By Joe Runyan
The trail leaves Shaktoolik and alternately crosses glare ice, short-grass tundra and wind-packed sandbars. After about 10 miles the trail goes by a big, incongruous rock about the size of a two-story house, and passes the front door of a wood-frame shelter cabin. From here, the trail goes across the sea ice to Koyuk.
The trail is very confusing, especially at night. The trail across the spit is so flat, it is almost impossible for a non-resident to tell if one is on ice or land. The transition from land to ice is also imperceptible. The wind keeps the snow blowing about so much that it always seems to be only about six inches deep. If you tried to make a snowball with your hands, you would find it very difficult. The snow is really weird and does not hang together like snow in Chicago or Vermont. I can understand why Eskimos have many names for snow. The sled always seems to pull hard on the snow going to Koyuk.
The people of this area have planned ahead for the wind. Shelter cabins are common in selected areas. The shelter cabin just outside of Shaktoolik is provisioned with firewood and a little food and is available for anyone who gets pinned down by the wind. Essentially, the run out of Shaktoolik is a two-part effort. The first project is to drop off the Shaktoolik spit and make it to the shelter cabin. Second, evaluate the wind and weather and then venture out onto the ice for the long crossing to Koyuk.
The trail across the sea ice to Shaktoolik is very well marked. The Iditarod sends out trail marker lath with reflective tape stapled to the top. In some places, the lath is put out about every 50 yards, which seems ridiculous on a calm day, but in a windstorm it seems like an enormous distance. Sometimes, the state of Alaska will appropriate money to put in a straight trail across the ice, marked by spruce poles placed in augured ice holes. When the locals are out hunting and get caught in some weather, they know they can always head back toward the trail and hit the pole line.
Just how bad is the weather? Let me put it to you this way: On a good day with good visibility, the crossing can be uneventful but, in a strange way, memorable. The wind is always brisk and the feeling of vulnerability is palpable. It is one of those “good to be alive” feelings. The opposite scenario tightens up every nerve in your body. The musher arrives in Shaktoolik just after dark. The wind is blowing across the spit. Hands grow numb just taking the booties off the dogs. Some of the straw laid down for bedding blows away before the dogs can settle down. The musher tries to stomp depressions into the wind-packed snow and make a bed of sorts. A vapor stream races away from the dog food cooker. Sometimes the wind fans the alcohol burners and creates so much heat that the aluminum shroud around the cooker starts to melt and vaporize. The cookers glow in the dark.
Three or four hours later the musher and team are somewhat rested, and venture out onto the trail. Several involved conversations with the locals have preceded departure. “It’s true, a big storm is moving in off the Bering Sea. But you can make it. My brother was across the ice yesterday by snowmachine and he said the markers were put in good. Just remember to take some extra dog food if you have to snack on the ice.” And then begins a night that is measured by hundreds of separate journeys from one marker to the next, and a communication between musher and leader that is totally indescribable because it is for real. This is not a training run, not practice, not fun with your pet, but a real-life adventure. The musher searches with a tight-beam headlight, and just barely discerns a reflective marker through the ground storm. The leader normally heads towards the next marker, but sometimes is confused by a network of trails and veers off the main trail. In this case, the musher’s voice controls the leader and soon the team is back on the trail. The musher trusts that the team will continue to knife through the wind. Occasionally, the musher stops to reassure the leaders and wipe the frozen spindrift from their eyes. Some mushers wipe A&D ointment around the dogs’ eyes in an attempt to keep the ice from forming.
The brain is like a gourd rattle. A question bounces around all night: “Where are the lights of Koyuk?” Finally, after what seems like an interminable crossing, they appear, and the musher relaxes, knowing that within an hour or two they will arrive at the next checkpoint. The climb up the bank to the Koyuk checkpoint is a welcome conclusion to the six or seven hours of concentrated mushing. The press asks the mushers what they think about when they are mushing for hours - as if they are idly daydreaming about their investments. To the musher who has peered into the darkness and talked his team through the fog of blowing snow, it is a ludicrous inquiry, and usually they answer with a grunt.
Libby Riddles made history on this run. She arrived with the pack on the coast at Unalakleet in 1985. At Shaktoolik, the wind was blowing hard and building. Even the locals thought this big storm would stop the race. Libby had trained all winter in Nome with Joe Garnie, another well-known Iditarod competitor, and had some leaders that feared no wind. She phoned ahead to Garnie, who was not racing, and discussed the possibilities. She decided to try and beat the storm, headed across the ice, and with this decisive move, took the race. She was the first woman to win the Iditarod. Libby is a great competitor, champion and role model. My 11-year-old daughter regards her friendship with Libby as a prized possession.