Iditarod 2011 Poem by David Abrahams

Iditarod 2011

I dreamt Jack London
as a small boy.
One arm stretched out
over my head,
hand under the pillow
grasping a secret knife
used to fend off the wolves -
circling, slobbering wolves
of hidden mystery.

Sometimes I would awake
to the sounds of Elk -
bugling from outside my bedroom window -
Bogachiel Valley herd spread out
in the pasture grazing
tall, dark, free - graceful
among the handful of herefords
kept penned and stupid for our consumption.

Each time the elk had passed
it was my job
to mend the fences.
Barb wire strands snapped
like thread, frayed metal yarn
with coarse brown tufts of hair
mark their ancient migration
Perpendicular to the swath of land
we pretended was our own.

When that same
wild, wandering bogachiel
overcame its own fences,
year after year affirming what my
father already knew:
'you can't contain a river forever'
eating at our land
until the house slipped -
and floated -
piece by piece to sea;
we moved closer to the herd.
Built our fences inside city limits -
and marched the same tired march of
a thousand centuries born naked and without vision.

Decades of soft city living later -
In Willow -
The chaos of barking dogs and rattling harnesses
re-awake in me those dreams of White Fang
and the
Call of the Wild.

I close my eyes:
I hear the padding paws,
the swish of the runners.
I feel the icy breeze rustling
through my gear.
I see the lead dog straining -
focused on the trail.

15 pups and I behind
following her lead.

Like the elk
these dogs were born to run.
To move move along an interminable path
- meal to meal -
attuned to the cryptic music
of the trail.
But unlike the Elk -
they are captive to their path.
fenced by poles and ribbons laid
each year from Willow to Nome.
By mostly Native volunteers not
far removed from their own
wild lives.

Should the musher slip
or the harness fail
they continue unabated -
but true to trail
until the next food drop
where they are gathered up and re-united
with their boss.

I want to holler 'GEE'
and cut across the lines,
outside that semi-wild thousand miles -
to follow something wilder still -
marked by only scent
and need -
governed by survival.
Grasping firmly my blade -
Slashing at the wolves that
nip my heels
to keep me on the trail.

dsa March 2011