs and waltzing across the floor with a broom.
“We’re going to be here until spring,” someone cried.
“You already are,” another musher shot back.
It was indeed March 21, the spring equinox. The concept seemed ludicrous.
A television, tuned to the state’s rural satellite network, was blaring in the kitchen area. A news program was on. No one paid much mind until the Iditarod update started. “Snowmachiners are out searching for musher Tom Daily,” the announcer said, looking grave. “The rookie, traveling in last place, has been missing since Wednesday and is feared lost in a storm….”
Inside the checkpoint, all eyes turned to Daily, who was also watching the broadcast, munching a handful of caramel-coated Screaming Yellow Zonkers.
“Gee. And I didn’t even know I was lost,” Tom said, beaming. “Should I be worried?”
By morning, the sky had cleared. Below the village, the next section of trail stretched before us, flagged by tiny markers streaming bright orange tape. Other mushers scrambled to depart. I had an appointment to keep at the school. Let them go. I figured I could catch the slower teams without difficulty.
Looking at the bright faces of the school’s older students, I was glad I had kept my promise. Life is so cloistered for kids in Alaska’s small villages. Personal contact with outsiders can have a big impact. I’d learned that traveling to small villages as a reporter. It was even more true for a visiting Iditarod musher, a role that bridged our two worlds.
Sepp Herrman was the only musher left when I returned to the checkpoint. He was sweeping it out. The
