The Cruelest Miles: the Heroic Story of Dogs and Men in a Race Against an Epidemic

by Gay Salisbury

  Seppala understood that Nome was depending upon him and his lead dog, Togo. He not only had the longest leg to travel—315 miles to Nulato and 315 miles back, a journey of about six days—but one of the most difficult: the windswept ice of Norton Sound. There was also the probability of a blizzard delaying his journey, or worse, the ice breaking up and carrying him out to the sea.

  The uproar in the kennel could be heard for miles around, and by the time Seppala had hooked up all the dogs, a small group from Little Creek had gathered to see the driver off. Seppala said a personal good-bye to his wife and to his curly-haired daughter Sigrid, mounted the runners, released the brake, and clucked. With the temperature at 20 below and the winds in a rare state of calm, the conditions were perfect for mushing. The dogs burst down the main trail in a sprint for Nome, three miles away.

  Dog teams were hardly uncommon in a town where the mail was delivered by dogsled on a regular basis, but this twenty-dog team was a most extraordinary sight. As they raced toward Nome with their light load, the dogs barely skimmed the surface of the snow. They moved with a smooth, elegant gait, each tugline pulled taut, the gang line nearly strumming from the pressure.

  Seppala shouted out commands from the back of the sled: with twenty dogs running at stop speed, he would be on the verge of losing control, but Togo responded to the commands as if he were attached to invisible reins. A crowd had gathered to watch Seppala run through town and it cheered mightily as he approached. Stray dogs darted up to the team and added to the general clamor, barking and nipping at each other's heels. The team careered around the sharp bend onto Front Street, with the sled bouncing and the bells on the handlebars jingling.

  For this brief moment, Nome seemed to have returned to the glory days of the All Alaska Sweepstakes. When Togo reached the east end of Front Street, he darted through a passageway of shacks and out onto the beach trail. Soon, Seppala's diminutive outline faded into the distance and the crowd fell silent in the mid-morning chill.

  The weight of what lay ahead had begun to sink in.

  Ever since Billy Barnett's death eight days earlier, both Dr. Welch and his nurse Emily Morgan had had little time for sleep. Billy's five-year-old sister Katherine had also developed symptoms and even after receiving 15,000 units of the old antitoxin showed few signs of improvement: her throat was still lined with membrane. Over on the Sandspit, the Stanleys were struggling to keep the remainder of the family intact after the tragic loss of Bessie. The parents, Henry and Anna, and another daughter, Mary, had improved after receiving serum, but Dora had not. And now a neighbor, Minnie Englestad, was ill and required 2,000 units of serum. She got it, but at the expense of other patients. In town, both Mr. Cramer and Mr. Hillodoll had raw sore throats, but Welch thought it wise to see whether there was any improvement before using up more of his dwindling supply.

  Welch and the other elders of the town knew there was good reason to be hopeful. The mushers had come through before under trying circumstances, and with Seppala's aid, surely they would come through again. But never before had so much been at stake, and it was difficult to keep up one's spirits knowing that the coldest weather in twenty years had already shut down regular mail service in Fairbanks and several parts of the Yukon Territory. It was only a matter of time before the bad weather reached Nome. There had been too many days of calm wind and clear skies and the town was overdue for a winter storm. Residents could only hope that the drivers made it to Nome before the worst of the winter weather closed off all access.

  For Seppala and his team, there were no distractions yet. Now that they were out on the trail, the adrenaline was pumping and the rush that the dogs set out in would not wear off until they stopped for the night. On day four, Seppala and his dogs would be at Isaac's Point and there they would have to make what might well turn out to be the most important decision of the run: whether to cut across Norton Sound, running the team over the more dangerous form of sea ice, or take the safer coastline route around the inlet that was at least twice as long. The end point of both routes was the settlement of Shaktoolik, located on the southern coast of Norton Sound. From there, Seppala would pick up the mail trail to Unalakleet and then head over the Nulato Mountains to the Yukon River.

