For What He Could Become Read online

  He got up and walked around his sled.

  “Sorry about that,” he said to the musher.

  “Yeah. She just came in heat this morning and I didn’t have another dog to switch with her. She’s rejected all my males today, I thought we might make it to Rainy Pass without trouble.”

  Bill stuck out his hand. “I’m Bill Williams and I’m sicker than a dog.”

  “Roger Stanley—from Willow. Why’re you sick?”

  “A touch of the flu, I guess.” He bent over, a dry heave following up from his stomach.

  “Can I give you anything?”

  “Got any whiskey?”

  “Don’t carry it. You’ll dehydrate and die out here on that stuff.”

  Bill sighed. “There’re times when I’m willing to die for it.”

  “That really why you’re sick?”

  “Hung over. Hung clear over all the way.” Another dry heave hit him.

  “Glad you took this so good-natured,” Roger said. “You need anything along the way, let me know. Your dogs look better than mine, you’ll probably be ahead of me all the way. Anything I can do for you?”

  “No,” Bill said. “But if you find my team and I’m dead on the sled, kindly bury me along the trail and let the dogs go to Nome.”

  Roger laughed. “Done deal.” He turned to his team. “Hike! Hike!”

  Since Bill had arrived first he should have left first, but it didn’t bother him. There was more than a thousand miles to go, and he wasn’t sure anyone could make it. The last time anybody drove to Nome, twenty-four mushers had met in various places and driven a hundred miles apiece to get the diphtheria serum there. No one had ever done it as a race with every team going the full distance.

  He lined out his team.

  “Hyaaa!”

  He drew in a deep breath and looked down the trail as far as he could see, past Roger Stanley to where the trail bent left toward Goose Bay and Knik.

  Once at Knik Lake he stopped to get a snack for the dogs and himself. Roger was stopped at the tree line doing the same.

  Stored in the sled bag was a plastic sack labeled DOG and a smaller one labeled CARL. The DOG bag was full of frozen balls, one of which he handed to each of the dogs. Watching them put the balls between their paws and break them apart with their back teeth, he could see this was a snack they were used to and liked.

  The CARL bag held pemmican. Chopped up jerky, blueberries, and rose hips blended with rendered fat. The fat melted on his tongue—the taste reminding him of what his Dad used to take along for trail snack. The sweet tang of the blueberry with the pulpy rose hip and the smoky taste of the jerky assaulted his mouth, irritated by whiskey. There were twenty bags. Had Carl thought he was going to make a thousand miles in twenty days?

  His hands were cold and he put his gloves on. It had slipped his mind how fast heat leaves exposed skin, and even though it was sunny with no wind, the temperature was ten degrees. He saw Roger lace up his sled cover.

  He dropped the bags into the sled, strung the cord over the load, and shook the sled. The dogs stood up, and he spent some time looking at the names on their harnesses. He would need to water them at Skwentna, where he hoped he’d be before dark.

  It was easy for Rusty and Napoleon to find the trail through the spruce trees while Bill struggled to hold on and stay upright. The swish of the runners and the blurred trees lulled him into a semi-conscious state.

  On the Yentna River, where the trail cut into the lowlands next to the bank, the sled bounced over a sapling and snapped him awake just as it teetered on one runner and fell over. The team towed it on its side for ten yards, then halted. He sat up in the snow and was struck by the quiet, so absolute that not a single sound touched him. His forehead was wet, his breath labored. He blinked several times and looked around. It was as if he had been dropped into the middle of a new world alone and was traveling it with no known boundaries.

  It was a struggle, but he stood up. He righted the sled, the team straightened themselves out, and the tow line was tight. These dogs knew more than he did.

  “Hyaaa!”

  The lead dogs topped out of the valley and stopped. Forty feet behind them, Bill couldn’t see over the bank. As the sled came over the rise he saw the rear end of a moose disappear into the trees, the leaders right on its tail. He jumped on the brake.

  “Whoa!”

