Beyond Ophir by Jim Lanier

Author:Jim Lanier [Lanier, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Historical
ISBN: 9781594333552
Google: J9qHAwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Publication Consultants
Published: 2013-07-05T04:58:40+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A CONTACT SPORT

I mentioned “Buffalo Tunnel” and “The Glacier.” The “Tunnel” is named “Buffalo” because the region from Rohn to Farewell and beyond is the stomping grounds of the Farewell bison herd and because of a very narrow, tunnel-like segment of trail after the Post River, just before “The Glacier.” The “tunneling” through a dense growth of small trees will just barely permit access by a team and sled, to say nothing of a buffalo! The tunnel is a real kick but begs a question: Would a buffalo like it as well, and might we meet head-on? It will not happen, nor will I come across a buffalo elsewhere. Other mushers will be more, or less, fortunate. A few will have close encounters of the buffalo kind, like Aliy Zirkle in 2001. It can be frightening and catastrophic, like the moose vs. wolf pack thing. (Bison brief: About another thirty miles past the tunnel comes “Buffalo Camp,” a hunting outpost where mushers occasionally rest for a spell.)

That tunnel will become history when it is obliterated by a rockslide during the winter of 1997-1998, fortunately not during the race. The obliteration necessitates a new route, well to the side of the former tunnel. That it’s no longer tunnel-like must be admitted, but the region retains the name. One thing will not change. At the end of the “tunnel” one erupts out of the trees into an open area, “The Glacier.” More accurately, it’s an incline that in most years is glaciated by water that turns to ice as it flows down the slope. Making it more interesting, a house-sized rock juts out from its right side and into its center. The best way up borders the rock, but the route is often poorly marked, markers being placed in ice with difficulty, and markers beyond the rock not visible because of the rock. This can be a very sticky wicket for a glacier rookie. My first time on that slippery slope, again in 1984, I will stop just before we are fully out of the tunnel and walk ahead to reconnoiter, in the dark, as almost goes without saying. (It seems axiomatic and perhaps logical that problematic places are so often in the dark.) As I return to my sled, another musher shows up behind me. When I hesitate, not sure what I’m getting into, Vern Halter, hot off his twenty-four in Rohn, asks for “trail” (meaning, “Let me get past, you slug.”) The smart move would be to help Vern get by, and then let him lead me up the glacier. In lieu of smart, I stupidly pull the hook and hope for the best, but we are immediately in deep do-do. As Vern’s team leaves the scene—to the right, up, around and to the other side of the big rock—my team, wearing booties, is slip-sliding away, the wrong way, to the left and down the glacier. The sled careens crazily as we pass a threshold and spin down into

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