  Time was important, but so was safety. The sound was known throughout Alaska for its treachery; many drivers avoided it. The ice was prone to sudden breakups and over the years it had taken more than its fair share of victims. Summers had warned Seppala not to risk crossing it.

  Seppala had never given Summers his word. With Togo at the head of the team, Seppala had crossed Norton Sound several times in his career, though there were times when he thought he would never make it alive to the other side. But there were risks in delaying the arrival of the serum even by a day. When he reached Isaac's Point, he would have to read the ice carefully and make his decision. And he knew that much of that decision would depend on the actions of Togo, who, like many lead dogs, had a sixth sense when it came to danger.

  A good lead dog is the brain behind every team. He (or she) is the smartest dog in a master's kennel as well as among the fastest and hardest working. The lead dog sets the tone. He has the power to demoralize a team by allowing his tugline to run slack or to inspire it by pulling hard and steadily through a dangerous spot on the trail. Lead dogs are generally calm and confident and have an innate understanding that they do not necessarily work for the master but with him, for the good of the team.

  The position of lead dog is not for the fainthearted. A dog may have all the qualities generally associated with leadership—speed, intelligence, and dependability—but be unable to handle the pressure. A dog who doesn't want the position will let his feelings be known. He will turn his head from left to right repeatedly on constant alert for an exit away from the dogs chasing him from behind. Or just stop short, cower, and cause the team to collapse like a sock being turned inside out. It takes a large measure of courage, strong will, and an almost Zen-like quality of mind for a dog to make a good leader. They are the ones who must keep a straight course along featureless sea ice that seems to have no horizon, or face a blizzard head-on. They are also the ones who must make the decisions in an emergency and, maybe most important, know when to disobey a bad command, no matter how forceful a driver may be.

  "It is absolutely almost impossible to place a price on a good dog, especially if he is a leader," said Olaf Swenson, a trader and hunter in Siberia, who had helped Seppala import huskies to Alaska. "Buying one is almost like buying a human being who is to undertake a joint venture with you. You know that before your trip is over, the dog may have saved your life by his intelligence, instinct and courage.

  "It is [the lead dog] and his team who will often lead you through a snowstorm when every guide...you have has failed. Many a time when I have been on the trail, fighting my way back to camp through blinding, driving snow I have turned the job completely over to the dogs; they could smell the way back to camp, pick up on an old trail which even a Native would be unable to find, and bring me safely in. Sometimes, when you are traveling on ice and the sled breaks through, a good leader who minds instantly and accurately will get you out without difficulty, whereas a poor one will simply increase your hazard and, likely as not, send you to your death. This is the kind of dependability on which it is impossible to place any market value. You try to find the animals you want, that you can believe in and depend upon, and once you have found them, you buy them (if you can) for whatever price you can arrange."

  In Alaska, trail-hardened lead dogs had become the stuff of legends. And Togo was a living one.

  By 1925, Togo was as well known in Alaska as Seppala. He had been the driver's leader for at least the past seven years and had traveled across every terrain imaginable.

  On the face of it, Togo did not look like a great leader. He was small, about 48 pounds, with a black, brown, and grayish coat that made him look mottled, even dirty. He had won speed races and led the team on nearly every important
expedition made by Seppala. At twelve years of age, Togo was still surprisingly fast, strong, and alert. He was the best dog Seppala had at navigating sea ice and would often run well ahead of the team on a long lead in order to pick out the safest and easiest route across Norton Sound or other parts of the Bering Sea.

  As a puppy, however, Togo's calling was not immediately apparent and he would have been consigned to the status of ordinary house pet if it had not been for his boldness.

