I just got back from a musher's meeting at the local elementary school, and I'm now supposed to be working on my History reports. Pre-race gatherings always have kind of a charged atmosphere; a lot of the people who show up train together and know each other at least by reputation, if not personally. There are a lot of men with beards wearing Carhartts and thin, wiry women with chapped hands and messy hair. Everyone is asking, and being asked in turn, about the races they've run this year, how their leaders have been, what training problems they've had, ect, ect. Competitors want to tell their stories, but are wary of giving too much away. Our race manager, who also happens to be the principal of the elementary school the meeting is being held at, shows up wearing moccasins and a massive parka, which he ditches in his small concrete office. One musher, a big solid guy who just got back from a huge race up north, captivates everyone with stories of armpit-deep overflow, fifty-eight below weather, and an incident where he could reach straight out and, from a standing position, touch the side of the mountain he was supposed to be climbing. I stood off to the side, feeling a little lost and taking pictures as mushers drew numbers to determine their racing bibs. Not having dogs is a major liability here.
EM should be here around midnight with a truck full of mutts. The fun really starts tomorrow night, when droves of hyper-competitive sprint mushers will show up, with the scent of dog meat clinging to their clothes and sleds that cost more than a year's university tuition.
I drop the flag tomorrow at 10am.
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