We are dressed in layers. Our parkas are bunched up under the seat, We are wearing our new boots good for -30 degrees. My husband has twelve New York Times magazines in his satchel along with an extra pair of shoes. We are in a puddle jumper whose pilot got the wrong memo so we are flying from Milwaukee to Seattle in a plane filled with fewer people than I’ve had at Thanksgiving dinner.

After we get to Seattle, we are flying to Anchorage. Hopefully, on a bigger plane.

We are going to the Iditarod. The World’s Last Great Race, as they call it. And it is. We’ve gone before. That’s why we’re going back.

The people and dogs of the Iditarod aren’t what you think. They are quirky and gritty and ridiculously joyful. That’s what I’m going to try to write about this week. A change of pace from angst and politics.

It’ll be my Iditarod Chronicle.