For What He Could Become Page 30

  “Fifty…sixty miles.”

  “Is the trail good?”

  The checker nodded. “They just cut it yesterday and we haven’t had any weather since then. The big one blew through a few days ago when you all were held up in McGrath. Should be clean and fast.”

  Bill nodded and smiled. As tired and hungry and dirty as he was, he was smiling more on this trip than he had smiled since he could remember. There was a good feeling running through him—smiles had been missing from his life, but here on the Yukon, in this race, he was enjoying himself.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He drove the team through the village and found a flat space near the trail. He cooked the dogs’ food, chopped a hole in the ice and watered them, and made camp with his last energy. He used another flare to start large logs bunched on the riverbank. The fire got so big it melted snow for a radius of ten yards, and he had to move his camp further back.

  Getting water, building a fire, tending the dogs, and cooking was taking too much time. If he had to hand-water some dogs or help them with their feet, it ate into his sleep time. If he dozed standing on the runners, the dogs stopped. He would think about that in the daylight when he wasn’t so tired.

  It was two o’clock in the morning before he went to sleep. Despite his fatigue, he had worked out a routine to speed up the chores. He would try it on the river camps and refine it so when he got into Eskimo country he’d have it down pat.

  When he awoke there wasn’t a sound. The cold had drifted in and covered the river village. A wisp of smoke rose from two chimneys about four feet above the roof, then flattened out and spread horizontal to the ground. Bill could hardly keep his eyes open. He turned on his side, pulled his legs up against his chest, got to his knees and stayed in that position, trying to stabilize his head. Weariness was jammed into every joint and muscle in his body. He wondered how the dogs felt. He crawled out and stood up. Several dogs raised their heads and looked at him. When they saw he wasn’t going to feed them yet, they covered their faces with their tails.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Let’s go downriver.” He started to hook them up, then realized they could eat a snack ball while he was getting ready.

  The team looked good. There was not a hint of light, but the full moon made travel easy on the river. He could see where moose had crossed the trail, and where they had walked in it for some distance to avoid the deep snow.

  The first pink streaks of light broke over the hills near Yistletaw, and he stopped. He cooked a huge meal for the dogs, feeding the last of the beaver and salmon. I hope Ilene shipped more to Nulato or Kaltag. I can run to Nulato on this feeding but I don’t want to mess with dry dog food.

  Wonder how far I am ahead of John and Walt or the other teams at Ruby? They didn’t have to stay the night if they didn’t want to.

  The routine he had thought of going to sleep last night worked well this morning, and he was sure he had cut time off the camp-and-eat process. He could cut down more—but where? He needed to look at it again.

  He passed through Koyukuk like a freight train. Several people shouted when he came through down on the river. He waved but didn’t rest there. He’d learned one thing about the villages. Their people were friendly and helpful and at times villages were havens from the cold and dark, but stopping in them took twice as much time. To eat hot stew and mop it up with fresh bread, stretch out on a bed, get really warm all the way through, were treats to a cold, hungry musher, but they were time-consuming treats. You had to be civil, engage in conversation, answer questions.

  He heard an airplane and saw it land at Nulato, close to the river. By the time he got there the villagers had gathered at the checkpoint and were calling out to get him to come to their homes. They all had good sales points: hot moose stew, fresh bannock, smoked salmon, a place for the dogs, an available bed. Each proposition was put forward by an energetic youngster with a big smile who imagined himself behind a team of huskies, standing tall, whip in hand. Who also wanted to be able to say that the first musher stayed at his home.

  Bill stopped on the side of the runway and looked for his musher’s sack. He walked the length of the sacks stacked against the snow berm. None had his name on it. As he shook his head, the checker walked up.

  “You must be Bill Williams. I’m George Walton. How’re you doing?”

  “Can’t find my sack.”

  “Well, let’s see.” George grabbed a couple of sacks and pulled them forward to look on the backs. “I don’t see it either. Tell you what—you can take either of these sacks. These guys scratched at McGrath and I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  “Okay.”

