by Sue Henry
She was, as Bomber had put it, pretty broke up. One side of her face was badly scraped, and her body felt strangely flexible as they lifted it out of the snow and onto the sleeping bag they found in her sled. Although her shoulders were muscular beneath the heavy parka, Jensen thought she looked too small and fragile to be an Iditarod racer. Her knitted cap had come off, and her hair, braided into one long plait, had pulled out in childish wisps that curled slightly around her ears. He tucked the hat into her parka pocket, where he found a penlight, a half-eaten Snickers bar, extra clips for the harness, and several hairpins. Zipped into the opposite pocket were a coin purse with a few dollars, her driver’s and fishing licenses, and school pictures of two little boys, aged perhaps six and eight.
As they wrestled the broken sled out toward the trail, the thump of rotors suddenly extinguished the silence. They looked up to see Becker waving from the passenger seat. He had been out to the site of Koptak’s death and had caught a lift with the helicopter. Slowly, conscious of the narrow sides of the gorge, Lehrman allowed the machine to settle into a section of the trail flat enough to accommodate the landing. Carefully he tested the stability of the snow before committing to more than a hover. Finding it solid enough support, he set down, but only eased off on the power.
With little time to go through the contents of the sled bag, Alex made a cursory search for anything unusual. He fashioned a cradle from strong line to support the sled so the helicopter could lift it from the gorge. Stepping around, he examined the section of gang line still attached. It was too even a break. It had been cut most of the way through with something very sharp; only a small part of the rope was frayed from the tension that had pulled it apart. He taped an evidence bag over this end and marked it for attention in the lab. It didn’t make sense for Ginny to have cut her own line, but an accident of some kind couldn’t be ruled out completely. If, as he suspected, the line had been cut by someone else, it couldn’t have guaranteed her death. Whoever cut it had not cared when or where it would break—they just hoped for a serious accident. With the added strain of the sharp turns in the gorge, chances had been good it would happen there. It could have put her out of the race whatever the result.
He looked up to find Cranshaw watching.
When the sled had been rigged and hooked up to the helicopter’s cable, they bagged and carried the body to the already reconfigured passenger seat.
“Can you take Becker to Rainy Pass and still have enough fuel to get back to Anchorage with the extra weight?” Alex asked Lehrman.
“Sure. Give me your pack, too. It’ll make it easier on that snow-go you’re riding.”
Becker climbed into the seat directly behind the pilot. The sled described circles in the air as the chopper lifted it, but it soon stabilized. In a few short minutes it vanished from sight over the rim of the canyon.
Farnell turned to Bomber. “Is that coffee you’ve got on? We could use a cup before we get going, if you can spare it.”
Sharing the musher’s metal cup full of coffee and a welcome slug of bourbon, they stood close enough to the fire to remove their gloves and warm their fingers. Alex puffed his briar and stared into the flames.
“What do you think?” Bomber asked him.
“About what?”
“I saw you looking at that line. It was cut, wasn’t it?”
“Can you think of a reason it might have been?” A mild question.
The musher’s head came up sharply as he looked very directly at Jensen.
“Hell, no. But I know Ginny pays attention to her gear. She’s no rookie.”
Farnell’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying this was no accident,” he said.
“That’s right,” replied Bomber.
“Then what about George’s accident?”
They both looked at Jensen expectantly.
“We’ll see,” he said. “By the time I get to the pass I should have a lab report.”
Bomber kicked snow over the fire and began to pack his gear. “We better get this show on the road. It’s gonna snow.”
But the snow held off as far as Rainy Pass. Farnell took the trail back to Finger Lake. Jensen drove off in the other direction, breaking trail for Bomber. Though the trail was soft and punchy in places from paws and runners, the climb through the trees and over the rolling hills toward the Alaska Range went smoothly.
