Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Relax, I’m just kidding.” He smiles coyly—as if that could win me over. “You done after this stop?”
“No, they need me in Cripple next.”
“Perfect.” He drops his voice and looks around. “I’m doing my big rest there.”
The mushers keep their game plan close to their chest while race fans spend countless hours speculating on where they’ll rest based on the supply drops at the various checkpoints and previous race plans. Stopping in Cripple means he’s pushing on past McGrath and Takotna, where most mushers take their required twenty-four-hour stop.
Twenty-four hours dealing with Harry Hatchett? Not perfect.
“You’re going for the gold, huh?” The first musher to the checkpoint gets $3000 in nuggets, in honor of the old gold rush town. One of many baiting prizes along the trail.
“’Course I am. I need everything I can get. Running this kennel is … expensive.”
It seems he was going to say something else—hard? Impossible?—but decided against it. Would admitting either of those things feel like failure to him?
My dad and I have both often wondered what the Hatchetts’ financial situation looks like now that Earl is gone, how they’re managing. Harry’s coat still wears the embroidered stitching of his sponsor—a construction equipment supply company that has operated in Alaska for decades and was willing to support the sport when Earl was alive. Are they as willing now?
This is the part of this race—and this industry—that raises alarms in me. Harry may care deeply about his dogs, but when prize money and prestige dangles ahead and financial burdens weigh on his shoulders, will his ego let him make the right choices? That, I’m not so sure. “Don’t push the dogs too hard.”
His expression turns sour with annoyance. “How about I leave the vet stuff to you, and you leave the racing stuff to me, ’kay?”
I force a polite smile.
Ten minutes later, I’m happy to be watching the back of Harry’s navy parka vanish into the night, the dogs barking excitedly as they pursue Skip’s team.
From there, three more teams arrive in tight succession, keeping the Rohn crew busy as we do our best to welcome and care for each. Not all mushers are in a rush to keep going after such an arduous trek through the pass. A couple spread straw for their dogs to rest and retrieve the drop bags that hold snacks and meals, gabbing and laughing with volunteers who mill around, helping where needed.
Two hours later during a lull, Keenan bellows, “Two coming in!” followed by a perplexed, “What in Sam Hell?”
I navigate around piles of dog poop to join in his watch. Ahead of us, two head lamps approach, moving slower than the usual six to seven miles per hour, one after another, the musher in front turning back frequently to check over their shoulder.
They’re twenty feet out when I realize one of them is Tyler. I recognize his jawline, covered in a short layer of scruff and set with grim determination.
He eases his team to a halt before dropping the snow hook to keep them in place and hopping off his sled. “We need help over here!” he hollers, guiding the team behind him in with a soft whoa.
The other musher is hunched over the front of his mangled sled, blood trickling down his forehead. It’s Larry Reese, a veteran racer and another contender to win, having placed in the top ten a handful of times.
“Get Monica out here!” someone calls as volunteers charge forward, followed closely by the photographer and news reporter.
Within moments, the checkpoint race judge is charging out of the cabin, tugging on a hat over her graying hair and wiping a palm against her mouth to catch any residual chili. “What happened?” She inspects Larry with a worried frown.
“I’m not sure. I heard the dogs and saw a faint light, way off the path. Looks like he took a bad spill in the gorge. I found him unconscious, with his dogs tangled up in a fallen tree,” Tyler explains, pausing long enough to scowl at the photographer who just blinded him with a flash. “He came to shortly after I arrived, so I got him up and his dogs unraveled. He didn’t want to call in for help, so I hung back to make sure he got here okay.”
Because activating his emergency transmitter for help would mean an automatic withdrawal from the race.
Larry may be conscious now, but he doesn’t seem completely aware of his surroundings, squinting against the spotlights. Still, he tries to wave it off. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few hours to regroup.” He steps off his sled and his legs wobble, forcing Monica and Tyler to dive for him.
I’ve seen mushers roll through checkpoints with scrapes and bruises. I’ve heard stories of veterinarians stitching up gashes for them on their way through. After months of training and thousands of dollars to keep a team, no one wants to withdraw from the race. But it doesn’t take a doctor to see that Larry knocked his head hard in that fall, and likely has a concussion on top of whatever else. Plus, his sled is mangled, beyond a quick patch job.