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- [00:00]
Mike Corey
Wondery subscribers can listen to against the Odds, early and ad free right now. Join Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Leonard Seppala grips the crossbar of his birchwood dog sled. His team of eight Siberian huskies charges across the frozen surface of Norton Sound. It's a faster pace than he'd normally risk, but today, time is of the essence. Alright, Togo. Easy through here. Easy, boy. Despite the choppy sea ice beneath their feet, his dog team has been running at a smooth, swift gait. The gangline and harness are pulled taut and practically humming in the wind. But there's a storm gathering, which means the ice can start breaking up. So he needs to keep within sight of shore in case conditions on the ice worsen. And over the howling wind, he's not sure his lead dog, Togo, can hear his commands. G Togo, Whoa. Whoa. G, G G. In dog musher commands, G means right. Togo guides the team in that direction, closer to shore, and Seppala breathes a sigh of relief. It's before dawn on February 1, 1925. Ten days ago, an outbreak of diphtheria began spreading in Seppala's hometown of Nome, Alaska. The disease is especially deadly to children. Five children have already died and dozens more have fallen ill. The only way to stop the spread is with antitoxin serum, a package of which is strapped to Seppele's sled inside a small wooden crate. The short 47 year old is an experienced Norwegian musher, his face ruddy from years on the trail. But he's still more than 100 miles from Nome and it feels like it's 85 below zero. With the wind chill, he can tell from the ferocity of the gusts that the storm is getting worse. Despite the weather, Seppele decided to take a chance and drive his team across Norton Sound, an inlet of the Bering Sea. The shortcut is dangerous, but it'll save precious hours. And if he doesn't get the serum to Nome as soon as possible, more children will probably die. Between gusts of wind and snow, he can just make out the shape of land to his right. He reckons they must be roughly halfway across the sound by now. He shouts encouragement to his dogs as they sprint over the ice, straining at their harnesses. Hike.
- [02:51]
Mark Summers
Hike.
- [02:52]
Mike Corey
We've been here before. We can do it again. Straight ahead, his lead dog, 12 year old Togo, has a nose for changes in the sea ice, always sniffing and changing direction based on something instinct. For the safest route forward, he's been Seppala's dog since he was a puppy, and they've traveled tens of thousands of miles together. He trusts Togo with his life, but he's never been on ice during a storm this fierce. As Togo leads the way, cracks begin splitting open all around the sled. Seppala sees open water in spots, holes in the surface large enough to swallow his whole team. Water shoots up between cracks in the flows, has become a blizzard, and Seppala can barely see. He can't do anything but blindly trust his dogs, especially Togo, who zigs and zags toward the far shore. But then, amidst the pale ice, Seppala sees a dark patch looming ahead. Whoa, Togo, Whoa. G G G the ice field is coming apart, and Seppala and his team are barreling straight towards open water. Foreign.
- [04:13]
Edward Wetzler
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- [05:14]
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- [05:57]
Mike Corey
From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey and this is against the OD. In January of 1925, a diphtheria outbreak struck the remote town of Nome, Alaska, putting the town's children at grave risk. The disease was highly contagious and the best way to prevent a deadly epidemic was to find a fresh supply of antitoxin serum, the only proven treatment. But in the dead of the Alaskan winter, Nome was enclosed by the frozen Bering Sea and was unreachable by ship. The town's leaders decided that the fastest way to get the medicine to Nome was by dog sled. An epic journey across nearly 700 snow covered and treacherous miles of remote mountains and wilderness. It would take a relay of 20 mushers and their dog teams to save the children of Nome. This is episode one, outbreak. Dr. Curtis Welch pulls his squirrel skin parka tight around his chest as he trudges across the snow. He's headed west of Nome to the native settlement of Sandspit, a coastal village of small huts and sod igloos. It's mid January 1925, a busy time of the year for Welch, who's the town's only doctor. Nome once drew hordes of gold rushers, but has now shrunk to about 1400 residents. It sits on the shore of the Bering Sea in northwest Alaska. In recent weeks, he and his four nurses have responded to numerous calls about children with sore throats and persistent colds. Today, he's making a house call to check on seven year old Bessie Stanley. She's the eldest of three Stanley children who live in one of the modest shacks in Sandspin. Come in, doctor. Come in. Bessie's father, Henry welcomes Welch into the dimly lit home which smells of dried salmon and seal