  Born in October 1913, Togo was the only pup in the litter. His mother, Dolly, was one of the original female Siberians which Lindeberg had placed in the Pioneer's kennels. His father was Suggen, Seppala’s leader during the 1914 All Alaska Sweepstakes. Seppala paid little attention to Togo when he was born. He was small and had developed an ailment that caused his throat to swell, so he spent much of his infancy in the arms of Seppala's wife, who applied hot rags to soothe the dog's pain. Despite the close attention from Constance, or perhaps because of it, Togo became difficult and mischievous. Whenever Seppala tried to harness the team, Togo would dash out and nip the ears of the working dogs, sending them into paroxysms of frustration. He was, as one reporter once wrote, "showing all the signs of becoming a full-fledged canine delinquent."

  By the time Togo was about six months old, Seppala had given him away to a woman who wanted a house pet when she returned to the states. Togo, who had been named after the Japanese admiral who won the Russo-Japanese War, rebelled at his civilized surroundings. The more his new owner coddled him with steaks and attention, the more irascible he became. Within a few weeks, Togo had escaped, leaping through a windowpane and running several miles back to his mates at the kennel. Seppala took him back. "A dog so devoted to his first friends deserved to be accepted," he would later recall.

  For the next several weeks Togo continued to get loose and harass Seppala's team when they hit the trail. His antics amused, infuriated, and intrigued Seppala. He noticed that whenever Togo met an approaching team on the trail, he would dart up to its leader and jump at him, as if he were trying to clear the way for his master. This behavior almost cost him his life. One day he ran up to a team of trail-hardened malamutes, got mauled, and had to be rushed by dogsled back to Little Creek. The experience would make Togo an even more valuable racing dog. One of the most difficult skills to teach a lead dog is how to pass another string without getting distracted and possibly lured into a fight. For the rest of his life Togo always kept a clear course, giving an oncoming team a wide berth. When he passed another team going in the same direction, Togo would lean into his harness, yelp, and speed ahead, leaving the opponent in his wake. "Like a lot of humans," Seppala said, "Togo had learned the hard way."

  Togo was about eight months old when he finally found the opportunity to show his worth not only as a great sled dog but as a leader. One morning Seppala set out to a mining camp outside of Nome. He tied Togo up and instructed that he be kept secure for two days after his departure. He was in a rush. There had been a gold strike at Dime Creek 160 miles from Nome and a prospector had hired Seppala to get him there quickly. Seppala could not afford to have Togo hassling his team. The dog hated being locked up, and the same night Seppala left, Togo broke free from his tether and jumped the seven-foot-high fence surrounding the kennel, getting his hind leg caught in the top wire mesh. Hanging by his leg on the outside of the fence, Togo was "squealing like a little pig" until a kennel hand came out and cut the dog loose. Togo dropped to the ground, rolled over, and ran off after Seppala.

  The dog ran through the night, followed Seppala's trail to the roadhouse at Solomon, and rested quietly outside.

  When Seppala left the next morning, he noticed his team was off to an unusually quick start. He attributed it to the scent of reindeer somewhere ahead. But when he looked far off down along the trail, he saw a dog running loose. It was Togo. And Togo of course was up to his usual tricks. Throughout the day, he led charges against reindeer and bit playfully at the leader's ears. When Seppala finally caught Togo, he had no choice but to put him at the back of the team in the wheel position where he could keep a close eye on him. As he slipped the harness over Togo's neck, the dog settled down and became serious. He kept his tugline taut and his attention focused on the trail. Seppala was astounded. He finally understood what Togo had been wanting all those months: to be a member of the team.

  As the day wore on, Seppala kept moving Togo up the line. By the end of the day, the eight-month-old shared the lead with a veteran named Russky and had traveled seventy-five miles on his first day in harness. It was a feat unheard of for an inexperienced puppy. This was no canine delinquent but an "infant prodigy," Seppala said. "I had found a natural-born leader, something I had tried for years to breed."

  Alaskan literature is filled with stories about natural-born lead dogs like Togo who saved their teams through an almost uncanny ability to size up obstacles. Without such dogs, many Alaskans believe, Alaska could not have developed.

