There was nothing quite able to describe the cold that lingered in the town of Nome Alaska except the numbers. For just under three weeks -seventeen days to be exact - the sun had not graced the town with it’s southern rays of heat. There had been no sign that the bright orb even still existed in the land of ice; apart from the four hours in the day when a depressing hue of gray covered the sky. And with the lack of sun in the land, the temperature never once in the seventeen day streak broke above the number of -35.

Furthermore with the cold and seemingly never ending night, there rested a plague about the land. It was a mixture of two elements that brought about the gentle suffocating force that crept through the late night streets and trapped townspeople in their houses; and completely buried others to be rescued by a friendly neighbor or ten. The mixture of extra cold arctic winds out of the north, and fluffy sand like snow from the mountains outside town, brought powerful drifts right up to the front doors of all the homes.

For the most part they came in the night when men women and children slept in their beds and couldn‘t sweep the snow away as it came. When they woke in the morning they would step out to fetch wood for the frozen stove, only to find a solid sheet of snow in their path. Some tunneled through and escaped, others yelled to be rescued, while still others perished in cave-ins. It was a true fact in Nome, that fourteen people had been killed by one, or a mixture, of cold, wind, and snow in the short time of three weeks.

Now most of the time in Nome when the alcohol in the thermometer outside of the telegraph office on the corner of town dropped below -30, a town wide snow-day was celebrated. In the short term this worked well with everybody: fathers spent time with their kids, wives spent time with their husbands, and kids got to spend time with both of their parents learning skills for life, or just something to occupy their time and mind.

When the temperature became to low for mining in ‘mild,’ comfort, the miners left the mountains for the bars and Burlesque Houses of town. Those few who had a friend who owned a house spent the night there after a long night of drinking, while the rest who owned nothing but themselves slept in the bars.

Yet cabin fever can break the strongest bond. It began happening around the tenth day. That’s when all the families reached a breaking point. Parents, growing sick of their children and their antics, raised their voices, and sometimes their hands to set their children ‘right.’ The children hated their parents for having to adhere to their strict rules, and wished they could return to school and the carefree ways they had with friends. Wives and husbands yelled at each other for one thing or another. It seemed that it didn’t matter what it was they yelled at, just as long as they were yelling. Total madness ran throughout each and every house, not to mention the morning snow drifts that locked them in. This just added to the stress on the families.

In the bars it was much worse. Fights broke out over women and who that one woman might love more. Drink and games of cards became a fearful place to tread for fear of breaking a thin line between peace, and death. This sent several people to the hospital with serious head trauma in some instances, and several men to the Marshals Office. The Town Marshal found his jail full of men who had picked fights, stole some goods, or had broken some other law and got caught. So many people filled his jail that he had to figure out what to do with them. Then with a little ingenuity the marshal announced his plan to the men in the cells. Each man who agreed to help dig out houses around town each morning until the cold spell broke would not have any charges put on his record. Most men agreed semi eagerly. Yet the thought of a warm jail cell with nothing to do but sleep, eat, and rest appealed to them more than working in the cold.

Nevertheless in the town filled with laziness, greed, and hate, where work came second to just keeping warm and alive in the lions den called the home, there were those who worked. Every day, outside, even when the temperature reached a bone chilling -64, they worked and toiled until the job was finished. They were the United States Mail delivery team between White Mountains and Nome.