oil. Bessie lies in a corner of the living area. Henry Stanley tells Welch that she's been sick for two days. They thought it was just a cold, but it's gotten worse. Welch opens his medical bag and takes out a wooden tongue depressor. He wiggles it in front of the girl, who scrunches her mouth closed and shakes her head. I know, but just open a little bit for me. Like this. The girl looks over at her parents, both stone faced with worry. We haven't been able to get her to eat, doctor. She's been complaining of a sore throat but won't let us look inside. Welch pulls a piece of peppermint candy from his coat pocket. It's a bribe. Finally, the girl tilts her head back and opens her mouth. Welch recoils from the smell of the child's foul breath. Her throat is raw and inflamed. He sees a thick mass of bleeding lesions and a chill washes over him. There's no question in his mind. Bessie Stanley has diphtheria. The same disease that probably took the life of a three year old boy just yesterday. And clearly it's spreading. Welch runs his fingers through his unruly gray blond hair. He's been a gnome for six years, but he's never seen a single case of diphtheria. When he recently treated other children with similar symptoms, he assumed they had tonsillitis. Now he knows he was wrong. He turns to Bessie's parents. Is anyone else in the family sick? Or any neighbors that you know of? The parents shake their heads. Welch checks the throats of the other two Stanley daughters who seem fine, but his mind is racing. How many other kids in this village and in the surrounding communities might have been exposed? And how is he going to treat them? Back at Maynard Columbus Hospital in downtown Nome, he has less than 80,000 units of antitoxin serum, the only effective treatment for diphtheria. Patients suffering from the disease are usually injected with 20 to 40,000 units of the serum, so its supply is only good for a few patients. But the serum is six years old and Welch isn't sure it's still viable. He had ordered more from the public health office in Seattle last summer, but it had never arrived. The grim reality starts to set in. Without more antitoxin serum, most children diagnosed with diphtheria are likely to die within a few days. He starts to close up his medical bag and turns to Bessie's parents. I'll come back later to check on Bessie. We'll give her some medicine. Welch heads quickly back toward town. He needs to meet with his nursing staff, then call the mayor's office because Nome may be on the verge of a deadly epidemic. George Maynard gazes out the second floor bay window of Dr. Curtis Welch's office, looking down at the people in dog sleds moving slowly along snow covered Front Street. Everyone is still going about their business, blissfully unaware of the terrible news Dr. Welch has just shared. Maynard is the burly 45 year old mayor of Nome and the publisher of the Nome Nugget, the town's weekly newspaper. And right now he's leading an emergency meeting of Nome's town council called by Dr. Welch. The council members are seated around the room. Mater nods at Dr. Welch, who continues to lay out the dire situation. I expect many new cases to appear in the next 24 hours, there's no telling how many more people might have been exposed. All of Nome's children are at risk here. Welch has already told the council about the deaths of three native children in Sandspit, including Bessie Stanley. She died that morning. Despite the injection of serum Welch had given her. It clearly was too old to be effective. And even though her sisters appeared healthy, Welch says they've surely been exposed to the disease. Since it can easily pass from one person to another by touch and through the air, all it takes is a cough or a sneeze to spread. The mare drops into a chair beside the doctor, shaking his head. Just tell us what we need to do. We don't want another pandemic on our hands. Like every long time, Nome resident Maynard remembers the horrors of the flu pandemic of 1918. And 1919 it devastated villages throughout Alaska. By some estimates, it killed half the native population of Nome, including 162 people in Sandspit. I'm afraid to say this could be even worse. The disease is especially dangerous for children, and if left untreated, the mortality rate among children who contract diphtheria it can be can be close to 100%. Maynard listens with a scowl on his face as Welch recommends an immediate quarantine, Closing the schools, churches, lodges and movie house and discouraging any travel. I know it may sound extreme, but that's the only way to stop it from spreading. People need to stay home. Maynard tells Welch and the others that he'll publish a front page story in tomorrow's Gnome Nugget. He'll include instructions on how to prevent the spread of the disease and advise parents to keep their children inside. But he knows that very few copies of the nugget reach the native people living in the villages and mining outposts outside of town. So he turns to Welch's head nurse, Emily Morgan. Ms. Morgan, the people in Sandspit, they