  One story about the steely nerve of a lead dog tells of Hurricane, a tough malamute owned by an Athabaskan Native named Black Luk. Black Luk was driving a team of fifteen huskies across Eyak Lake in the Interior one day in late April with a load of more than $100,000 in gold bricks and a ton of furs and other freight. It was a warm spring day and the team had been traveling for several hours. Luk had to cross the seven-mile-long lake in order to make his destination on time. The lake was firm as Hurricane trotted out onto the surface, yet the dog was cautious in his gait, keeping his nose low on the surface. About a mile out, Black Luk became worried and looked back. Water was seeping into the tracks left by his runners. The farther out the team traveled, the deeper the tracks became.

  It was too late to stop the dogs and turn around. The sled weighed too much and would break through the ice if he did. Hurricane knew the danger they were in. Black Luk spoke to him calmly, not wanting to interfere with the dog's concentration. "Steady, Hurricane; but speed up a little if you think best. Looks to me like the only way we can keep this sled on top of Eyak is to keep it moving pretty lively." Hurricane wagged his lowered tail but kept his eyes glued to the snow beneath his feet. He kept his pace steady and the trail behind him straight. Not a dog shirked the tugline when their paws became wet with water seeping up from below. Then, almost imperceptibly, Hurricane picked up speed, causing the runners to glide higher on the snow. The other dogs followed.

  Up ahead, Black Luk saw a mile-long depression in the snow's surface. They were in the middle of the lake. Black Luk held back the impulse to tell Hurricane to stop. As the team hit the rim of the depression, Hurricane "gave two sharp yelps and pulled the team into a dead run." Each dog jumped into his collar. The sled hit the lowest spot, slowed as the runners sank well beneath the wet snow and the sled became twice as heavy. Hurricane did not look back but pulled harder. As they pulled out of the depression, Hurricane gradually slowed down to a trot, his nose still down between his fore paws. "More gradually than any human orders could have accomplished it he had them back again in that steady even rhythm of a pattering trot."

  When the team finally reached the other side of the lake and was on the safety of the shore, Black Luk looked back and "as far as the eye could see those sled runners were as straight as if they had been laid out by a surveyor's transit." If Hurricane had panicked, Black Luk, his team, and his gold would be at the bottom of Eyak Lake.

  In the early 1900s, leaders and their teammates were highly trained from an early age and exposed to a variety of tasks, which improved their capacity to learn and adapt. A driver may use the same team to haul passengers, guard supplies, race, run a trapline—which requires stopping and starting and long rests—and simply to haul packs on their backs. The same teams were used to cross sea ice and run through the dense boreal forests of the Interior. One musher even spoke of how he taught his lead dog to bring wood in from the pile when the stack by the stove went low. Today, many teams are specialized. They either run sprints or the long-distance races such as the
Iditarod or Yukon Quest. A driver could have about one hundred dogs in his kennel, whereas in the past drivers had at the most about thirty-five, allowing for more individual attention and exposure to a wider variety of situations.

  In some situations, it is instinct rather than experience that counts. One such incident involved Dubby, the lead dog of sweepstakes racer Scotty Allan. While walking ahead of the dogs across a lake, Allan broke through the ice and went down into the water over his head. The walls of ice around his hole were thick enough to keep the current from dragging him under, but Allan could not crawl out. He began to shiver and called out to Dubby. If the dog could get close enough, he could grab his harness and be pulled out. Dubby edged toward Allan, but each time he got too close, the dogs behind backed up in fear. Dubby changed tactics. He restarted the team and headed away from the hole, and for a second Allah thought the dog was leaving him. But then Dubby "crossed the ice on the big crack at a safe place below me, circled around back of me, keeping as close to the hole as the other dogs would let him. Then it dawned on me what he was trying to do!" Dubby was running as fast as he could at an angle so that when he veered away from the hole, the sled would swing toward Allan. On the second try, Allan gave the command so that the sled swung close. Allan grabbed a runner and was pulled out.

  "You can't tell me that dog doesn't reason," said Allan. "I'd have been in that lake yet if Dubby hadn't figured out just how close he could bring his team without their balking on him...He was the greatest little general I ever had."