KAREN LAND

Remember to Breathe

HAPPY TRAILS

"Remember to Breathe!"

The last line of my sister-in-law Linda's "good luck" card flashed before my eyes. I knew I had to get a grip on the fear that loomed large over this infamous section of the Iditarod Trail, the Happy River Steps.

Over the last two years, I had been imagining the moment I would be face-to-face with the trail's sheer drop-offs and treacherous 90-degree switchbacks. In an odd way, it was almost a relief to finally be at the Happy River, ready to take on whatever the Iditarod Sled Dog Race had to throw at me. I knew that in less than a few hours the Happy River would just be a memory, hopefully a happy one.

After just two days on the trail, I had already managed to ignore the advice of my mentor, Terry Adkins.

"Don't stop at Finger Lake for very long. You DO NOT want a fresh team running down the Happy River," Terry warned me. "You want tired dogs so you have more control on the steps."

I arrived at the Finger Lake checkpoint just before dark. My plan was to rest six hours and then hit the trail down to the Happy River. After a long talk with a group of fellow rookies and Doug Swingley, the four-time Iditarod champion from Lincoln, I became convinced that I should wait until daylight to better see the rough trail ahead. I decided to leave at 6 a.m. with everyone else.

After close to 14 hours of rest, my dog team was insane with enthusiasm. They pounded forward, leaped into the air, barked, and howled like it was the Iditarod Race Start back in Anchorage.

"Terry was right," I thought, horrified by the power of my well-rested team. "I'm going to die."

I pulled the snowhook and my team bolted, making a sharp left turn back onto the Iditarod Trail. There was no time to "warm up" to the idea of the Happy River. Within moments I hit my first sharp twist in the trail. I lost control of the sled and flipped, dragging by the handlebars until my team stopped.

"Good Pig, good Gnome," I thanked my leaders and righted my sled. Seconds later we were off again, barreling down the narrow, winding path like a runaway freight train.

Pig knew and she wouldn’t look at me.

“Hey Piggie-girl,” I whispered softly in her ear. “Do you need more heat packs?”

I slipped my hand under her dog blanket feeling for the heat of the chemical hand-warmers placed in pockets against her shoulders. The temperature outside was nearing -20 degrees, but Pig’s body, wrapped in blankets and nestled under a mound of dry straw, was toasty warm. She rested her chin on Gnome’s back and stared down the Yukon River.

My dog team and I had been at the Iditarod checkpoint of Tanana since late afternoon of the previous day. I knew I had to keep my spirits high around my team even though I was worried about our situation. We were only at the 3rd checkpoint, just over 200 miles into a 1100 mile race, and I was down to 10 dogs. I had already sent six dogs back to Anchorage due to minor injuries or illness.

Iditarod 2004

At the 2002 Iditarod Rookies’ Meeting in Anchorage, Jeff King, a 3-time Iditarod champion, offered his advice to all of us aspiring marathon mushers. “Don’t put any pressure on yourself but to just finish,” he explained. “Take your time and enjoy your dogs and the awesome scenery. Because after your first trip to Nome, you’ll never be satisfied. You’ll always want to do better. Racing will be in your blood.”

And I listened to him. My first Iditarod was nothing but a grand adventure with 16 of my best canine friends. Getting to the finish line with a team of healthy, tail-wagging dogs was my only goal and we accomplished this in just under 14 days in 49th place.

Like many idealistic rookies-turned-veterans, I declared upon the podium at my first Finishers’ Banquet, “I’ll be back next year.” As I said those words, I didn’t realize that Iditarod would never be the same for me again. My mushing “vacation” was over. Jeff King was right. Racing was now in my blood.