know you and they trust you. Get out there and spread the word. Knock on doors, hang signs, and have your nurses do the same for all the other native villages. The mayor then turns to Mark Summers, the superintendent of Hammond Consolidated Gold Fields, the town's largest employer. And Mark, I'd like you to chair an emergency board of health committee, Work with Doc Welch and provide me with status reports at the end of every day. Summers agrees and also pledges to shut down his processing facility and outlying mining camps to honor the quarantine. But then he asks the toughest question of all. What about the serum? How are we Going to get it here, the town needs to find at least a million units of serum. But Maynard knows that even if they can find that much, the more complicated question is how are they going to get it to Nome? The city has been ice bound since November, when the last ship left the harbor. The only two options are airplane or dog sled. But in the dead of winter, neither is guaranteed to be able to reach Nome safely. Dr. Curtis Welch bangs on the door of the US Army Signal Corps telegraph office on Front Street. Sergeant James Anderson flings open the door with a peeved look on his face. Hey, we're closed. But when Anderson sees it's Dr. Welch, he apologizes, then opens the door and lets him in. It's the evening of January 22, just hours after Welch briefed the mayor and town council. He needs to get word to the outside world that Noem desperately needs its help. Inside the telegraph office, Welch brings Anderson up to speed about the outbreak, then explains that he wants to send two messages. The first is an urgent bulletin to all signal core stations across Alaska, letting every town and public official know that Nome needs any available diphtheria serum. The next cable should go to the U.S. public Health Service in Washington, D.C. they can help spread the word across the continental United States in case no serum can be found closer to home. Welch dictates as Sergeant Anderson scribbles down the message. An epidemic of diphtheria is almost inevitable here. Stop. In urgent need of 1 million units of antitoxin. Stop. After he's done sending the messages, Anderson turns to Welch. What happens, though, if there's no serum available? You don't want to know. With the messages sent, Welch rushes back toward his office. He hopes his pleas for serum don't fall on deaf ears. Nurse Emily Morgan walks along the snow covered shore towards Sandspit, bundled beneath her wool sweater and fur parka. In one arm she carries her black leather medical bag, which has a few vials of the outdated antitoxin serum. In the other arm, she carries a stack of red and black cardboard signs that read quarantine. It's been two days since the mayor issued quarantine orders. Since then, Morgan has been overseeing a team of teachers and volunteers who've been delivering food and water to the native village and reminding people to stay inside and wash their hands. The team has also been hanging quarantine signs on the doors of homes and businesses that have been exposed. Morgan knows diphtheria firsthand. While working in a hospital in her hometown of Wichita, Kansas, she contracted the disease and spent three weeks in bed. They were the worst three weeks of her entire life. And she knows adults are more capable of surviving an infection than children or the elderly. One of her first stops is the blackjack home, where she checks in on a young girl named Vivian, who's been complaining of a sore throat. Morgan takes the girl's temperature. It's very high, 104. Her pulse is light and rapid, her breathing slow and labored. When Morgan checks the girl's throat, she sees the telltale signs of diphtheria. Vivian's mother agrees to let Morgan give the girl a few thousand units of the antitoxin serum. Morgan knows it's not the full recommended dose, but she has no other option. Next, she bangs on the front door of a nearby home she visited two days ago. One of the family's five children, a girl named Mary, had very severe symptoms, and Morgan wants to see how she's doing. A young boy meets her at the door. You're too late, Mary. She's gone to heaven. Morgan feels a wave of shock, but she swallows her feelings. She can't be waylaid by her emotions now. Inside, Morgan finds Mary's father making a crude coffin out of wood planks. While his other children look on. She kneels by his side to help. The father places his daughter's parka inside the box, then sets her body in the parka and nails the box shut. For a moment, he sits staring at the coffin in a daze. We'll have to wait till spring. The barrier. The ground's too frozen now. Morgan helps the father carry the coffin out to his snowbank. They cover it with snow and say a short prayer together. During the Great War, Morgan worked at a mobile Red Cross hospital in France, where she saw her fair share of death. But it didn't prepare her for this. Her patients there were grown men. But these are children, and four have already died. If they don't get more serum soon, no child will be safe.
