“Kaasen substituted another dog, and he, too, refused to go forward into the wind,” Lesser continued. “Two more dogs were tried, but each succumbed to heavy work and stopped.
“Kaasen then took Balto, the shaft dog, from his position next to the sled. Balto was the smallest dog in the outfit. Kaasen could not see the trail 20 feet in front of him. Balto literally dragged the exhausted and dispirited team until they staggered into the streets of Nome.”
Hello? What serum run was this? Was Lesser's release based on information from Kaasen? If so, why did Kaasen change his story? Who knows, but does it really matter? No! Balto had performed with great courage — as had all the dogs that participated in the race. But those lucky dogs were back home in Alaska, eating salmon and running around snow-covered dogyards. Balto was stuck in La-La Land, which was no place for huskies.
Chapter Eight
A Song, a Dance, a Dog Act
Lesser had no further use for the dogs, and Seppala didn't particularly want them back. So a theatrical agency booked Kaasen and the team on a long vaudeville tour across North America.
Vaudeville had been the continent's most popular entertainment for decades. It's a French word for a type of fun variety show that featured as many as a dozen live acts: singers, dancers, magicians, comics, unicyclists, clowns, ventriloquists, trained seals and other animal acts. Actors and actresses performed short dramatic sketches and musical comedies; monologists told long stories; poets recited their poems.
Once, Vaudeville theaters had dotted the land from the Rio Grande River to Saskatchewan — across the United States and Canada. Their stages supported thousands of traveling acts, which toured the continent endlessly, attracting large audiences everywhere.
Had it been the 1890s, touring Vaudeville might have been fun for Kaasen and the dogs. They would have met some of the most gifted dancers, singers and clowns that ever graced the world. They would have been part of a generous, large, gypsylike family with heart and spirit.
But they were not. By 1925, Vaudeville was dying and its great family had dispersed. People were packing new theaters to see movies or staying home to listen to another new form of entertainment — radio, which didn't cost anything beyond the small monthly fee for electricity.
Most Vaudeville theaters had switched to programs offering a combination of live acts and movies — usually only one live act and several short movies. The new film studios and radio production companies had stolen most of Vaudeville's stars.
Kaasen and the dogs spent one-and-a-half years criss-crossing the country by train, stopping at dozens of cities along the way. The dizzied dogs were crated up for days at a time in cargo cars, separated from one another and lonely.
At each theater, Kaasen, now sporting a stylish suit, bow tie and straw hat, politely recounted the story of the serum run and handed out black-and-white studio photos of Balto.
But which story did he tell? The true story? A slightly embellished story? The story in Lesser's press release? No one any longer knows, but whichever story it was, it certainly didn't matter to the dogs. By early July, they were unhappily experiencing the dog days of summer.
Chapter Nine
Balto Becomes an Artist's Model
“Dog days” is a term that refers to the most oppressively hot days of summer, when dogs, especially long-haired huskies — and people — can hardly muster the energy to do anything but lie around feeling miserable. In the northern hemisphere, one of worst places to be at such times is hot, humid New York City, which is exactly where Kaasen and the dogs found themselves in the summer of 1925.
The weather was absolutely stifling, and the frenetic tempo of the city made Los Angeles seem restful. New York City was the center of the American universe: the richest, most powerful, most exciting, most modern city in the world. Since the mid-19th Century, wave after wave of immigrants had pushed the Atlantic port city to its limits. New York had the world's grandest mansions, the tallest skyscrapers, the biggest bridges, the busiest shipping docks, the most modern transportation system. But it also had the world's most crowded neighborhoods, with thousands of poor families stuffed into squalid tenement apartments. In summer, the smell of rotting garbage was overwhelming.
Into this seething cauldron came Balto and the dog team — to appear in theater after theater, none of them air-conditioned. But there was one high point for Balto: He got to pose for a statue for the famous animal sculptor Frederick George Roth at the artist's studio in nearby Englewood, New Jersey.
