Shank worked as a pressman at our newspaper. The two-time Iditarod veteran had no plans to race this year, so he took vicarious pleasure in my preparations, stopping me in the hall ways for progress reports, badgering me to give the Minto dog a tryout. “Oh, he’s a big one,” Shank said, after offering to loan me the dog for the season. “Harley could drag you to Nome all by himself.”

Handling Harley was a chore. He had playfully knocked me on my ass more than once. Wrist injuries were a definite risk for anyone holding this twisting, excitable husky by his collar. He attacked food like a starving convict, slurping his bowl clean as fast as I filled it. He’d whimper pitifully as he watched me feed his kennel mates. I was a sucker for it. I always gave him seconds, often thirds, and sometimes even fourths. But Harley was never satisfied. Given the chance, he’d eat until he burst.

I poured a bucket of hot water into the sixteen-gallon cooler to soak the mash of dry dog food and frozen beef chunks. We’d come 100 miles in about 14 hours, yet none of my dogs looked tired. All 12 had their eyes fixed on the steam rising from that cooler. If I could hold the team together, we just might do very well indeed.

Gunnar Johnson hoped to squeeze in a trip to Nome before surrendering his life to medical school. He mushed into Skwentna in a horrified state. A dead dog was stowed in his sled basket. The dog had collapsed with absolutely no warning. No warning at all. Gunnar tenderly laid the dog’s body in the snow alongside the camp. Moving in a daze, he fixed the other dogs a meal. He was chopping meat when a movement caught his attention. Glancing up, Gunnar saw the dead dog panting for a snack.

Tom Daily also arrived at the halfway point carrying a dog.