The Last Time

A rush of adrenaline. My muscles tense and anxiety runs down my legs from wherever anxiety starts as the anticipation merges with my quickening heartbeat. This is it. Here we are. The crack of the gun. The moment I’ve been waiting for, training for, countless hours of repetition and conditioning, all come together into one result that flies under my sprinting legs. I am born for this, made for this. I pant with my pack with which I’ve been vigorously preparing  for the next 10 days that lie ahead. I never turn my head unless I need to, knowing that Kona, by my side, will help me redirect if anyone gets out of line. Man, I hope after all our repetition, that no one is imprudent enough to lose focus. At least not this early in our trek.

And one path that we traverse leads to the next one, and the proceeding one of freshly fallen snow of the past night, ready to be stomped down into the soil that barely shows itself in this cold state. We live here. I’ve always lived here, and yet the characteristics of these snow-covered trails never fail to amaze me. From a distance they look like white strips lodged between rows of trees, while others lie in an open-range plain. Sometimes, from up close, we see a straightaway of infinite white void, feeding its way into an ombre horizon.

And we follow until indicated to do otherwise. That’s why it’s important to stay alert. We enter a more elevated area where one side is mountain and the other is a precipice, and although no one turns their heads to look, I can feel all of their muscles tense up as mine do, this is where we stay alert.

Although protected with little black cloth boots, our feet start burning-- they shouldn’t be so early on in the race. Maybe it’s the ice, our biggest enemy; a sparkling sheet isn’t the safest thing to run over with 16 huskies pulling a sled. We slow down quite a bit in order to navigate our movements more efficiently and safely; this winter had not brought us quite enough powder and I sense that there is more melting going on than there should be. Anxiety flashes back down to my legs, the one place that CANNOT be immobilized, not now. Snap out of it, I scold myself, You’re leading a whole pack, there’s others to think about!  But it is as a matter of fact, the others that I’m thinking about! Suddenly I spot an obstacle ahead. My breath shortens as I see the already narrow path slim down to almost nothing. On the right side, thankfully the mountainside instead of the precipice, is a huge gap where snow has melted enough to thin down into the ditch. For a few moments I’m speechless, but Kona stirs me from my dangerous daze,

We should slow down.  

And for a second I think about our two meager options, speed is harder to control but slowing down could lead to slipping. Our problem is incoming and there isn’t time for discussion.

Okay.

I agree because honestly, our two options both have the possibility of failing terribly.  Kona as well as Aaron, our musher, give the pack orders to slow down. We do so a bit too much, to a point where I worry that we’ll have a hard time starting up again. My concentration starts suffocating from the thought that the other competitors could get ahead, so I focus my attention back to the intimidating ditch that seems to look me right in the eyes. I stare back.

You’re not slowing my race, and you certainly won’t be ending it.

The few feet between us are laid out and I hold my breath as we slowly and gingerly pad across the sloping ice. Just as I triumph, We’ve made it! I feel a tug pulling my body. It’s the harness. The harness that’s attached to all the harnesses. All the other harnesses is all I have time to realize before we are tumble down into a pile, deep inside a cavernous crevice in the mountain. Shit! My eyes skim nervously for Kona, but it’s hard to find one dog among 14 panicked ones. My attempts are fruitless, and I lay uncomfortably, compressed by cold fur, rough paws, and and darkness. Everyone is scrambling and squirming to loosen themselves from the intertwined knot that we’ve crumbled ourselves into, but it only takes away energy and space to breathe from. I can hear the top layer of dogs struggling to propel themselves out of the entanglement of immobilized legs. This doesn’t go on for too long, for their battle against the icy edge only brings them blisters and a deeper position in the pit. They stop trying. They’ve accepted defeat of physical powerlessness. But I won’t give up, I convince myself just as the weight of the dogs grows aching. I turn my head as much as I can, about an inch, and I steal a glimpse of Aaron, bruised and scratched, bleeding and motionless, helpless. I whimper, an added voice to the chorus that has grown throughout our pack, After all that you’ve done, I’m sorry that we can’t help back. I turn my head back an inch and a small speck of light blinds my left eye, and I know that this is the last time that I won’t give up.

-Margo Lusinchi