  He threw the snow hook and let it drag like an anchor. It didn’t slow the team. He wrenched hard, flipping the sled over on its right side. As it was going down he threw his legs in front of him, stiffened them, and drove his heels into the snow. The sled skidded to a halt.

  Rusty was wrapped around a sapling. Napoleon stood and looked at the moose running up the hillside.

  He righted the sled and stuck the snow hook. He had to disconnect the tow line and thread the team backwards out of the trees, and by now the aspirin had worn off and he had a splitting headache. What was Carl thinking when he’d trained these dogs? There had to be a plan for running this race. Wait a minute—did he really care? If he made it to McGrath nobody could stop him from having a drink.

  He came to a small frozen lake and halted the team. On the map it looked like Rabbit Lake, about a hundred miles from Anchorage. He mushed the dogs to a flat place off the trail and set the snow hook.

  He tied the snub line to a tree, unlaced the tarp, and took the water bucket down to the lake. While he was chipping through the ice he saw another team swing in and stop. He recognized Roger Stanley.

  Who should have been ahead of him.

  He filled the bucket, covered the water hole with a sack, and kicked snow on it to keep it from freezing over.

  “Mind if I camp with you?” Roger asked.

  “Free country,” Bill said. “Fact is, I’d be happy to share the work with you.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “The dogs are getting the best of it,” Bill said. “Beaver stew. I’m on frozen chicken.”

  Roger had a fire going by the time Bill got the dogs watered and fed. Bill shook out his sleeping bag and threw it on a ground pad between two spruce trees. He took two aspirin and sat on the sled to finish his cup of coffee.

  “Just like the boy scouts,” Roger said.

  “Reminds me of the Snow Eifel. I haven’t camped out in the snow since the winter of ’44. Didn’t want to ever do it again.”

  “What’s the Snow Eifel?” Roger said.

  “You ever heard of the Battle of the Bulge?”

  “No.”

  “Well, throw another log on that fire and if you don’t fall asleep I’ll tell you about the Snow Eifel. Is there any more coffee?”

  Bill heard Roger moving around before light. He stuck his head out of the sleeping bag. There was a fire going, and Roger’s dogs were eating.

  “Roger—how’d I get ahead of you yesterday?”

  “I got lost. You will too if you stay in the sack. I’ll see you down the trail.”

  Bill crawled out of the bag. His wool clothing was damp, and steam rose from it as he stood by the fire and looked at the dogs. His headache was gone. And his enthusiasm was up—if he’d ever had any for this trip.

  “Your turn to cook breakfast, Napoleon.”

  At the sound of his name Napoleon looked up. There was sympathy in that dog’s eyes that sure beat the looks he’d received from people. He was sorry he’d been away from the animals for so long.

  He looked at the tracks other teams had made as they passed through without waking him. He thought about Carl’s dream to run this crazy race, then about why in the world he was doing it for him. By the time he was warm he had come up with five reasons to turn around and go back to Anchorage.

  The dogs ate and drank while Bill sat on the sled and ate frozen chicken, his feet in the snow and his coat open to the fire. He had never eaten frozen chicken for breakfast before, which made him wonder what would be in his musher bag at the checkpoint. If he was lucky the dogs would get beaver and he’d get bags
of frozen moose stew that could be heated up. Now, if Major Russell would get the message and send out a dozen sourdough buns and fireweed honey…

  He took a deep breath. The cold killed all of the smells but the spruce trees and the fire. He exhaled. This was the best he had felt for a long time. His headache was gone, and he didn’t ache anywhere in particular. He inhaled again and held it.

  He heard dogs, and a team came into view. He waved. In a few seconds they were gone. His dogs watched them go, then looked at Bill, their eyes asking if they were going to leave soon.

  “You ready?” he said.

  They wagged their tails. Rusty jumped up and down and barked. The others stood and shook themselves.

  He packed the sled and untied the snub line. The sky in the southeast was beginning to lighten—it would be sunrise in another couple of hours. He stood on the runners and looked around the campsite. The fire had burned itself into the snow and would go out in an hour.

  “Hyaaa!”

