Every March, Iditarod mushers making the final push toward the finish line in Nome, Alaska, encounter the barren ice of Norton Bay. They’ve conquered 800 miles of sleep deprivation and bitter cold, but the bay— frozen, flat, white, a 50-mile dash in search of the horizon line—is a brutal test. Humans and dogs become disoriented; every year, teams stall on the ice. Some, in real need of help, decide to scratch. When this happens, in not too long and if the wind is not too oppressive, they’ll hear a dull buzz, slowly growing louder. A Cessna will descend, set down on its retractable skis, and a pilot will get out and load them inside, dogs and all. They will be safe.
The Iditarod Air Force is a team of 30…