It would be one of the happiest short chapters in Balto's life. Roth greatly admired all animals and was their true friend. He had created dozens of beautiful sculptures — a tiger, polar bears, sea lions, elephants, a horse, a little calf straining at its tether and bleating. As one art critic wrote admiringly, Roth was “able to grasp the character of the animals he portrayed.” And Roth grasped Balto — his quiet dignity, his keen intelligence, his self-control and patience.
The famous dog and the famous sculptor had a lot in common. Roth, too, had been a late bloomer whose talents were not immediately recognized. Born in Brooklyn, he had wasted precious years as a young man trying to please his father by working in his business. He was unhappy, and failed at it.
Finally, he followed his heart and applied for admission to a respected New York art academy. But the academy director underestimated the self-taught artist — just as Seppala had underestimated Balto. After looking at Roth's sketches, he told him he lacked the talent to become an artist and advised him to find some other line of work.
Roth's belief in himself was badly shaken, but he decided to pursue an art apprenticeship anyway — in Europe. He spent months at zoos in Germany, Austria and Belgium, observing and sketching animals, trying to capture their strength and poise. He also studied animal anatomy and took art classes in Germany, France and Italy.
Finally, Roth returned to the United States to cast his lot in the land of his birth. This time, he was welcomed into the New York academy, where the took yet more art classes. Soon, he began winning important prizes for his animal sculptures — silver medals at major art exhibitions in St. Louis in 1904 and Buenos Aires in 1910; a gold medal at the Panama-Pacific Exhibition in San Francisco in 1915.
By the time Roth met Balto in 1925, he was considered “a master of living animals” throughout the Americas and Europe, as one critic wrote. “The spirit which conceives and touches the objects that have taken shape for our observance is exactly the one you experience in their maker's presence,” penned another.
Roth was as kind as he was talented. The 53-year-old sculptor welcomed the travel-weary Balto into his studio as a friend. He laid out tasty dog treats and a bowl of cool water, which he kept filled as the weather was unrelentingly stifling and there was no air conditioning yet in America.
Roth was deeply impressed by Balto's self-composure — his ability to sit quietly for hours while the artist observed him and made sketches. Balto seemed to understand Roth's gentle commands, trying his best not to move a muscle — except for his tongue, of course. It was so hot, he couldn't stop panting. Dog spittle flew all over Roth's couch, but the artist didn't care. It was a small price to pay for the privilege of getting to know and draw such a noble animal. When a New York Times reporter visited, Roth praised Balto lavishly as a good artist's model. His comments appeared in a story in the paper.
But Balto's career as an artist's model was short-lived. He and the team soon boarded another train bound for yet another faraway city and another Vaudeville theater — and another and another. Life on the road became a blur of strangers, strange places and even stranger events.
In December, they appeared with Santa Claus in Kansas City, Kansas, where some of the dogs were sold to the building superintendent of the Kansas City Star, the city's newspaper. The other dogs were crated up and sent by train back to New York City, where a publicity agent arranged for them to visit an animal shelter — of all places! (This was somewhat ironic, or darkly hu
morous, as the crates that Balto and the team traveled in on their many long train trips were a lot like the tiny kennels at the shelter filled with unwanted dogs and cats. Which dogs were worse off — the famous team or the unknown strays?)
On December 16, Balto and Kaasen attended the unveiling of Roth's statue in New York's Central Park. It was the city's first statue commemorating a dog, and about 100 people turned out for the ceremony.
The striking bronze statue was larger-than-life and set atop a large granite rock on the east side of the elegant park near 66th Street. From the rock, the huge dog surveyed the distance — as if he were searching for a trail in a blinding snowstorm. Roth had portrayed Balto panting heavily — perhaps imagining he had just run many exhausting miles to deliver serum. The dog's great bronze legs were spread apart; the noble body leaned forward powerfully; the gaze was intense and intelligent. Even the fur seemed life-like.
Balto could not have cared less. He had no response at all to the statue, though he was happy to see Roth again. And his massive neck snapped around when he sniffed other huskies — two showed up on leashes with their owners. But the New Yorkers and Kaasen kept the dogs apart.