They arrived at the Rainy Pass Lodge shortly after dark to find Becker in conference with Matt Holman, the race marshall, who had come in on a supply plane. With him was an Anchorage Daily News reporter and a two-man team from KTUU, Channel 2, all of whom were lying in wait for the trooper sergeant. The media assault had begun.
The lodge was full of people: mushers, race officials, support staff, and a few friends and family. A hush fell over the room when they noticed Alex, and everyone watched him cross the room to join Becker and greet Holman. The conversations resumed, but most eyes in the room remained on the trio until Bomber Cranshaw appeared half an hour later, after caring for his team. He was instantly surrounded by a crowd of mushers, all asking questions.
As he removed his parka, he looked questioningly across the lodge at Jensen. Alex shrugged and nodded slightly. Better questions answered than rumors started. The troopers continued to set out the facts for Holman, who had been an organizer of the first running of the Iditarod, in 1973.
As they talked, Alex looked out over the room full of mushers and those who supported or reported the race. How it had grown since its inception. He wondered how he could have lived in Alaska for eight years, so close to this remarkable event, and known so little about it. He focused his attention on Holman and began to ask questions with more than detection in mind.
6
Date: Monday, March 4
Race Day: Three
Place: Rainy Pass checkpoint
Weather: Overcast, light to no wind, snow predicted
Temperature: High 5°F, low –6°F
Time: Early evening
Exhausted from the run through Happy Valley, Steve Smith, the twenty-first musher, was relieved to arrive at the Rainy Pass Lodge. After the climb out of the gorge, the trail had maintained a steady climb into the Alaska Range toward the wide saddle of the pass. At last, he reached the tree line, from where the towering, snowlocked mountains rose into the gathering darkness.
Through blue dusk, the glow of campfires ahead told the musher he was nearing the checkpoint. Two official race checkers waited by the steep banks of Puntilla Lake. As they recorded his time of arrival and the presence of required gear, fatigue washed over him. For a minute he wished he could let someone else take care of the dogs while he stumbled into the warmth of the big frame lodge above the lake, found an unoccupied spot on the floor, and slept.
His team had done remarkably well, considering that four of them had fallen through a hole in the ice of the meandering Happy River and been soaked before he could get them out. Lying on the ice, Smith had struggled to pull them up, one by one, while the hook held back the sled and the remainder of the team. The dogs had come out shaking water, which immediately froze on their coats, but had seemed uninjured.
Beneath a sled dog’s heavy winter hair lies a thick undercoat that forms a barrier between skin and cold air. In sub-zero temperatures, if the dog gets wet, the insulating properties of the undercoat are destroyed. It’s important to dry the animal quickly before it freezes.
Relieved that none had been pulled under and drowned, Smith had not minded kindling a quick fire and carefully rubbing down each drenched dog. He had massaged ointment into their feet, especially between the toes, and replaced their frozen booties with dry ones, taking care not to fasten the Velcro so tight it cut off their circulation.
He had snacked the whole team on high-energy balls of honey, fat, ground meat, and mineral powders and gotten them back on the trail. They would continue to dry out on t
he run. He had also replaced his heavy insulated mittens. They were a soggy mess, frozen stiff, and would have to be hung to dry in the lodge, along with the harness.
Mitsie, his smallest dog, was one of those dunked in the icy water. Halfway up the steep incline she had begun to lay back her ears and struggle in her harness. By the time they were out of the valley and onto the hillside, she was shivering and dragging against the line. Taking her off, he had bundled her into the sled bag, where she curled nose to tail, licking his hand apologetically.
Every dog carried in the basket adds weight for the others to pull, slowing the whole team. If there was any question of a dog’s fitness to pull the heavy sled, Smith decided in favor of the animal. He would have the race veterinarian examine Mitsie at the checkpoint. She would probably be dropped and flown back to Anchorage, where he would claim her after the race. He would miss her; the small dog was a positive influence on the others.
Large white snowflakes began to float through the dark as the checkers finished with the sled. One of them offered to take Mitsie to the vet for immediate attention. Deprived of the warmth of the sled bag she shivered, head drooping, tail tucked under.