The six member team crested the last hill before Nome. They still had a great deal of distance between the town and themselves through thick deep snow and light wind, but that didn’t stop them from putting on the after boosters and bolting at full speed towards the town. This was the last hard push towards Nome, and the sooner they got there to rest their cold feet, the better. The fur along the sides of their bodies and along their backs all had the same pasty white look from frost, while their muzzles and faces were weighted down with sheets of ice that coved them like masks. The sled had it’s own coating of ice along the runners and sides and along the gear in the basket. Some of it was from the dogs, while most of it had accumulated over the two day trip between Nome and White Mountain. Under the solid blanket of ice, the sled was a piece of junk. There were hundreds of lashings that held the entire thing together, and hundreds of pieces that had been crudely cut and tacked into place. In the basket of the sled, pressed firmly in between medical kits, food, rifle, and a tent, rested two 50 pound sacks with ‘Mail‘ printed on the sides. The sights of the sled under the weight of what was in it would have made even a beginning musher stare in wonder; wonder at how the sled kept from falling apart. On the back of the sled stood an animal on it’s hind legs, gripping the back bar of the sled with his front paws and every now and then brining one of his back paws down to help propel the sled forward. The animal, known as Mr. Simpson, had the furs of several different animals wrapped around his body to keep the cold away from his hairless skin. He had the fur of a bear on his back and down along his arms, and the fur of a beaver on his hands. He also had the white fur of the caribou wrapped around his legs to form thick pants. All of Mr. Simpson’s extreme cold weather clothing had the same coating of ice as his dogs and the same thick mask of ice around the hole of his bearskin hood.

The lead dog, Kodi, jerked hard in his harness that had so many patches the original harness was hardly even there, signaling to his teammates to push hard. The sled groaned with stress, and the ice on the sides of the sled, and on Mr. Simpson’s clothing broke free and fell silently to the snow. The jerk put so much force into the gang-line and into the harnesses of his teammates, that the ice bound to their faces broke and hung, still frozen to their fur. Yet they didn’t let the pieces bother them as they responded to the jerk and bolted forwards with all of their remaining energy. They were almost home: food, rest, warmth, and time to themselves; never mind the fact that they spent most of their free time with each other.

Mr. Simpson had expected the sudden jolt in his sled. His dogs had done it many times before; it was like some game they tried to play with each other in the last quarter mile before Nome. They would speed up and try to throw Mr. Simpson when they hit the corner before the Post Office. Mr. Simpson gritted his teeth and held the sled tight in his hands. I’m always up to a little game. He thought.

Despite the heavy snow, the long trail, empty belly, and tired feet, the dog’s energy showed through as they gave it their all. The snows around Kodi flew up as his feet churned with the force of a steam engine going at it‘s fastest pace. Flying snow covered his teammates, making them run faster so their faces cleared the blizzard that encompassed them. Faster, and faster they flew towards Nome. Each second the church steeple grew higher above their heads, and the building looked more like line blockers waiting to get a sack.

Kodi hit the corner just inside the town and tried to make his steps go in a complete 180. He turned so sharp in his harness that Dusty, his teammate who ran directly behind him, made direct eye contact for what seemed a lifetime. Her momentum then threw her behind Kodi. She sunk her paws hard into the well packed snow to get a grip for her turn to follow Kodi.

Mr. Simpson saw the turn coming and threw his weight hard to the right on his sled, brining the left running up, making the right runner spray snow towards the buildings and the wooden sidewalks at the base of them. The turn was stiff and hard, filled with G-force that kept Mr. Simpson standing easily on the right runner, close enough to the snow to reach out and touch it with his elbow.

The turn ended and Mr. Simpson pushed his bodyweight back to the left, brining the left runner back down into the snow with a shake that rattled the entire sled. Mr. Simpson briefly looked down to see if any binding or replaced pieces had broken or flew away. A quick survey revealed nothing, and Mr. Simpson continued on with a strong push from his right foot.

A pace settling hundred yards, that brought the dog’s energy gradually down, set them in front of the Nome Post Office. The six dogs, upon stopping and standing still, shook the frost from their fur, revealing the many different colors and features that their fur and faces had. The ice chunks around their faces still held tight to their fur. But that didn’t seem to be the main thing the dogs were thinking of.

“Are we late … Are we?” Kodi, the lead dog with a broad light crème colored chest and a dark rust colored cape over his shoulders said with energy through his exhausted lungs. Kodi’s voice bellowed with the same commanding tone of a captain at the bridge of his vessel.

“I don’t know … I don’t know.” Dusty, a soft silver colored husky right behind Kodi replied, her