April 18th
Coldfoot, Alaska to Chandalar Lake: 62 trail miles. (75 miles north of the Arctic Circle.)

As culmination of my first year living as an artist and writer here in Alaska, I had planned for six months to make this trip. Six months seemed enough time to prepare, to plan out every contingency and alternative. The way I lived life, I left nothing to chance.

I'm what they call a "recreational musher." I run dogs, not for the hope of winning races, but because I Love the experience. I Love the companionship, the beauty of being a part of that kind of teamwork.

Rascal, Wolfie, Strawberry, Mojo, PeterPan and Kemu. Alaskan Huskies. They're all wonderful: kind, strong, gentle, compassionate, beautifully fluid gaits, good feet -- everything you could want in a sled-dog. We had accumulated about 800 miles over the winter of 2001-2002, exploring the nooks and crannies of the Goldstream Valley, just north of Fairbanks. But zipping along those groomed trails, even with a sled full of weight, didn't prepare us for what we were to encounter in the Brooks Range.

During the 258-mile drive from Fairbanks to Coldfoot, almost 2 feet of fresh powder was dropped from the gray-black mass of the clouds above us. The wind, whipping across flats, almost completely obscured the road. Each drift clawed at the wheels of the truck, yanking us this way and that. 18-Wheelers could barely find purchase on some of the steep inclines, even with chains.

. . .

The morning was bright gray and warming quickly. My companion on this trip, Pam, was all set to ride in ahead of me with our host, Eric, and a small troupe of ice-fishermen on snow-machines (snowmobiles). Our original plan had been to have both of us dogsled in. Plans change. We had rummaged through both sled-bags, transferring all "heavy" and "un-necessary" items to her sled, which was being lashed securely behind one of the waiting snow-machines. Everything I would need seemed to be there: food, sleeping bag, tent, water for the dogs' first stop...

Double-check.

Triple-check.

Leave nothing to chance.

I watch the snow-machines disappear past the first bend in the trail. Their drone fades into silence.

Well now...

I turn and walked thoughtfully back to the truck.

This ought to be interesting.

. . .

The dogs are harnessed and bootied, Wolfie and Strawberry in lead, Rascal and Mojo in Swing, PeterPan and Kemu closest to the sled in Wheel. I hold the handlebow firmly; unhook first one snowhook, then the other. "Ready!" The dogs snap to attention, straining at the lines. My mittened hand closes around the quick-release anchoring us to the truck.

This is it...

With a quiet and un-assuming "click," we're off.

Left, through the man-made mountains of refuse and discarded machinery, following the trail the small legion of snow-machines had made an hour earlier.

The trail is soft; it swallows my dogs' paws past their booties and adds drag to the sled. The postcard scenery slides silently by.

What a sound, or, what a lack-of sound. It's funny how runners gliding over snow sound almost like a distant highway.

The mountains swallow us. Higher and higher we climb. Ridges and landmarks come and go. Hours slip by.

It seems like we're making pretty good time: there's the old cable Eric told me to watch for, left by gold miners 75 years ago, spanning a frozen stream. I guess we're making at least three-quarters of the speed we travel in the Goldstream valley, even with the soft trail and the constant fight to keep the sled from being sucked to the right ("Side-hilling" they call it). We're doing pretty well.

Here comes the sharp-turn and steep-downhill to the river I was warned about. Remember to watch for overflow. It looks solid, but I'd better check it first -- only have a few changes of booties, don't want to waste them.

I step on the break, "Easy, boysandgirls." The steel of the break seems to glance ineffectually off what feels like a sheet of ice buried just under the snow. "Easy!" I step harder on the break. It has no effect.

The dogs take the turn as all sled-dogs do, accelerating.

Down the steep embankment. The break isn't biting... Balance the weight. Keep the sled upright! Keep the runners pointed downhill. The break isn't biting! We're too close! Too close to the wheel dogs!

The dogs leap out into the eight-inch deep overflow, the sled slips, clattering over the submerged ice. Get the runners straight! Angle the sled back onto the path! Don't let it tip!

We're slowing down. Good. Let the dogs line-out again. Good.

The mixture of water and ice is the most pure cerulean blue I've ever seen. And if the noon-day sun hadn't warmed temperatures to near 40 degrees Fahrenheit, it would have been beautiful.