  Napoleon and Rusty snapped the tow line straight, the wheel dogs leaned into the weight of the sled, and the team pulled onto the trail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The dogs settled down after the first mile, and Bill tried to calculate the wind-chill factor. He could not believe how fast they were traveling—had to be between twelve and fifteen miles an hour, and he was cold. He started kicking when they came to a hill, but they were going so fast he couldn’t get his foot to bite in before it bounced off.

  When they were on the level he practiced bending his knee like he was running with one leg, placing his foot between the runners and kicking. Hard to tell if there was any increase in speed, but it warmed him up.

  The sun was just peeking over the mountains when the team came around the trail cut into the side of a hill and Napoleon reached down to take a bite of snow. In that split second, the swing dogs piled into him and he was tumbled and wrapped in the harness.

  Bill slammed on the brake and ran up to him, traced each line and pulled Napoleon’s head and legs out of the harness until he could stand up. He stood erect, had his tail up, and wore that big grin a dog gives a musher when he’s healthy and fit.

  “Napoleon, when you want a drink just ask. As a matter of fact I’d like a drink myself. You got any whiskey?”

  The dog averted his eyes.

  Bill looked at him. It was the first time he had taken a moment to really look at one of the dogs. He knew Ilene would have handled these dogs with her hands—they knew her better than they knew him. As he knelt with Napoleon on the trail, the desire for a drink came so fast and strong on him that he tottered.

  “We’ve got to get to McGrath,” he said.

  The dogs were unimpressed.

  The trail was marked with dog-team tracks and old campfires, but as they descended into Moose Creek it split, one fork going across Moose Creek and the other hanging on the bank and then winding out of sight around the corner. Bill made a quick decision and let Rusty lead onto the frozen creek.

  Rusty and Napoleon were well into the overflow, with the swing dogs dancing to either side of it, before Bill noticed it. He couldn’t tell how deep the overflow was or if it was dangerous. The leaders slowed down, the team stopped pulling, and the wheel dogs, who were not yet in the overflow, towed the sled right into it.

  “Hyaaa!” he hollered. “Hike! Hike!”

  The leaders looked for a way around, but the snow caved off into the water whatever direction they moved. The overflow was now up to their bellies, over the sled runners, and flowing into Bill’s boots.

  His foot slipped on the ice underneath and he went down on one knee. The sled jerked sideways—he lost his grip and skidded on the ice. He tried a one-hand pull up to get back on the runners, but his left arm wouldn’t lift him.

  “Dammit!”

  The leaders made it to the far bank. When the sled hit, it pitched up and a runner slid under his foot. The dogs stopped and shook a rainbow of water that froze on contact. He pushed them to run to the top of the rise, then called a stop.

  He started for the front, reversed, and planted the snow hook. How many times had Dad said that a man on foot in the backcountry was a man in serious danger? Always plant your snow hook or tie the snub line. It only takes a minute, and it could save your life.

  He checked the dog’s feet, drove on to a flat place, and stopped. There he built a fire, changed his wet clothing, and gave himself and the dogs a snack.

  “Let’s see what Skwentna looks like,” he said. “Hyaaa!”

  Forty feet above the Skwentna River, a man who introduced himself as Joe Delay walked out from a log cabin with a big smile on his dark face. Apparently other teams had been there but were long gone.

  “I want a drink of whiskey,” Bill said. “You have any here?”

  Delay’s smile vanished. He shook his head. “Let’s see your dogs. You check in there by the door—just sign your name and the time you came through.”

  Bill kicked the snow hook in and walked over to the cabin.

  Delay picked up one of Napoleon’s legs. “You hit the overflow on Moose Creek?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “More than a foot deep,” Bill said. “You know what time it is?”

  “Ten-thirty.” He was looking at Napoleon’s feet. “Feet look okay. Did you run them or stop and dry them?”

  “I stopped. Is there anyone behind me?”

  “You’re last on the list. You gonna make it?”

  “To McGrath, at least. The tavern there still open?”

  “McGuire’s? Yes, it’s open.” He stood up. “Your dogs are looking good. Let me check your equipment.”

