Running Wild(Wild #3)(24)

Every volunteer—eighteen of us in total, with three veterinarians besides myself, two vet techs, two people handling communications, one person to care for return dogs, a race judge, and eight volunteers handling everything from recording musher times to cooking meals—rush for his vantage spot where we can watch the mushers coast in.

The Rohn checkpoint is just under two hundred miles into the race, but the stretch they need to navigate to get here is the highest on the thousand-mile trail, the elevation over three thousand feet in the Alaska range. And once they pass that, they face the Dalzell Gorge, which, depending on the weather, can be either a delightful excursion or a white-knuckled ordeal. More than one musher has arrived at this stop with broken sleds and injuries—everything from bloodied foreheads to fractured ankles.

Fortunately, the weather has cooperated this year, and the snow bridgeways the trail crew built over the creek have held.

“Who do you think it is?” Keenan, the big-bellied man who has been running the checkpoint for the past two decades, asks no one in particular, squinting past the spruce trees and into the murky distance. It’ll be pitch-black soon; the gift of a full moon is useless behind the thick ceiling of clouds.

Each sled has a GPS tracker pinned to its front that tells fans following along exactly where the racers are and how fast they’re going, but out here, where there’s only a small generator to keep the communications team collecting and sharing race data, information is sparse and spotty. Besides, it’s more exciting to find out in person.

“My money’s on Hatchett,” Marty declares. “He was the first to Rohn last year.”

“Skip has been training hard,” Roger counters. “I’ll bet it’s him. In fact, I’m betting he wins this whole thing.”

I school my expression. I’ve worked with all these volunteers before, so I know them well. Roger’s a helpful and kind man, his only fault being his taste in mushers.

For my sake, I hope he’s wrong because Terry, the head checkpoint veterinarian, assigned me to the first team in.

“Look! There’s another one!” someone else hollers, pointing to the light trailing not far behind.

I huddle in my parka and watch the teams approach through the thicket of trees, mentally preparing myself for the steady stream of dogs arriving between now and tomorrow morning. The more competitive racers will be in first and gone quickly, while the teams racing simply to say they finished the Iditarod will trickle in through the night and rest for five or six hours. But short of any issues, they’ll all roll out of here by tomorrow night.

Once mushers clear the mountain range and begin taking their required twenty-four rest stops at a checkpoint of their choosing, the stretch between the first and the last racer at a checkpoint expands. I expect to have teams in Cripple spreading over three days.

The volunteers tasked to record entrance times prepare, and the round of cheers and applause collect in the deep, silent valley between the looming peaks, the checkpoint marked with battery-operated lights, fires for warmth, and a banner to welcome them.

“It’s Skip!” someone declares, at the same time I make out his round face.

Tension stirs inside me. I shift my focus to the dogs charging in, watching their gait. He still has all fourteen, and I don’t see lameness in any.

With a deep breath, I step forward.

“Boyd? Why don’t you take this one?” Terry declares, jerking his head toward Skip. “Marie, get the next.” His blue eyes say nothing and everything as they meet mine. I’m no fool. Wade told him to run interference. I’m fine with that, as long as whoever’s checking Skip’s dogs is doing their job.

Boyd marches for the sled team, tugging his trapper hat low on his head. They’ve parked in the short-term area, meaning Skip plans on leaving shortly.

Thank God.

I wait patiently for the next musher, ignoring the trickle of reporters snapping pictures of Rohn’s first arrival.

Two minutes later, Harry slides in.

I smile at the dogs, their tongues lolling, as volunteers descend on the team. I know each one by name, and have treated all of them from birth. There’s an unmistakable wave of relief as I count fourteen, all strong on their legs without a hint of stiffness or struggle.

“Glad to see a friendly face, Doc!” Even bundled in layers and furs, Harry’s cheeks are rosy, windburned.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter declares in mock upset, his clipboard out to mark down Harry’s exact time in. “We’re all friendly faces around here.”

Harry grins. “Fine. A pretty face.”

“Can’t argue there.” Peter gives his straggly, snow-coated beard a stroke.

I ignore the flirtation—Harry’s made comments like that in the past, but it’s all for show and empty of meaning. I’m about fifteen years too old based on the girls I see him around town with. I trail him as he directs the dogs to another short-stay lane, securing the sled with his snow hook.

By the time I’ve reached him, the photographer has snapped their shot and I can do my job. “All good out there?”

“It’s been better, but it’s been worse, too. A lot of icy spots.” He hops off his sled and digs out his dog team diary to hand to me. “They built those bridges narrow this year. I thought I was gonna slide off one, for sure.” He drops to his knees and strokes Bowser’s and Sheeba’s napes. “These two kept that from happening.”