  The first sack had commercial dog food in cooking-size pouches. There was also a sack for a musher with a card attached to it from his wife. Bill hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” George said. “He’s never gonna see it.”

  Inside the sack along with chocolate, trail mix, and several small packets of M&M’s were three 1.5 ounce bottles of Kentucky Sour Mash Bourbon.

  “Well, there’s a trail treat,” George said. “A wee dram of whiskey to ward off boredom and exhaustion.”

  Bill clutched the three little bottles in one hand. He didn’t have a long argument with himself about them—the decision took only a few seconds. He loosened his grip on the bottles, bounced them in his hand, and handed them to George.

  “Not my brand,” he said.

  George put them in his pocket. “Well, I’m sure I’ll find someone who can use them.”

  Bill swallowed. The saliva had started to flow. He swallowed twice more, then forced his mind to think of the dogs.

  “I don’t know if they’ll eat this stuff,” he said.

  “What you been feeding them?” George asked.

  “Beaver. Beaver and salmon.”

  “You’ll be able to get some beaver in Kaltag. I heard Whitey Simmons came into Kaltag with thirty beaver on his sled.”

  “Then they can live on this until we get there.” He lifted the sack and took it to his sled.

  A small boy tugged on his sleeve. “Come to our house—we’re ready for you. Come on.” He pulled Bill toward his house.

  “Wait—wait. I need to bring the team.”

  At the house, he watered and fed the dogs, hand-watering four of them. He put some Vaseline on an irritation that was developing on Rusty’s left front foot, which Rusty proceeded to lick off.

  The family fed him plenty and showed him a bed surrounded by hanging blankets that made a womb of darkness. Bill barely noticed—he was asleep as soon as he rolled over. When he told the boy to wake him in four hours, the boy asked if he could do anything else for him.

  “Yes—make a list of the mushers that come through while I’m sleeping.” The boy nodded, and the last thing Bill remembered was his asking his mother for a pencil and paper.

  When he awoke it was dark outside and he tried to recall what time it was when he went to sleep. He sat up on the edge of the bed, a ripe, sweaty smell rising up his shirt.

  Either I have to get a bath or take another swim in a river.

  He stood up and was unsteady for a moment, then he parted the blankets and walked out into the room. The boy’s mother was writing in a book.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello. What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  Bill blinked several times and rubbed his hands on his coveralls. He had been asleep nine hours.

  “Where’s the boy?” he asked.

  She nodded her head in the direction of the checker’s cabin. “He’s keeping track of who’s coming and going.”

  “I asked him…” He stopped and put his tongue between his teeth.

  It didn’t make any difference now. He felt refreshed and he hoped the dogs did too.

  “Would you like some coffee and pancakes?” the woman asked.

  “That would be nice. I’ll check the dogs.”

  At the checker station Bill found the b
oy. He looked up at Bill, smiled, and handed him the small paper pad with the names scrawled in large block letters.

  1. John Scribner

  2. Walt Peski

  3. Joe Branigan

  4. Harold Green

  5. (the number was waiting for a name)

  “Did any of them stop in town for the night?” Bill asked.

  The boy looked at the checker.

  “No,” George said. “They all checked out.”

  “When?”

  “Well, let’s see. Scribner and Peski were traveling together and they left at 12:30. Branigan around 1:30 and Green took off at 2:16.”

  “How did they look?”

  “Looked good,” George said.

  Four teams ahead of me, but they’ll be stopping for the night. If I can run four hours, that’ll put me in Kaltag about midnight. Then find the guy with the beavers, leave around four in the morning, and be a good way toward Unalakleet by dawn while they’re still sleeping.

  He walked back to his dogs. At first they were Carl’s dogs, and the association between them and his brother was still strong. But since the Sulatna River dunking, he’d come to think of them as his dogs. He liked that thought.

