In downtown Anchorage, the Iditarod race begins on ground barely snow-covered, so the sleds have little control. The author’s team is the 32nd of 70 teams launched. Once in the starting chute, the dogs lunge and scream until they’re released. A dog named Wilson leads; behind are Cookie, who’ll do much of the leading, plus Storm and Columbia, along with the rest of the team—some familiar, some new, 15 in all.

At the first corner, the excited dogs run so fast that the sled pitches over, but Paulsen hangs on. A few other teams crash in town, the drivers suffer injuries, and they scratch out right away. In fact, this start is for the news cameras; the actual start, across a freeway that blocks the trail, lies 40 miles and a truck drive away.

By the time of the second start, it’s nearly dark. Right away, a moose blocks the trail, and Wilson’s head gets stuck between its back legs. A following driver tells Paulsen to kick the moose in the butt; he does so, and the moose moves out of the way.