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I might have known the first race of the season wouldn't go smoothly when I came down with a sore throat several days beforehand. The sore throat persisted and worsened all week but after a doctor visit and some strong medications, I felt I should at least try to race. The dogs were ready. All I had to do was hold on, right?
The snow started Friday night and Saturday morning, we packed up the truck and the dogs during heavy snow, which continued right through the vet check at the race start. The trail would be soft with the new snow, and when the snow stopped, the forecast called for the temperature to plummet.
As we drove to the race, I told Matt and my in-laws that I wanted to draw a start number near the end of the line-up.
But I drew bib number one.
We were ready to go for the 7 p.m. start and made our way to the line. A trail led out onto Poplar Lake. When the officials told me to go, we shot out onto the lake. I wasn't thinking quick enough and when the trail forked, I called a quick "Ha!" to go left, but the team veered right, and I dug my brake into the glare ice beneath the fresh, loose snow. It must have taken 100 yards to make them stop—12 extremely hyped up bundles of pulling power. I forced my snow hook into the ice and after calling "Ha, Ha" many times, I left the sled to go try to turn the team myself. Once they started turning, it happened fast, they kept turning and the snowhook popped and I just couldn't quite catch the sled...they turned and kept going all the way back to the start.
I started running and cursing, half-sobbing and wheezing, because I was sick and wearing 50 pounds of clothing. One musher passed me telling me my dogs were okay.
I made it back to the start, and we turned the team around, knocking my poor mother-in-law off her feet in the process. We went back out onto the lake and again, they turned right. We repeated the same thing. I dug in my brake and finally my snowhook. I went up and carefully changed leaders, thinking maybe my veteran dog, Judy, would turn the team the right way.
Long story short, after the race marshall, Arleigh Jorgenson got dragged and I got dragged again, and several more volunteers showed up, we finally got the team on the right trail and left, losing about 40 minutes of time in the process. Within 15 minutes, another three mushers passed me and I was dead last. I turned on my headphones and settled in for the five-hour run ahead, despite being caked with sweat that was now turning cold, and the knowledge that I would never be able to make up the time I had lost. It's a heavy feeling, and not one I wanted the dogs to pick up on.
That's how dog runs go sometimes--you never know when everything will just fall apart. Over the next 20 miles, I would flip the sled three times, dragging on my face yelling "Whoa" until the team felt enough of a dead weight behind them that they stopped. But I also passed three teams, and when we hit Devil's Track Lake, a huge expanse of darkness lay ahead, punctuated by a few beams of light in the distance. The dogs seemed to pick up speed out there, and by the end of the lake, we passed two more teams. By the time we returned to the checkpoint, we were back in 7th place. Still, once all the times had been adjusted, I was second to last.
Sleep didn't happen. After the dogs were fed and bedded down, I crawled into a sleeping bag, but it was so cold, and my nose immediately plugged. I needed cold medicine. Finally I gave up and Matt and I went inside Trail Center and sat at the bar at 4 a.m., wishing morning would come a little quicker.
By the time we left for the second leg at 8 a.m., three teams had scratched from the race. It was -17 with reports of a -40 degree wind chill. The dogs took the first turn like pros, and every turn thereafter, not dumping me once. On Devil's Track Lake, the team in front of me started veering on a trail to shore, but my leaders went the right way, again picking up speed it seemed as we headed into the wind, a 30 mph headwind that made my face burn. I tried as much as possible to crouch below the level of my sled for protection.
I would say I reached a new level of appreciation for my dogs during those miles on the lake. The leaders sniffed out the trail, following my verbal cues when they needed assistance. They pushed into the wind and almost seemed to enjoy it. Tough, tough dogs. At that point, all I could do was hold on.
At the end of the lake, we cut a corner too close and I slammed into a large post, feeling like I broke my thumb. Then I snacked the team and Lion chomped down on my middle finger instead of the chunk of meat.
The best of times and the worst of times. The ups and downs, highs and lows. Everything can be perfect and then go tragically wrong in an instant. Beauty and the darkness all wrapped together.
I reminded myself many times over the next 20 miles, that I wanted to be there. I chose to be doing this. I wiggled my toes to keep them from going numb, and fought back the tightness in my sore throat and ignored the burning skin on my face and felt grateful.
Reaching the finish felt somewhat epic, but when we got there, the dogs loped in, making me proud.
Perhaps our race standing didn't show it, but I felt sure that I have the best dogs in the world.