  Bill unlaced the sled bag. The bottom was frozen from the overflow crossing. Delay named each piece off as he saw it. “Sleeping bag, axe, snowshoes, food. What are the caribou hides for?”

  “We never trusted a sleeping bag—especially wet.”

  “Ok. You’re good to go,” Joe said.

  “Think I’ll brew up some food for them,” Bill said. “You care where I go to do that?”

  Delay pointed. “I’ve got some wood split over there and you can have your back to that drift catching the sun.”

  “Thanks.” Bill started off, then stopped. “What’s the next checkpoint?”

  “Finger Lake. About thirty miles—on a good day.”

  “How far if you’re nursing the remains of a hangover?”

  “About a hundred.”

  Delay headed for the cabin. The thermometer next to the door registered twenty degrees. Almost balmy.

  Bill opened the CARL bag. There had to be something besides pemmican in there. He found some moose and caribou jerky, a sack of raisins, and candy bars. The chicken had ice crystals in it, so he tried a candy bar. He had to thaw the bar under his armpit before he could bite it.

  A snow machine driver drove up, cut his engine, and slid to a stop.

  “You the last one?”

  “That’s what Delay says.”

  “Your dogs look good. How you feeling?”

  “Guess I’ll live to McGrath.”

  The driver tilted his head. “You might make it. The trail’s packed good—to Rohn, at least. If a storm hits, you might have trouble finding it in the Farewell area.”

  “How far ahead are the others?” Bill asked.

  “Stretched out between Finger Lake and Rohn. That’s about fifty miles from here.”

  The dogs stood up. “You’re ready, huh?” Bill closed up the sled bag and pulled the hook. “Okay, let’s do it. Hyaaa!”

  The take-off was so fast his left foot slid off the runner and he had to kick with it to get back on. The trail led over the edge, down the bank, and across the Skwentna River, but they were going so fast when they reached the rim that the sled flew off the edge and landed fifteen feet below. He managed to get both feet on the inside runner and keep the sled upright as the lead dogs raced downhill like they were on a mission.

  Th
e sun was out, he was following a well-marked trail, and he could stand upright on the runners. Not a bad way to spend a day. He wondered what George Norton was doing right now. Freezing on the street looking for a drink, or asleep in the library next to the heater? And what would the fine Major Russell be doing mid- morning? Did the major really care about him or had he just been one of his projects? Ilene? His face softened. He had to laugh when he thought about running from her. What would she think if she found out he was the last musher to go through?

  “Hike! Hike!”

  The dogs moved from a trot into a lope. Bill figured they might be going fifteen miles an hour here on the level, maybe faster. He looked at the tug lines, which were as tight as a bowstring.

  Carl had got himself a real dog team.

  They pulled into Finger Lake at 2:20PM. A man stepped out on the porch and watched him snub the team to a post. Bill stepped off the runners and saw snow that looked like it had been a staging area for the 106th Infantry. Everything was tromped down; spruce boughs and dog crap littered the landscape. A two-foot-deep trail was driven into the snow from the parking area to the lake, where a sack covered a hole through the ice. It was so warm he unbuttoned his jacket on the short walk to the check-in.

  “I’m Jerry Morris.” The man held out his hand. “You must be Bill Williams.”

  Bill shook hands and said hello.

  “Come on and sign in.” Morris headed inside. “What time did you leave Skwentna?”

  “About 10:45, I suppose.”

  Morris looked at a clipboard and ran his finger down the sheet of paper. “That’s the fastest time anyone’s made between Skwentna and here. Twelve miles an hour, give or take a little.” He smiled. “That’s moving.”

  Bill thought a minute. “What was the next best time?”

  “Three hours and thirty-five minutes. By the way, the Iditarod Air force dropped off a bag for you.”

  He stepped back into the room and handed Bill a gunny sack with his name stenciled on it. Inside the sack Bill found some dried salmon, caribou jerky, a piece of cooked beaver tail, a sack of dried blueberries, a small bucket of KFC chicken, and a note: