Monday, March 8, 1993

Iditarod Trail, Alaska I

The snowmobile seemed like a good idea. I'd never actually spent much time on one before, but I'd seen it done lots of times. And not just on TV either. I mean you just sit there and go, right? We're not talking recombinant DNA technology here.

It was miles from Unalakleet and about four feet above the frozen river, as I tumbled ass over teakettle with the hard blue ice approaching fast, that I started to have second thoughts...

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I was off to photograph the Iditarod. Dog race. Alaska. Eleven hundred miles of butt-cold wilderness. High point of both the Anchorage and Nome social calendars. Which seems to mean drinking until you fall down. Get up and repeat as necessary.

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