Camp Rimini To Deerlodge, Part Three

The snow continued to pelt me in the face as I began to catch up to another team. Just as I got close to overtaking them, we passed a race marker that had a pie plate nailed to it with a straight ahead arrow and a little smiley face. Now, pie plates are not what we are supposed to follow in this race, but I thought maybe the Deerlodge snowmobile club had decided in their enthusiasm to give us some encouragement. The race marker itself only showed that we were on the trail and did not indicate any kind of turn. Nonetheless, I instinctively distrusted that pie plate, and if I had not been right on someone's heels, I probably would have stopped the team to see if there were other alternatives besides straight ahead. However, the team was in chase mode and whisked me past that pie plate almost before I could think. Then suddenly we were plunging down a steep hill, and it was all I could do to stay upright and under control, so there was not a chance to look sideways or back.

At the bottom of the hill we made a sharp turn and started crossing a field. The snow was soft and bottomless, and the dogs were really floundering. I rode the brake hard to keep the dogs from plowing into each other, and all thoughts of passing the team in front of me were banished from my mind. There were markers all along the way, but they were no longer the official race markers, which have reflectors on both sides. No, these were just sticks with orange paint at the top. I was getting suspicious, what with the bottomless trail, the different markers, and finally the barbed wire fence we went across which lacked the usual hazard markers that the trail boss always puts in. Apparently, the guy in front of me was entertaining the same thoughts as he stopped his team and hollered back to me that he thought we were on the wrong trail.

I wondered about all the sled tracks in front of us, but he had convinced himself that the trail was wrong and said he would run his team up a little ways and get them turned around. While he was doing that, I convinced myself that he was right, and I turned my team around. Luckily, my team will turn around on command, so I was able to stay on the sled as they turned. If you got off your sled, you immediately sunk up to the knee or higher. The other guy was having a heck of a time floundering through the snow to get his leaders turned around and all the tangles sorted out. The snow hooks won't hold well in soft snow, so the back of his team kept pulling the sled forward and getting tangled with the front of the team.

My team turned around with only a couple small tangles, which I was able to get sorted out fairly easily. For some reason, my snow hooks were holding somewhat, and my team was minding me and staying calm. Meanwhile, more teams were coming down the trail, and we were now facing them head on. Those teams stopped to assess the situation. Pretty soon one of the teams that had been in front returned, and it was none other than Rick Larson, who had a fast team and had started near the front. He informed me that absolutely everyone had taken this wrong trail, and finally some snowmobilers had told them they were not heading for Deerlodge, and they had all turned back. All except for Mark Stamm, who had been the first team out and was a potential contender. He had refused to turn around and was still going.

Sure enough, here came John Barron again and then several more teams. We all figured we needed to go back up that steep hill and try to find where we had left the real trail. I drove my team past the teams that were facing me until I reached the bottom of the hill. Coming down the hill was an endless line of teams that were wondering what was going on. After a short discussion, I helped the teams nearest me to get turned back up the hill, and some of the teams behind me also needed help to get their leaders to turn up the hill. I was very grateful that my team was calm and not yanking my snowhooks out. This was not true of most of the other teams, and most of the other mushers had to stand on their sled brakes or risk losing their teams.

At last I turned my team up the hill. There was now a long line of teams going up the hill along with a few more still behind me in the field. I stopped part way up the hill because all the other teams were also stopped, and I thought maybe they knew something that I didn't know. We ended up all sitting on that hill for upwards of an hour or more. Far above us, I could see someone walking around the shoulder of a hill. They were looking for another marker, but they never found one. It turned out that that was the trail, but the next marker was half a mile further along. The confusion was compounded by a snowmobiler telling someone that we were nowhere near the trail. At any rate, we eventually all took the correct trail, which was deeply snowed in and drifted over.

Pretty much all of the teams were together now, except for Mark Stamm, who had still not returned. I had hoped that the long rest would rejuvenate Ghost, but as soon as we got moving, it was evident that he still was not right. I wanted to pick him up and carry him in the sled, but the deep, soft snow meant that my snow hook would not hold at all, and the rest of the team was very energetic after the rest, and they would not stand still long enough for me to unhook Ghost. So, I stood on the brake to at least keep them slow enough for Ghost to stay on his feet. I knew we were less than 10 miles from Deerlodge, and I was hoping we would hit a more packed trail that would allow me to stop the team and pick up Ghost if necessary.

A team or two passed me, but since we were all traveling together, and I no longer knew who was ahead and who was behind, it really did not seem to matter any more. We finally hit a more packed trail, but now the snow was too thin, and we were basically running on a thin icy strip. Ice is not very good for sinking a snow hook into. Nonetheless, I zipped open my sled bag and made room for Ghost so that I could get him loaded in a minimum of time. Eventually, Ghost wanted to lie down, so I stopped the team and picked him up. They had calmed down by this time, so I was able to get him in the bag, thank goodness.

Two miles later, we reached the finish. My handlers told me that the blizzard was the only reason we had any snow to run on, and that was only a couple inches. When the dog trucks had first parked there, it had been bare and dry. Turns out we were pretty near the front of the pack, but it probably didn't matter much since there was not the huge spread between teams that there would have been if we hadn't all gotten lost.

A veterinarian looked over Ghost but could find nothing wrong. He suggested maybe the harness was pulling up into his windpipe, and perhaps he just needed a different harness. I was happy to think that it might be that simple. At any rate, he ate and drank like normal as did all the other dogs.

Mark Stamm eventually showed up after all the other teams were already in. He decided to scratch, reasoning that he was too far behind to be competitive, and he could make more money by going home and going back to work.