- [20:12]
Edward Wetzler
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- [21:12]
Redacted Declassified Mysteries Advertiser
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- [22:18]
Mike Corey
Mining superintendent Mark Summers paces in front of men and women he's known for years. Lawyers, judges, former mayors, Nurse Morgan, all of them part of the newly formed Emergency Board of Health. They're meeting in his office in downtown Nome to discuss a seemingly impossible how to get more serum to their town and stop a diphtheria epidemic. It's late Saturday night, January 24, 1925, two days since Dr. Curtis Welch sounded the alarm about the outbreak. Earlier tonight, Welch and Nurse Morgan briefed the board on the status of the escalating Crisis, at least four children dead, 20 other children and adults sick with the disease, and at least 50 who have been exposed. The quarantine is underway and residents seem to be complying, but it's impossible to know how far the disease has spread. Summers calls the meeting to order. All right, ladies and gentlemen, we all know delivery by ship is impossible due to the ice that leaves land or air. And personally, I favor land. I believe we should get teams of dog sleds ready to go lined up along the mail route between here and Fairbanks. If we can get serum delivered to the port at Seward or Anchorage, the train can take it north from there and meet one of the dog sled teams. Some board members murmur in agreement. Others express their concerns, including Mayor George Maynard. Excuse me, but that's 700 miles. Won't it take the mail teams weeks to get here? Normally, yes, but if we can get two of our best mushers, we can set up a two part relay. One musher can travel west from Nenana and the other can meet them halfway and bring the serum back from there. If each musher travels 80 miles a day, they can make it here in a little over a week. No, no, no. That's still too slow. We should fly the serum in. If the folks at the airplane Corporation in Fairbanks get one of their planes ready, it could be flown here in a day. But Summers anticipated this and has a counter argument ready. Mr. Mayor, with all due respect, those are old planes, surplus from the war. Open cockpit. They can't fly in winter. We can't take the chance that a plane might crash and take the serum down with it. Dog sleds are the only sure way of getting that serum here safely. Other members of the board begin discussing both ideas and debating their merits. Summers hopes his dog sled idea will win out. As superintendent for Hammond Consolidated Gold Fields, he's worked with the territory's best mushers for years. He knows how capable and driven they are. In fact, he already has someone in mind. Leonard Seppala grabs one of his husky pups, a one year old named Fritz, and hoists him into the air. The dog squirms and growls with excitement while the other dogs at Seppala's outdoor kennel tug at their chains, hoping he'll come play with them next. Hey, hey. Settle down, everyone. I'll get to you, okay? The short, lean and athletic musher known as Sepp has been in Nome for 25 years. When gold was discovered here, a friend encouraged him to emigrate from Norway and try his hand at prospecting. The gold rush died out, but he managed to find work as a dog sled driver. Seppala and his dog teams deliver supplies and passengers out to the mining camps of Hammond Consolidated. He also oversees the kennels that supply dogs to the other teams working for the company. Seppala looks over at the back door of his cottage and sees his wife, Constance, waving. Mark Summers is here to see you. Tell him to come around back to the kennels. Seppala isn't surprised by the visit from his boss. He'd read about the diphtheria crisis in the gnome nugget and assumed he and his dogs might be needed. Summers joins Seppala at the kennels, then Explains his idea for a dog sled relay to get diphtheria serum delivered to Gnome. And that means you'd have to drive from here out to Nulato and wait for the other musher to arrive from Ninana. Then you'd turn right back around and come home. So what do you think? Well, that's a long run, but I've done it plenty of times. You know, I once reached Nulato in just four days. I think I know that trail better than anyone. Trust me, I believe you. But do you think you can get there and back in a week? Yeah, maybe less. If I leave here with 20 dogs, I can drop off a dozen at roadhouses along the way. On the way back, I'll exchange the tired dogs for rested ones. It'll be faster that way. And I can travel at night, too. Ok, great. But just so you know, the mare is trying to get the serum sent by airplane, so I don't know for sure if we'll be using the dogs. But just be ready to go at a moment's notice just in case. I'll call you when it's time. Seppala reaches down to play with a feisty black and brown dog named Togo. Summers eyes the dog skeptically. Hey, are you still using that dog as your lead? Isn't he too old? Who, togo? Yeah, he's 12. Might be his last season. He's the best. I've probably traveled 50,000 miles with him. He can take a few hundred more. As Seppala watches Summers leave, he hitches Togo to the front of his dog sled harness, then picks another seven dogs and hitches them up behind Togo. He wants to get a practice run in before it gets dark. Over the years, Seppala has developed a reputation as one of Alaska's best dog sled mushers. He's won the all Alaska sweepstakes race numerous times. But now he and his dogs are facing the most important trail run of their lives. And the children of Nome, including his daughter, will be counting on him.