  What’ll happen to the dogs when the race is over? Would Ilene let me keep them? What would I do with them in Anchorage anyway? Well…I don’t have to stay in Anchorage. I’m not making much of a life there.

  “Can I help feed them?” the boy asked.

  Bill shook off his mind games and reached into the bag. “Here. Give them each one ball.”

  He checked the snub line and went in for pancakes. By 8:00 he was standing on the runners. The boy was in the sled basket.

  “Okay. Who wants to get on with this race? Who wants to go? Hyaaa!”

  The team trotted out of village and down onto the Yukon, tails up and wagging. At the edge of the river ice, Bill stopped the team and the boy crawled off.

  “Goodbye,” Bill said. “Thanks for everything.”

  The boy hugged him. Even with all the clothes between them Bill could feel his strength and determination. He held the hug long enough that Bill began to feel uncomfortable about it.

  “We need to get going,” he said, and the boy let go.

  “When will you be back?”

  “Maybe next year,” Bill said.

  “I’ll wait for you then and I’ll do everything for you again.”

  “Okay. We agree on that.”

  “Goodbye,” the boy said and stood back as the team drove out onto the river ice, following a strong trail made by the preceding teams.

  A fair wind blew at his back as they hit the Yukon, and Bill started kicking. It made him warm, got rid of the aches and pains, and speeded up the travel. He’d been traveling about two hours when he saw a camp only five yards off the trail. Their dogs barked and his team responded, but he didn’t recognize the teams or the outfit. Had to be Branigan and Green, holed up with a tarp set against the wind coming downriver, their fire almost out. He’d be two hours ahead of them when he got to Kaltag.

  He’d forgotten to get a flashlight in Ruby. Somehow he had to remember to get one in Kaltag. Going out onto Norton Sound at night without a flashlight would be foolhardy.

  In another hour he passed John and Walt’s camp. When morning came they’d be hot on his trail and traveling fast. They were getting a good night’s sleep and their dogs would be rested.

  Some village dogs barked as he climbed the long bluff into Kaltag, and out of the night villagers began to materialize at the checker’s cabin. Didn’t these people ever sleep? The village was treating the Iditarod as a vacation from the dreary winter life.

  “Anyone know a Whitey Simmons?” Bill asked the checker.

  “Right here,” a voice said beside him.

  “You’ve got beaver?”

  “Yup. Twenty bucks a carcass.”

  “How many have you got?”

  “More’n you’ll need.”

  “Let me check my bag and I’ll tell you,” Bill said.

  Whitey tipped his head. “Okay. But they get more pricey the longer it goes past waking me up.”

  When the checker brought his bag, Bill opened it to find only one beaver carcass and about a dozen salmon.

  “Whitey, I’ll take eight beaver. Wait a minute. I’ll take them all if you’ll accept credit from my sister-in-law.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Carl Williams’ widow from Arctic Village,” the checker said. “She’s good for it.”

  “I don’t know,” Whitey said. “I should save some for these other mushers.” Bill didn’t want to leave beaver behind for other mushers who might have figured out that what they were feeding wasn’t doing the job for the dogs. He didn’t want to haul all of the carcasses on the sled, either.

  He looked at Whitey. “Well?”

  “Okay…okay. You tell me where to get the money from her and I’ll do it.”

  Bill took eight beaver on his sled, put the other twelve in a bag, and told the checker to have them sent to Shaktoolik with the Iditarod airplane.

  “I need to get a flashlight,” he said when he signed out.

  “I got an extra you can borrow,” the checker said. He brought it out from his cabin. “Send it back or send me a new one from Nome. I kinda like having a spare.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure and do that.”

  Bill mushed the team about a mile off the Yukon River. If he could judge a four-hour sleep, he could be out of here and halfway to Unalakleet by dawn.

  After feeding the dogs, he built up the fire and moved the sled close to it. He removed his heavy outer clothing, put it under him on the sled, and lay down. Now if the fire would just last about four hours, the cold would wake him up. He crossed his feet and tucked his hands under his armpits. He was hot on the fire side and cold on the other. He went to sleep with some reservations as to whether his plan was going to work or not.