With one longing glance at the lighted windows of the lodge, Steve drove past it to the limited shelter of a few sparse trees. He wanted his team away from those already occupying the space around the building, so they could rest comfortably. It meant a longer hike for water and supplies, but it seemed worth the trouble.
Off the trail the snow was deep. He struggled through it to tie the sled to the largest of the trees, then to stretch out the gang line and fasten it to a second tree. It didn’t quite reach, so he threw a couple of loops over a lower branch for the moment. The dogs were tired and hungry; several were already down in the snow, snuggling noses into bushy tails. He would find another piece of line and secure the gang line later.
Digging into the sled bag he retrieved his big cooker and a child’s red plastic sled and walked down to the lake. A hole had been chopped in the ice, and he filled the cooker and a bucket with water, then hauled them on the incongruously small sled back up the hill.
From the sled bag he took a bag of charcoal briquettes and a small amount of kindling for starter. Stomping a level spot, he put down a square metal firebox and grill over chunks of firewood. Many mushers used pressurized gas stoves, replacing their cans of fuel at each checkpoint from supplies provided by the race committee. Smith preferred the long-lasting heat of charcoal, since it did not need constant pumping to maintain fuel pressure.
Using Blazo to soak the kindling and briquettes, he started a roaring fire and put the cooker of water on to heat. With an ax he chopped frozen chunks of salmon, beef, and boned chicken combination into a more manageable size and, as the water came to a near boil, dumped in the meat. When it thawed, he would mix in additional fat and some dry dog food.
To run a thousand miles, food, water, and rest are important considerations for both musher and dogs. Dehydration is a demon to be avoided at all costs. Some mushers actually pump water down their dogs’ throats with turkey basters if necessary. The best food for dogs running this distance must be high in fat, low in bulk, consistent in its balance of vitamins and minerals, and, most important, appealing to hungry dogs.
Leaving the stew to cook, he headed down the hill to the lake once more. He walked out to where the flat ice allowed for a makeshift runway.
Many small planes fly between Anchorage and the Iditarod checkpoints during a race. Two or three weeks before the start, each musher packs and marks plastic or burlap bags of dog food, human food, and other necessary equipment and supplies, up to seventy pounds per bag, to be flown out to the checkpoints.
Smith found his sacks with the large orange markings in the pile of bags. For this stop, along with food, charcoal, a dry sleeping bag, he had included straw for his dogs. Because of its altitude, Rainy Pass was often one of the coldest checkpoints. In addition, wind frequently blew away dry snow, leaving little for the dogs to bury themselves in to form body-sized pockets of heat. He was convinced that sleeping on the snow made dogs burn energy to keep warm. Laying down the straw would make a warmer bed for each animal.
Heading back to his team, he paused for a few minutes to greet Mike Solomon, a native Athabaskan musher from Kaftag, whose dogs were already bedded down.
“Better get up to the lodge,” Mike told him. “There’s more food than you’ve seen since Christmas and still a few sleeping spots.”
“What’s the story on Ginny Kline? I saw a helicopter take her sled out of Happy Valley on my way in.”
“Yeah. There’s a couple of troopers asking a lot of questions. They think someone cut her gang line.”
“Jesus. Who would do a thing like that?”
They looked at each other in silence, the idea of it setting them both on edge.
“How far’d she fall?”
“Far enough. Whole load landed on top of her, according to Bomber. Broke her neck.”
Another long pause.
“Go on up to the lodge. It’s all they’re talking about.”
“I’ll do that. Got to bed the dogs down first.”
Smith went back to his team and completed mixing the dog food. He floundered through the snow to feed the dogs, leaders first, and was pleased to see them all eating well. Metal bowls of warm food sank into the snow and provided their own stability as the dogs lapped up food and water. Each animal had its own character and way of eating, some delicately licking at the protein-rich dish; others gulping it down. He grinned at the sight of a team dog, Jake, always the first to finish and look around for more. “Hey, Jake. One day you’re gonna choke, fella.”