Ho-hum. By Christmas, the dogs were in Toronto for an appearance at yet another Vaudeville theater. Would they ever find a home?
Chapter Ten
Seppala and Togo Show Up
In the summer of 1926, Seppala was invited to visit New England. The sport of sled dog racing, which had started in Nome, had spread to several northeastern states, and Sepp wanted to get in on the action. And he had a 10-day contract to drive his dog team around the ice arena at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Togo was to receive a gold medal at the Garden for his part in the serum run — better late than never!
So Sepp set off by steamship with sleds, racing equipment and 44 dogs. It was a wild, chaotic trip. Also aboard was a team of 12 Malamutes — the native dogs of Alaska — and their driver, as well as some Eskimos and their reindeer. By the time the ship reached a whaling station in the Aleutians, the long island-necklace in the Bering Sea, the captain was about ready to toss all the dogs and both owners overboard. The Malamutes were great howlers, and every time they started howling their Siberian husky shipmates would join the chorus. The sound was unbearable, and there was no escape from it.
The seas were choppy and there was much seasickness among men, dogs and reindeer. They couldn't get off the ship fast enough when it made a brief stop at a whaling station on Kodiak Island, known for its large population of Kodiak bears. Sepp bought 16 pounds of fresh whale meat, and the dogs feasted. But the trip continued to be rough, and four pups died between Kodiak and Seattle.
In Seattle, there was more bad news: The agents who had arranged Sepp's tour and were to pay for his expenses had gone out of business. Sepp and the dogs were on their own, with hardly any money and no place to stay. But not for long. Seattle had a large Norwegian community, and a fellow countryman offered to put Sepp and the dogs up — Sepp in his home, the dogs in a horse barn.
And the agents came through with an eight-day contract to show the dogs in Bellingham, Washington — for $1,500, a whopping sum back then — about $14,500 in today's dollars. The city wanted the famous musher to drive the team down main street — on hard pavement!
The team was soon traveling across the country by train — to Kansas City, Kansas, for 10 days, where Sepp and the dogs paraded through the streets and appeared at a ball park and a livestock show; to Dayton, Ohio, where they appeared at the city's largest department store and attended a banquet held in their honor. From Dayton, the team visited 50 small Ohio towns — in a truck decorated to look like an Eskimo igloo! They were a big hit. At each stop, Sepp gave a short talk in the town square on the serum run and life in Alaska.
The team's popularity seemed to precede them from town to town, growing and picking up momentum like a snowball rolling downhill. In some towns, the crowds were so large the police had to be called in to prevent the dogs from being trampled.
Everywhere they went, Sepp and the dogs made friends and had fun — in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where they appeared at another department store; in Detroit, where they staged a short race on Belle Isle, the city's emerald green island park; in Providence, Rhode Island, where one of the younger dogs almost met disaster when he accidentally jumped off the roof of a five-story building. Fortunately, he landed unharmed on a fire escape one story below.
But the stops were a mere prelude. The real reason Sepp had made the long, dangerous trip was to appear at Madison Square Garden — and not merely to drive the team around the ice arena between hockey games.
Togo was to be formally decorated in a special ceremony for his part in the serum run. The world's greatest sled dog was to receive a gold medal from Roald Amundsen, the world's greatest living explorer — before a crowd of 20,000 people. Sepp would be vindicated (VIN-dih-kay-ted), or set free from the wrongs that had been committed against him. The hurt and anger that had tormented him for so many months would be buried forever under an avalanche of adoration. Balto's role in the serum run would be forgotten. It was little Togo that America would remember.
Chapter Eleven
Kaasen, Go Home!
Roald (ROW-ahld) Amundsen was one tough dog biscuit. Like all Norwegians, as a boy, he had read stories about the ancient Viking explorers. Like many of them, he had imagined himself as a Viking, standing at the prow of a ship with both ends curved upwards and a sea serpent for a figurehead.
