Iditarod, Mile 153
Rainy Pass, Alaska | 2014

Well, give me a team and a good lead dog
and a sled that’s built so fine,
And let me race those miles to Nome,
one thousand forty-nine
Then when I get back to my home
Hey I can tell my tale
I did, I did I did the Iditarod Trail.

—Hobo Jim, “The Iditarod Trail Song”

The infamous Steps involve steep and technically challenging switchbacks. The Iditarod trail crew works hard to make the trail safe. Our team has no problems with the Steps, but others do. One musher, Jake Berkowitz, breaks his gang line, and the front fourteen dogs go down the Steps by themselves, followed by Jake with his sled pulled by two dogs. The Iditarod Insider catches this unfortunate situation on video to our great amusement.

It is clear upon arrival at the Rainy Pass checkpoint that the trail ahead to Rohn is dangerous and technical. The first mushers get injured or damage their sleds or both. The checkpoint officials recommend teams proceed with caution or consider staying in Rainy Pass. I alter my race strategy by cutting the team’s rest in hopes they won’t be at top strength going down through the Dalzell Gorge. Given the extremely steep descent through the Gorge, a strong team will turn uncontrolled chaos into disaster. Leaving early might also allow me to navigate more trail during daylight. The trail leaving Rainy Pass climbs high into the mountain pass until it arrives at the gorge. The low-snow conditions require days of hard labor by the Iditarod trail crew to make conditions passable.

“Martin Buser is first into Rohn and has a broken sled,” a cold-looking volunteer says with an Alabama accent. He is trying to do me a favor by keeping me up to date with the latest trail information. “Plus, Scott Janssen even broke a leg.”

My body tenses up as I try to decide if I want to listen or turn away and stay ignorant. I look to the mountains with a crystal-blue sky darkening under the weight of a setting sun that crashes into a deep orange horizon. Deep down, I can’t wait to hit the trail. I get to run dogs through the Alaska Range—Who gets to do that?—fear or no fear.

“We’ve got this,” I say to myself rather than the volunteer.

Unable to sleep, I walk up through the line of sleeping dogs to check on their breathing. Summit, the regal leader, is playing around, trying to dig up some old food buried in the snow. He seems interested in the female leader in the team next to him. His slate-gray fur stands up on the back of his neck as the male from that team notices Summit’s interest and takes considerable offense. I sit on the straw next to him.

“Come here, old boy,” I say to Summit, showing him that my lap is open. I reach down to massage his ears. He leans into me with quiet satisfaction as his body relaxes into the bed of straw.

“Attaboy,” I say to soothe both his nerves and mine. If we can keep calm, happy, and confident, we will be much better off in the miles ahead.

I put booties on the dogs and get ready to go. Knowing we can’t stop anywhere on the trail ahead, I carry a bag of meat snacks up to the front of the team and throw out a half-pound piece to each dog. They jump up, wag their tails, and bark. I check the condition of each dog and make sure their harnesses fit. I whistle to the team, asking them to stand up off the straw. Time to leave the checkpoint.

I call out “Gee!” and “Haw!” to steer the leaders to the trail heading toward the Alaska Range. Once on the trail, they know it. They put their weight into the harness, and enthusiasm ripples off them and rolls back into me. Regardless of what lies ahead, we will cope. The trail ahead holds nothing that can hurt me more than I have already. I dare this trail to beat me when life has yet failed to do so.