The dogs that had fallen through the ice seemed no worse for the experience. Straw spread, he put more water and frozen meat on to cook for a later meal, taking advantage of the still glowing charcoal. Noticing a dog working its tongue at a left front foot, he stopped and leaned to check for cuts in the pad. With only a low growl of warning the dog snapped at his extended hand, barely missing his fingers.
“Hey!” This dog never snapped, not even at other dogs. “What’s the problem, Spook? Let me take a look here.”
At the sound of his voice the dog whined, aware of its transgression. Its tail was wagging now.
“Foot. Foot.” The dog offered the paw for inspection, but there was nothing the musher could see that would cause a problem. He wondered if this dog might be incubating some virus, as frequently happened in races where dogs from many kennels came in contact. Collecting his frozen mittens and other gear to be dried, he headed for the warmth of the building, and some food and rest of his own. On the way he checked with the vet about Mitsie and they agreed she should be dropped. The vet had already injected her with antibiotics, fearful of pneumonia.
The lodge was filled with mushers, race officials, and reporters, all concerned by the second death on the trail. The troopers were hard to spot in the crowd. Standing to one side of the room, they were in a serious conversation with one of the checkers and the race marshall. Bomber Cranshaw was surrounded by other racers.
A woman racer in one corner looked shocked and frightened. Her companion, a photographer, from the camera hung around his neck, was talking seriously to her as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. A small group of rookies glanced suspiciously around, obviously discussing who might cut a gang line. Beyond the stove, under several lines of steaming harness and clothing, the winner of last year’s race slept as soundly as if the place were empty.
A huge table of food occupied one corner of the room: stew, roast beef, rolls, green salad, ham, macaroni and cheese, pies, cookies, coffee, milk, beer. Heaping a plate with food and filling a mug with heavily sugared coffee, Steve sat down cross-legged near the stove to listen to the speculation going on around him. The heat was stifling after the cold, but welcome.
Mike Solomon’s compact form soon f
olded itself down beside him. “See what I mean?” He nodded toward Bomber. “He drove in behind one trooper, just before you came in. The other one came on the chopper. Bomber helped get Ginny out. Cost him some time, I guess. Johnson and Talburgen caught her dogs in the valley. They say the line had been cut twice besides the place it broke.”
Scraping the last of the macaroni into his mouth, Smith tossed the paper plate into a black plastic garbage bag behind him. He wolfed the remains of his roast beef and bread between sips of coffee. “Why the hell would anyone cut her gang line?” he asked through the mouthful. “How do they know someone cut it?”
“It was a new line. She wouldn’t have cut it herself. Talburgen says he remembers her going over the whole rig last night before she went to sleep. She was worried because last year she dumped about halfway down and cracked a rib or two. The line was cut pretty slick, close to knots so she couldn’t see.”
Solomon faded into thought. For a few minutes he looked speculatively at the serious faces of those gathered in the lodge. “Well, I guess I’d better have a last look at the mutts and catch some bag time. There’s no way to sleep in here with this going on. Think I’ll hit my sled.”
“I’ll stay and soak up some more of this heat, but I think you’re right. See you later.” Smith rose to get a refill on coffee.
Forty minutes later he left, well fed but a bit dazed from the damp heat of the lodge, stumbling before his vision adjusted to the dark. Too little rest in the last four days, and the warmth and hot food of the last hour, conspired to make his feet feel like lead in his heavy boots. His eyelids drooped and he yawned widely. As he approached his camp in the trees, he remembered that he still needed to extend the gang line to the second tree.
He could see that a few of the dogs were on their feet, rather than in their usual heat-preserving curls. He was headed for the cooker, ten feet from the first pile of straw, when he heard a low growl from the nearest dog. Concerned with transferring the food to an insulated container, he ignored it.