  He awoke looking at the stars. He felt like his right kidney had frozen and all of his ribs had fused, and it took him two tries to sit up on the sled and get his feet over the side. He added more driftwood to the fire, which was a circle of coals blinking in the pre-dawn darkness, and danced around to warm up while the fire grew hot enough to cook a meal and melt snow.

  While the dog food was cooking he checked the trail. No new tracks beyond where he’d turned off last night. He was still in the lead. Now the dogs. Three didn’t get up and respond to the morning call. He checked each of them, running his hand over them, touching all of their bodies where they might have injured themselves. They acted down in the mouth and had runny stools, probably from the brief change in diet. The beaver and salmon would get them back in shape.

  There was a hint of daylight in the eastern sky as they drove down the Unalakleet River basin and up and down the Nulato Hills. The constant wind whipped the snow into swirls, and Bill had to focus hard to keep from getting disoriented. With three dogs feeling poorly and the extra beaver weight, the sled slowed down—the ninety-two-mile run would take at least two four-hour stretches—but that didn’t bother him as he twisted and bent himself over the drive bow, working the kinks out of his body. Go easy with the stretching. You’re almost forty-eight years old. Actually, you feel stronger now than you ever have. If Wayne had lived to see this he wouldn’t have believed it.

  The sun edged up over the Nulato Hills and pushed its way south little by little. At a place where it topped the hills and bathed the trail in sunlight, Bill hauled the team to a stop in a circle made by a snow machine. When he stopped he was amazed at the strength of the wind that had been behind him. With it at his back, he hadn’t heard the menacing wail it was making over the whaleback ridges.

  The dogs looked at him, expecting a treat. Had they not pulled the heavy sled and him four hours without a stop? He grinned at them.

  “You want a snack, don’t you?”

  He dug in the sled sack. He’d forgotten that he’d let that boy feed them the last balls.
There’d be more in the sack at Unalakleet, but the dogs were looking at his hands coming out of the sack right now. They closed their mouths and swallowed. Then they looked at Bill, tails stiff.

  “No more. All gone.”

  The dogs looked at his hands again and then at his face. Some gave up and lay down. Rusty and Napoleon did not. They waited, convinced he was fooling them. At the bottom of the sack, almost forgotten, was a half-bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  “What’ll you give for some chicken? Would you like white meat or dark meat?”

  Every dog stood erect, tails wagging, mouths clamped shut and ears forward, eyes on the bucket. The man had found something to eat.

  “We have a leg?”

  He held it up for the dogs to view, and sixteen pairs of eyes followed his hand. He put it back in the bucket and withdrew another piece. “This is a thigh. Dark meat like the leg, but more meat and less sinew.” The wheel dogs stamped their feet. They were the closest and they could smell the chicken even though the grease was frozen solid in the crusty covering.

  There were not sixteen pieces. He looked at the pemmican and jerky. There was sure to be a re-supply in Unalakleet for man and dog. He handed out the chicken first, then the jerky and pemmican. He ate the last piece of jerky and a hard candy he found in the bottom of the sack. He looked around for wood to build a fire and melt water, but there was none. The dogs would have to grab snow.

  He pulled behind an outcropping of rocks, where the force of the wind was blunted. The packed snow made it easy to walk and in minutes he distributed the sacks to the dogs, who curled up on them and cleaned their feet. Some were asleep by the time he dragged three caribou hides over to the edge of the trail. Using his heel, he dug a groove in the snow across the trail as long as his leg. Then he put two hides across the groove, lay down on them, and covered himself with the third hide. There was some warmth in the sun, and he judged the temperature to only be about twenty below zero.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Some dogs stepped over and some around the caribou hide Bill was under, but the sled runner ran over his leg. He sat up. The musher, who hadn’t seen the hide until the last moment, looked like he thought Bill was coming out of a grave.