The air had gotten cooler; the dogs had rested well.

24 Bootied feet, 12 happy eyes and 6 smiling tongues.

I feel like a drill-sergeant at inspection. I'm proud of my team, my friends. "Beautiful. Lookin' beautiful, my Loves."

Together, we had covered more distance in those four hours than I could in a day. I feel that odd sensation all mushers must, when you know you're about to take that step where, should you loose your team, you may not be able to walk back in a day's time. My life was beginning to depend on these small, happy, Be-ings. It was a different way of looking at them than I had ever known before.

I pet and praise. I walk back toward the sled. The dogs leap to attention, straining.

I had buried the hooks as deeply as I could in the soft, trail snow. The first one to pull free is the hook on the far side of the sled.

I am still more than six feet from the runners.

Very clearly, I see the sled twist, pulling the second hook free. The heavy, double-bladed scythe flies low, catching my calf. Had I not been wearing knee-high, moose-hide mukluks under my snow pants, it would have been worse.

The world spins...

For a moment, I find myself lightly wondering as to why I'm having such a close-up and personal examination of the snow-machine track drag I had not yet pulled up and out of the way.

Pull away... And that's just what it's doing... Pulling away from me. "NO!!!" I reach for the aluminum bar of the break. I feel it slide, then catch, then slide out from underneath my fingers.

Each ridge of the snow-machine drag slips like hope from underneath my mittened hand.

The last ridge pulls away from me.

The break, the drag, the sled and the team pull away from me.

I slowly loose momentum, sliding, outstretched on my stomach. Somewhere in my mind, I note bemusedly that everything is playing out in slow motion.

Something catches and pulls at my hand.

What?

That something slips past the gauntlet sheath of my mitten.

That something passes underneath my palm.

Oh yes, that's what it must be. The tie-up for the drag: a long "V" of rope I had, for the moment, forgotten about.

I slam my hand hard into the soft snow.

Wham! My arm nearly gets jerked out of its socket as my momentum regains the influence of the accelerating sled.

I'm hanging on by my wrist.

I pull myself up, painfully, like in those old movies where people get caught under stagecoaches or semi-trucks. I loop my free hand around the break. I strain for the handlebow, my legs yanking the rest of my body backward, biting into the soft snow.

Got it!

Slide the arm forward. Hook the elbow around the bow. The other hand comes up. Knees find the drag and bear my weight into it. A foot finds the break-bar.

"WOAH!"

The roaring of the snow stops. All I can hear is the ragged rasp of my breath in my throat. I look out across the dogs. All but one are unaware that anything untoward has happened.

Strawberry, double-lead next to Wolfie, shoots me a haughty stare. "Should have held on."

Wolfie alone would have stopped when he had heard strange sounds behind the sled. Rascal and Wolfie would have stopped. Strawberry has been known to enjoy proving a point.

Note to self: Put Strawberry back in Swing with Mojo when we find some firm snow to hook into.

I tamp the break harder into the soft snow and re-set both hooks, loosing the tops of them below the soft white.

My snow-pants are completely cleaved, gutted along the calf. Wasn't I just commenting to Pam how lucky I was to have such expensive, high-tech mushing duds?

My leg stings inside my knee-high mukluks. Nothing feels wet. I offer a quick prayer of thanks to the Steiger family, who made the mukluks, and to the decision to get an all moose-hide, knee-high pair.

Still catching my breath, I look back behind me. I see the marks my body left on the soft snow, dragged for only 20 yards... those short, 20, tiny yards that could have changed the whole trip.

Can you think of everything? Can you plan for all contingencies?

What had I gotten myself into?

I thought I had done my homework. Planning and logistics had been my forte before coming up here to Alaska. I had pulled off the "impossible," as others had called it, on an almost daily basis. But then, then I was only bargaining for the fate of a company... some dollars... a bid... a gig. Now, stakes were higher: not just my own life, but the lives and well-being of these canines who trusted me to have my act together.

"It was a bad berry year, not too long ago..."

Forget about doing it in "style." I just hope we make it.

All of us.

Was I foolish to even think about doing this trip?

I couldn't expect anyone else to come along this trail until mid-morning to-morrow at the earliest. If something else went wrong... I used to be able to think through, plan ahead for any situation that came my way. At least, I thought I had. And yet... two small incidents, completely-off-the-map-of-probability, could have caused at the very least, light disaster. At worst... Death.

Was this suicide?

What if I had to bag a dog?

The other five could pull us.

What if I had to bag two dogs? Three?

Was I leading us all foolishly into something horrible?

It wasn't too late to turn back. I didn't have to go on.

The mountains that had seemed so pretty only a short time before, now felt ominous, oppressive.

Get a hold of yourself.

Fear comes into play when you have choices. "Fear" is usually being afraid of not having made the right choice... or being afraid that you're about to make the wrong choice.

There was indeed a lot at stake here.

My dogs trust me to know what I'm doing; they depend upon me making the correct decisions.

To me, they are much more than "just dogs." They are more than "just sled dogs." They are dear and close companions. I've shared deep, soul-touching time with each and every one of them, every day since they came into my life. I've encouraged their personalities, their senses of self to grow and flourish. I've nurtured their Be-ings, admired their Qualities, Qualities that most humans have only fleetingly: genuine trust, genuine honesty, genuine kindness, complete giving, gentleness, Love of life... And they ask so little in return.

Is their trust in me misplaced?

Life is a series of choices.

Everything we do, for good or ill, rests upon our having made some form of choice. Even a choice to do nothing is still a choice.

I could set-up camp. I could just wait until someone going the other direction could...

Could what?

What the hell was I doing here?

I looked out at the mountains, silent, white, unreadable.

"You can't control everything."

Great. Now I'm hearing voices.

"You can't control everything." The words formed themselves as strong and elusive as the wind.

"What?" I say aloud. A few of my dogs look up from their burrowing.

"You can't control everything."

"I can't control everything."

"You can't plan for everything."

"I can't plan for everything."

"Feel better?"

"No."

"You will."

OK, lets look at the facts:

1) In the more "controlled" environment of the Goldstream valley, I am a good musher.

2) Goldstream is still Alaska and still every bit as un-predictable. It just seems more controlled because it is close to home.

3) Though I've had my confidence shaken by these two unexpected glitches, I'm still a good musher. That much hasn't changed.

4) I have done the best I can, planning for this adventure, for the safety of my dogs and myself.

5) There will always be variables that I will not be able to control.

6) Thinking I can plan for every event is a fallacy that, should I continue to believe it, will eventually get me into very serious trouble.