- [28:35]
Mark Summers
For.
- [28:36]
Mike Corey
At least the third time. Dr. John Beeson counts the amber colored glass vials of diphtheria serum on his desk. Beeson works as chief surgeon here at the railroad hospital in Anchorage. When he learned about the situation in Nome, he remembered that he had recently received a delivery of serum. Now he's eager to donate it. Earlier today, January 26, he sent a telegram to the governor's office offering to ship the serum by rail to Nenana. Word came back that he should get the serum onto the next northbound train. But first Beeson needs to safely pack the vials for the journey. Beeson's nurse enters his office carrying a small wooden crate and places it on his desk. I think this will be big enough for the vials. And look, I thought this might help too. She hands Beeson a small quilt, the kind they use to swaddle newborns in the hospital's maternity ward. Yes, this will do nicely, though. I wish we had more serum. 300,000 units isn't enough, but it's certainly better than none. Diphtheria patients are usually treated with up to 40,000 units, but smaller amounts can help. Beeson assumes that Dr. Welch plans to stretch this batch among the 20 or so patients who've been diagnosed. But before that can happen, they need to make sure these fragile glass vials reach gnome intact. The vials are individually wrapped inside thick paper cartons. Beason wraps those cartons in the quilt, stuffs that into the crate, then wraps the crate with thick brown canvas. When he's done, the package looks split, like an oversized loaf of bread. That should be good enough for the day long train ride, but we might need more protection if it's going to be traveling for days on a dog sled. Should we write a note on it warning whoever's carrying it not to let it freeze? Beeson agrees, but wonders if that's even possible. From what he's heard, the governor of Alaska is weighing two options for getting the serum to airplane or dog sled, and neither will be able to do much to keep the package warm. Still on the canvas covering the package, Beeson decides to write, don't freeze. Then he and the nurse attach a note with more detailed instructions for the mushers in case it goes by dog sled. They ask the mushers to bring the serum inside and warm it up. At every stop on the trail, Beeson puts on his coat, picks up the serum and carries it out of the hospital and into the frigid Alaskan twilight. As he walks toward the train station, he hugs the package to his chest, aware the lives of Nome's children are in his hands. Governor Scott Bone digs through the trunks and boxes stacked around his new office on the fifth floor of the Goldstein building in downtown Juneau. He had to move everything here after a fire damaged his old office. Now he can't seem to find anything amid the clutter. He shouts to his aide, have you seen my books? I'm looking for Jack London's Klondike stories. Check the closet. Bones Aide watches him sift through more boxes. He's clearly procrastinating. They both know the clock is ticking on the toughest decision of Bones. Four year term as governor of the Alaska Territory. With the diphtheria serum now on a northbound train, Bone needs to decide how it'll get from the train station in Nenana over to Nome. He was hoping Jack London's tales of his time in Alaska might provide some inspiration. For days he's been getting pressured from all sides. George Maynard, the mayor of Nome, wants to fly the serum to Nome from Fairbanks, which is about 50 miles east of Nenana and home to a few airplanes and an airstrip. Bone knows who's behind the suggestion. William Thompson, editor of the Fairbanks Daily News, miner and part owner in the Fairbanks Airplane Corporation. The company began flying supplies, passengers and mail across the Alaskan Territory just last year. So if they can deliver this life saving serum by plane, it would be a major public relations couple. Bones stops hunting for his book and turns to his aide, picking up on their earlier conversation. Those flights from Fairbanks last year were made during the summer, but they can't possibly fly safely now can they? They'd have only what, six hours of daylight? And where would they even land in Nome? Right. And remember what we saw last winter with that experimental airmail flight? Exactly. That pilot was lucky to survive the crash. And that was a workhorse to Haviland, not these flimsy open cockpit planes. If they crash, the serum is lost and Gnome is doomed. And honestly, I can't have that on my conscience. Yes, I agree. But in this weather, delivering the serum by dog sled is no guarantee either. Bone walks to the window. The wind is whipping down the street and creating snowdrifts 10ft high. Dog sleds and horse drawn sleighs inch through the snow choked streets. Bone knows his aide is right, but he's made his decision. He tells the aide to get a message to Edward Wetzler at the post office in Nenana, which oversees the privately contracted network of dog sled teams that deliver mail through the territory. We need to trust the dogs. They're the best chance we've got. As his aide races to the telegram office, Bone lifts the lid off one of the crates that survived his office fire. And there it is. Jack London's short story collection, Tales of the Klondike. The book contains Bone's favorite story, the White Silence, about London's travels across the Alaskan interior, which London calls pitiless. Ghostly waves of a dead world. Bone just hopes he's made the right call in sending the serum across that vast, punishing landscape.