But Amundsen took the fantasy further. At age 14, he decided to become an Arctic explorer when he grew up and secretly started to train for his first expedition. To toughen himself for the perils of polar travel, he would leave his bedroom windows wide open on winter nights — against his mother's wishes. While she slept, he would stand in front of the windows and expose his bare chest to the fierce Arctic winds whipping through the silent streets of Oslo, the Norwegian capital.
The young Amundsen also began eating his own leather boots and bones salvaged from the kitchen garbage! His hero, the great British explorer Sir John Franklin, had once survived for three weeks on such rations on an unsuccessful attempt to zigzag across the top of the world in a ship. Amundsen wanted to see whether he could survive on the same hard-to-chew fare — in case he, too, someday faced starvation on his own search for a Northwest Passage.
In 1905, when he was just 33, Amundsen did discover a navigable passage between the northern Atlantic and Pacific oceans — in his ship, the Gjoa. He and his men did suffer from hunger on the long journey, though they didn't have to eat bones or their boots! Amundsen also was the first explorer to reach the South Pole — in 1911 by dog sled, though most of his dogs died on the trip. (Don't ask.)
So when Amundsen visited the United States in 1927, he was a living legend, a modern-day Viking revered everywhere he went. He was also a commanding presence, even an intimidating one. Years of polar hardship had weathered his massive face into a blob-like, leathery terrain of deep crevices and pocked hollows. He looked at least 30 years older than his actual age — 55 — but then he had looked 66 when he was 33!
But behind the severe exterior was a warm, wise and caring human being. Amundsen had been well-liked — even loved — by the many men who had followed him on expeditions. They felt he understood and respected their thoughts and feelings. And Amundsen had an uncanny ability to anticipate their needs — to know when they needed to rest, eat, get going, mourn, celebrate.
Amundsen also knew what it felt like to be upstaged. In 1926, he and a young American, Lincoln Ellsworth, had led an air expedition from northern Europe over the North Pole and west to Alaska. When the airship landed, Amundsen and Ellsworth left for Nome to telegraph their feat to the world. But their brash Italian navigator, Umberto Nobile, beat them to it — by ordering the airship's radio operator to tell Nome — and the world — that it as he who had triumphed. Nobile soon joined the two expedition leaders in Nome, and the three men traveled to Seattle, where N
obile appeared in his spiffy Italian army union. He was swarmed by the press, stealing the spotlight from the expedition's real leaders, Amundsen and Ellsworth, who were dressed in heavy winter clothes. He looked like a celebrity; they looked like everyone else from Nome — common frontiersmen.
Nobile later traveled across the country on a lecture tour, claiming credit for the air expedition everywhere he went. The tour was so successful, in fact, that it almost capsized Amundsen's plans for a similar tour.
So Amundsen knew how Seppala probably was feeling on the eve of his Madison Square Garden appearance: He was worried that Kaasen and Balto somehow would again steal his and Togo's spotlight.
Amundsen and Seppala had been good friends for more than 15 years — since Amundsen's first visit to Nome to buy sled dogs for an expedition to the North Pole. He bought a team of Seppala's Siberian huskies, including Togo's father, Suggen. But the expedition was scrapped when Admiral Robert E. Peary reached the Pole first in 1909. Seppala agreed to take the dogs back, and the two men remained friends.
Now, it was December 1926 and the two friends were about to meet again. Amundsen was in Chicago, where he had just given another lecture. By coincidence, Kaasen and Balto were in Chicago, too, appearing at yet another Vaudeville theater!
Amundsen was set to board a train for New York, where he was to present Togo with his medal. On his way to the station, he stopped by the theater and followed Kaasen backstage after the show. The much younger Kaasen was understandably awed by his much more famous fellow countryman and listened carefully to what he had to say.
Amundsen gently but firmly told Kaasen to go home to Nome, that it was time to get out of Seppala's way. Kaasen left the next morning, stranding the dogs and bringing the Vaudeville tour to a screeching halt.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 3