By Joe Runyan
Eagle Island checkpoint is to a sled dog what an oasis is to a camel. This is a refuge from the blowing spindrift on the river. Hidden on a slough between Eagle Island and the north bank of the Yukon, this checkpoint is sheltered in a big grove of spruce, birch and cottonwood.
The dogs are bedded down with straw provided at every checkpoint by the Iditarod Trail Committee. For the six or eight hours that the teams will rest here, mushers luxuriate in the hospitality of the Conasters, who have homesteaded on the north bank. Mushers climb a steep bank from the slough and find food at the main cabin. Other cabins down the hill are open for sleeping. I am sure every musher who stops here has had the same thought: “Yeah, I could spend a couple of years here.”
For the Iditarod fan, Eagle Island is a good point in the race to see which musher is really in the hunt for a win. This is because almost every musher is now on the same schedule, in contrast to other sections of the trail in which mushers could play chess with their race strategy.
For example, it was possible earlier in the race for a team to be first on the trail, but hardly leading the race. This is because of the many opportunities to adjust individual rest-and-run schedules, thus creating illusions. A team may have left Iditarod first after just a short rest, but with the intention of spending a long rest in the creek bottom of Big Yentna Creek. The real leader of the race may have chosen to spend a long time in Iditarod and then drive straight through to Shageluk.
This is particularly frustrating for supporters of individual mushers who do not understand the dynamics of the race. An aunt and an uncle of an Iditarod musher living in Phoenix might bring up the “out times” from a checkpoint on their new computer and note that their nephew is leading the race. At the breakfast table, in an interlude between grapefruit and whole-wheat toast, the conversation shifts for a minute. “Isn’t that nice, Junior is leading the Iditarod. Maybe he can pay me back with his prize money for that fishing pole I gave him in 1968.” Unfortunately, Junior was a rabbit who soon faded out of the evening news headlines.
Usually, but there could be exceptions, the mushers are on the same page of the battle plan when leaving Eagle Island - rest the team well, leave the calm of the checkpoint slough, and mush a long 70 miles straight through to Kaltag. By now, most mushers have realized the limitations and strengths of their teams and have set a goal for the rest of the race. Of course, some of the mushers started the race with the admirable goal of just finishing. Still, how you place is one measure of success most mushers consider.
The trail follows the north bank of the Yukon, and depending on ice conditions and snow, sometimes leads the mushers to the middle of the river, where the wind has packed the snow harder, or even blown it off the ice. About halfway to Kaltag, the trail usually moves to the south side and takes a few shortcuts between islands.
Eventually, the trail heads back across the Yukon to the north bank and the village of Kaltag. A long, steep slip leads off the Yukon and up the bank to the village where a crowd of villagers watches the progress of teams coming across the Yukon. The mushers unconsciously encourage their dogs to step out as they approach the village. Everyone wants to look good in front of an informed, critical crowd.
Village elders who have watched every Iditarod come through Kaltag and who grew up in trap line camps using dogs make assessments of teams and discuss which team could win. A musher with any dignity will jog up the hill behind the sled and help the dogs for the last 100 yards. With heavy boots and clothes to add to the exercise, the blood is pumping when the checker greets the musher, “Welcome to Kaltag.”