- [34:50]
J.R. Martinez
The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the United States. Recipients have done the improbable, showing immense bravery and sacrifice in the name of something much bigger than themselves.
- [35:02]
Mike Corey
This medal is for the men who went down that day. It's for the families of those who didn't make it.
- [35:08]
J.R. Martinez
I'm J.R. martinez. I'm a U.S. army veteran myself, and I'm honored to tell you the stories of these heroes on the new season of Medal of Stories of Courage from Pushkin Industries and I Heart podcast. From Bud Day, who survived more than five years in the Vietnamese prison, to Alvin York, the most famous soldier of World War I, these are stories about people who have distinguished themselves by acts of valor going above and beyond the call of duty. You'll hear about what they did, what it meant, and what their stories tell us about the nature of courage and sacrifice. Listen to Medal of Honor wherever you get your podcast.
- [35:52]
Nick and Jack
This is Nick and this is Jack. We're best friends, ex finance guys and resident 90s experts. And every week on our podcast on the podcast the Best Idea yet, we're bringing you the untold stories behind your favorite products. For instance, can you guess which billion dollar fashion company went viral thanks to a rhinestone covered tracksuit? Or which cartoon turned four turtles into a global toy empire by accident? It started as a joke. Last one which cold beverage was so hated by Starbucks they actually ended up acquiring it.
- [36:21]
Mike Corey
Spoiler.
- [36:21]
Nick and Jack
The Frappuccino. Howard Schultz apparently thought cold coffee was super lame and then he bought it. From Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to Juicy Couture to the Orange Mocha Frappuccino, Join us every week to learn how your favorite things got made. Follow the best idea yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts and you can listen early and ad free right now by joining Wondery Plus. And if this podcast lasts longer than 45 minutes, call your doctor.
- [36:56]
Mike Corey
U.S. postal Inspector Edward Wetzler trots across the snow covered streets of Nenana. He's headed towards the home of Tom Parsons, the local agent in charge of managing mail delivery to the towns west of Fairbanks. It's the evening of January 26th and there's a storm coming. Wetzler had been looking forward to getting home early, but then he received an urgent telegram from Governor Bone and he needs Parsons help to carry out his instructions. Tom, open up. Head. Surprised to see you out and about in this weather. Come in Come in. Parsons leads Wetzler into his living room, where the two men sit down in front of the fireplace. Wetzler takes out the governor's telegram and explains its contents. Bone wants dog teams to carry the serum from here to Nulato, where they'll hand it off to a team from Gnome. He says the situation is serious. Can you put a word out, see who's available on your mail route? Absolutely. We'll contact every roadhouse tonight, but I'm not sure how many mushers we can get on such short notice, especially with a storm coming. I hear you, but we have to try tell anyone who's game to have their fastest team harnessed up and ready to go. Together, the two men draft a message that Parsons will send out to the roadhouses, which act as local hubs for the mail teams along the trail. When he's done writing out the message, Parsons gets up to grab his coat. Come on, let's get this to the Signal Corps station. What about our first musher? Got anyone in mind? I do. Wild Bill Shannon Hatman is fearless. Together, Wetzler and Parsons step out into the cold night and start walking toward the Signal Corps station. Wetzler can picture the ringing bells at stations along the mail trail and operators rushing to the nearest roadhouse to relay the message to the mushers. The serum will arrive in Nenana by train in less than 24 hours. They've got no time to waste. Early the next morning, the telephone rings inside Leonard Se's cluttered and cozy cabin. Cabin. And the dogs outside explode into a chorus of barks and yelps. They've been on high alert. With all the extra practice, they sense that a big run is coming. Seppala picks up the phone and hears the voice of his boss, Mark Summers. Time to go, Sepp. Summers tells him that the first musher on the east end of the relay is waiting for the serum in Ninana, ready to start his journey west. But the plans have changed. Instead of one musher taking the serum halfway to