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Map by Kou Moua, satellite images courtesy of NASA
two as it winds through the trees. We slip in and out of shadows, trotting easily toward the finish line. Everything is good. Spent but relieved, I even say to nobody in particular, “I’m enjoying this!” I feel like I’ve scaled a mountain. Just like on a hard climb, the tension only lets up when a safe return is assured. And we’ve made it. The dogs and I managed to wipe off the inevitable bird shit and keep going, sometimes in spite of ourselves. Only a few miles of forest trail remain, like those last easy steps into camp. Mushers call this “sacred ground.” Jake has the lead. Otter and Shoshone are next. Then Jag and Gonja. Finally, Tanner and Tok follow at the wheel position. Jake still can’t keep himself from looking off to the side of the trail for something to hunt. But entering the homestretch, he steps up and the others pull behind him. I am totally in awe of these guys, my team. We’re all exhausted when we reach the finish. A couple of the younger dogs seem interested in continuing, but I surely am not. I get congratulations from the few staffers left to check my team and the one other that finishes behind me. My handler, Aaron, starts taking dogs off the gang line and attaching them to tie points on the truck. I help give each of them a bowl of cold, clear water. We load the gear and sled, and finally put the team back in the kennels. Happy in their boxes, the dogs drop off to sleep. And as Aaron drives home, so do I.
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