I strain my ears as we slog through the 35-yard stretch of blue-raspberry slush. I listen for that telltale gunshot you hope you never hear while traveling across ice. "Get up there boysandgirls, straight ahead!" My leaders lock onto the far side of the riverbank and the continuation of the trail. They haul the rest of the team onto firm ground.

"Good boys, boysandgirls."

I step hard on the break. It feels like it's skidding over a sheet of ice. I look down. The carbide tips of the break barely touch the powdery surface of the snow.

What the hell is wrong with my sled?

"Whoa." I let my feet sink into the soft snow to stop the team. The long up-hill out of the river-valley helps. Panting, the dogs roll and lollygag while I hook-down.

A "drag" is a bit of snow-machine track you hook behind your sled's brake to slow your team without leaving the trenches a good break can leave in a groomed trail. In soft snow, however, a drag acts like a plow and heaps up pounds of powder onto itself; you have to lift it up and hook it out of the way so the dogs aren't un-necessarily hindered. I had done this shortly after setting out.

Looking closely at the lines attaching the drag to the sled, I see that somehow, they had gotten wedged deeply into the bolted sections of aluminum that form the break, preventing it from being pressed more than half-way down.

But that's impossible.

I had worked out a way of stringing the drag's lines so this couldn't happen! I had run with the drag attached this way all year and never had a problem.

"Things have a way of making themselves interesting out on the Tundra..." The words of a good-intentioned friend echo dully in my mind.

Human error, mishap, things-not-planned-for...

As I work to free the lines wedged deeply into the break, I begin to wonder.

Can you really plan for everything? Can you really out-think happenstance? Can you really plan fixes for all the problems you might encounter? At one time, I believed unequivacably, Yes. That one could rationally play out nearly every possible scenario in one's mind before encountering it (like in Chess) had seemed a reasonable hypothesis for years... But just how successful had this theory been in practice?

Be honest. How well have you really been able to out-think chance?

I hadn't thought of the break getting hung up on the drag lines. And the setup had worked fine for the entire season...

Now, this isn't the first time what actually happened was well out of the range of anything you had thought possible, is it. Think back.

I stand up and look behind me at the steep embankment that led down to the chilling expanse of impossible blue.

I test the break. It sinks deeply into the snow, as it should.

I look back at the overflow.

I had been lucky.

I was lucky I had maintained control of the sled in that sharp turn. I was lucky the sled had stayed upright as we hit the overflow. I was lucky the dogs were going fast enough that the sled didn't overtake them.

I don't play by "luck."

I had to be more on top of things. I had to think better, plan for more of the unexpected... take more variables into account.

I looked out at the dogs, licking at their booties freezing in the soft snow.

Oh crap!

The air was warm, but by the time I had removed the stiff, soaked booties my fingers were painfully cold. Everyone's paws looked and felt good, though... thankfully.

I stuff the frozen mass of booties into the sled-bag, grab a protein-bar for myself, some treats for the dogs and praise everyone up and down the line.

I look up at the hill ahead of me. I could re-bootie the dogs, I thought, munching on what was supposed to taste like blueberries. The hill doesn't look that bad, but they'll get better traction barefoot. They've got good feet. I'll get them into fresh booties when we reach the top.

I smile at my dogs. They smile at me.

"I love you guys."

Back on the runners, I stomp the break deep into the snow, pull and secure the hooks. "Ready!

"Hike!"

The hill was a lot longer and a lot steeper than it had looked. I was glad the dogs had the full traction of bare feet. The trail wound this way and that, meandering from a steep incline, to a long, sloping up-hill. By the time we reached level-ground again we were all in need of a rest.

"Good call, leaving the booties off for that hill, hunh," I pant as I set the hooks.

Out come the food-bowls and trail-snacks. Out comes the water I had in the collapsible cooler that went with us on all our longer trips -- it was a good suggestion a friend had made, not having to melt snow for that first stop, and to have empty containers for the extra melted snow at future stops.

As the dogs ate and rested, I figure that we had been traveling about four hours. We usually average about 10 miles per hour on our longer treks in the Goldstream, pulling heavier weight. I guess we must be averaging about seven miles-per-hour, even with the up-hills and the painfully soft trail. So we should be, conservatively, about one-third of the way there.

The dogs laze in the afternoon warmth. I laze too. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a challenge after all...