Nome, the post office has set up a relay of mushers who'll travel the 300 plus miles day and night. But for now, Seppala is still the only musher doing the second half of the relay. Another 300 miles all on his own. I'll leave in 20 minutes. Should I meet the relay in mulatto? I think so, but with this weather, the. There's no way of knowing how far they'll get. I'll keep in touch with the roadhouses. But listen Be careful. With the storm coming, I don't think you should risk crossing Norton Sound on your way out. Seppala acknowledges the danger but doesn't make any promises. Then Summers wishes him good luck and Seppala hangs up and quickly gets dressed for the trail. He pulls on his sealskin pants, reindeer skin, mukluks and squirrelskin parka. He says goodbye to his wife Constance and their daughter Sigrid. He hopes the quarantine will keep them safe while he's gone. The Seppala steps outside to harness up 20 dogs and strap down his supplies. Packs of dried salmon and seal blubber for the dogs, beans, beef and hardtack for him. He's leaving with a larger than usual pack of dogs so he can leave some of them at roadhouses along the way to rest up. They'll have fresh legs when he retrieves them. On the way back, the dogs are giddy with excitement. They nip and bark at each other. But lead dog Togo stays calm as Seppala tightens the leather harness around the husky's chest. Named for a Japanese admiral, Togo is 48 pounds, a mottled mix of black, brown and gray. As a puppy, he had been sickly and mischievous, with a tendency to run away and chase reindeer. When Seppala finally gave the feisty pup a chance on the team, he was astounded to discover that Togo was a natural born leader. The other dogs seemed to trust his calm, confident demeanor. When Seppala first harnessed Togo to the front of the team, he showed an innate sense of what to do in every situation. He's been Seppele's lead dog for the past seven years, and together they've won dozens of races and traveled tens of thousands of miles. Seppala is devoted to all his dogs, but Togo is different. He trusts Togo with his life. All right, Togo. You ready, boy? Line out. Hike. Hike. Seppala releases the snowbreak and the team sets off, bells jingling on the handlebars of the 16 foot sled. Day is just beginning to break as they glide down Front Street. Hearing the bells, a few people come out of their homes to wave and cheer, having read in the paper about Seppala's mission. In normal times, Seppala would stop to entertain the children, doing flips or walking through the snow on his hands. But there's no time for that now as he leaves town and heads east. Next, he remembers summer's warning about the storm. He should reach Isaac's Point on Norton Sound in four days. He'll assess the ice and his dogs then and decide whether to cross the frozen sound. It'll save a day of travel time. But now it's starting to snow, and he has a feeling it's going to get worse fast. Wild Bill Shannon looks at his watch. He can hear the train from Anchorage in the distance. But I can't get here to Nenana soon enough. He keeps checking and tightening the ropes and harnesses that tether his nine dogs to the sled. It's 11 at night on January 27, more than a day since the package of diphtheria serum left Anchorage. On the northbound train, Shannon looks up to see postal inspector Edward Wetzler emerge from the rail station. She's probably less than five minutes out. You ready for this? I'm always ready. I just hope that this temperature holds. Hey, you're sure you don't want to wait until sunrise? Nope. If there's children dying, I'm leaving as soon as that serum is strapped to my sled. A small crowd has gathered to see Shannon off, including his wife Anna, who's waiting inside the train station with the others. The temperature has been dropping and it's now hovering around for 40 below. Most dog sled mushers follow the so called rule of 40s, which says don't run dogs in temperatures below minus 40 or above plus 40. The extreme cold can cause frostbite in a dog's lungs, a potentially fatal condition known as lung scorching. And by midnight tonight, it'll likely drop to 50 below. But wild Bill didn't earn his nickname by playing it safe. He's a veteran musher, miner and trapper with a taste for speed and risk. He fell in love with sled dogs and the rugged Alaskan wilderness during his time in the Army. Based at a remote fort beside the Yukon River, Shannon watches as the train chugs into the station. The conductor jumps out of the engine car and races over to Shannon with a package of serum. Here it is. There are instructions here from a doctor in Anchorage. This stuff needs to be warmed up every few hours or else it'll freeze and crack the vials. Shannon nods, lashes the crate of serum to his dog sled, and waves goodbye to his wife. Without fanfare, he releases the snowbreak holding back his team of nine dogs, and they set off. It's a clear night and a quarter moon hangs overhead in the starry sky. The dog's panting steams the air as they glide past the 46 white crosses above the riverbank, honoring the locals who died in the 1918 flu epidemic. An hour outside of Nenana, Shannon discovers that the trail is in terrible shape. Teams of horses recently tromped through, leaving holes and ruts that could easily snap a dog's ankle. Shannon has no choice but to veer off the trail onto the frozen Tanana River. Haw. Haw, Blackie, haw. Shannon shouts commands to his lead dog, who turns left toward the ice. The temperature is plummeting, so Shannon hops off the sled and runs alongside it to keep warm. But it doesn't do much good. His hands are stiff and painful like clubs. Hypothermia is beginning to take over his body. Then some of the younger, less experienced dogs fall out of sync with the rest of the team. They're stumbling and getting dragged by the other dogs until they find their pace again. Blood begins frothing from their mouths. Shannon can tell they're suffering from lung scorching. At 3am, after four hours of brutal mushing, he reaches the first roadhouse in the small village of Minto. The man who runs the roadhouse is shocked at Shannon's appearance. Parts of his face have turned black. Oh, get in here fast. That looks like frostbite. Here, rest by the fire. I'll feed the dogs. The roadhouse is warm, but Shannon can't sleep. He drinks several cups of coffee, and a few hours later, he's ready to head back on the trail. He repacks the serum, which he'd hung from a rafter above the stove, then heads out to the kennel to get his dogs. But three of the younger dogs are still in bad shape. As he begins harnessing the team to his sled, he realizes they can barely move. He takes them back to the kennel, then goes inside to find the roadhouse manager. Hey, can you look after three of my dogs? I'm not sure they're going to make it the rest of the way. Sure thing, Bill. But are you going to be okay with just six dogs? No choice. Gotta keep going. Children's lives are on the line. The roadhouse manager reminds Shannon of the rule of 40s. Bill, it's negative 50 out there. You should wait till morning. Nah, I'll be alright. I've been through worse. Shannon downs one last cup of coffee, then bids the roadhouse manager farewell and steps onto the back of his sled. Line up, Blackie. Hike. As the sled starts moving, the bitter cold stings his face like needles. The temperature is definitely still dropping, and in the last glimmer of light from the roadhouse windows, he notices snowflakes falling diagonally in the wind. Shannon then realizes a blizzard is coming.
- [48:32]
Edward Wetzler
If you like against the odds, you can binge all episodes early and ad free right now by joining Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey@wondery.com survey.
- [48:53]
Mike Corey
This is the first episode of our three part series Gnome Serum Race Against Death. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book the Cruelest Miles by Gay and Lainey Salisbury. I'm your host Mike Corey. Neil Thompson wrote this episode. Sound design by Odd House Audio Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Original theme music by Scott Velasquez Vasquez and 2K for Freeze N Sink Fact Checking by Alyssa Jung Perry Produced by Emily Frost Managing Producer is Desi Blaylock. Senior Managing Producer is Callum Plews Senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louie for Wondery.
- [49:57]
Mark Summers
Hey Wowzer fams. It's Guy Raz and Mindy here. And Mindy, can you believe we have our very own wow in the World stem toys? I know. And look, they even have our faces on them. Look at little us. Guy Razzie. It's so bonker balls. Aw, you're using my catchphrase. Grown Ups. We are so excited to share our wow in the World Stem Toys with the future scientists in your life. And now you can find our toys at select Walmart locations near you and online@walmart.com from the ultimate high flying air rocket to the light up terrarium, there's something for every Wowzer in your world to play and tinker with. Wow in the World Stem Toys now available at Walmart. That's it. And now let's get back to the Wow.