Ron and I finally decide to go out about eight in the morning, which will give us and our dogs a couple of extra hours on top of our mandatory six. We stretch out on the roadhouse floor in front of the stove in a living room full of snoring mushers. We sleep like babies despite the all-night comings and goings of 50 or more people, waking quite refreshed about seven.
Barrie has already hit the trail; Ron and I roll out right at eight. It’s still dark, but the eastern sky already shows a hint of dawn. The run down the river is beautiful as the rising sun gleams through layers of wind-driven clouds over the Chugach Mountains behind Anchorage. Ron eventually stops to readjust his team and tells me to move on. Besides, my dogs are pulling well and I don’t want to interrupt our progress.
About three hours out I pass Barrie, whose team has stopped. Her main leader, Bambi, was cut up pretty badly by a dog in another team only a few miles into the race; she carried Bambi all the way to Skwentna rather than turn around and risk a major catastrophe meeting a fast-moving outbound team on the narrow tree-lined trail. As a result, she’s been running one of her yearlings in lead; as young dogs will do, he finally lost interest and decided to stop, which meant none of the other dogs wanted to go, either. I ask her if she needs any help but she says she’ll just camp and wait them out, continuing on when they’re rested.
My team moves smoothly on down the river into the gathering day. About 40 miles down the river I pull over to the side of the trail and pass out food to the dogs, after which I give them time to lie down and catch some rest. I stretch out on top of my sled bag in the balmy 20-degree temperature and warm sunshine. Before I realize it, almost an hour has gone by. It’s amazing how comfortable sleeping on top of a sled can be; it’s a good thing I’m not really in the competition or I’d have just blown my lead.
The author finishes the Knik 200, his first distance race, in 20th place.
Refreshed, we continue down the wide Yentna River at a good clip. However, I notice Socks is limping; it’s probably just a sore paw, but rather than risk something major I unhook him and load him in the sled bag, where he very much does not want to be. As soon as we cross the Susitna and start over the hills and swamps, I have to divide my time between helping the team haul the sled over the hills and pushing Socks back down into the safety of the bag.
By the time we pass Flathorn Lake, 35 miles from the finish, the dogs realize they’ve been over this trail before and speed up. We pass half a dozen teams and continue to accelerate. When we start up Nine-Mile Hill (so named because it’s nine miles out of Knik) the dogs roar up it and down the other side as if they had just left the starting line. By the time we hit Five-Mile Swamp, they’re in a dead run, even with 55-pound Socks riding as excess baggage. All I can do is hang on and marvel at their strength and spirit after almost 200 miles on the trail.
As we gain the final ridge above Knik Lake I can see the lights of the finish line through the trees, and so do the dogs. They hit 20 miles an hour headed down the last hill to the Knik Museum, where the trail turns out onto the lake for the final 200 yards to the finish. I catch a glimpse of a team just ahead of us; we’re gaining rapidly until I spill the sled rounding the final corner onto the lake. The 15 seconds it takes me to right the sled and get moving again costs me 19th place, and I finish barely 50 feet behind the other team.
To finish 20th out of 40 in a race like this, especially after I took a couple of extra hours’ layover at Skwentna, is beyond my hopes. Race Marshal Bobby Lee, a friend from my Iditarod flying days, congratulates me on a super run and tells me to go on into the bar, where the awards banquet has just started and a turkey dinner with all the trimmings is waiting with my name on it. Before I do, I toss the dogs a chunk of frozen lamb and hug each one. They’ve shown me and everyone else they’ve got what it takes to do the long haul.
And finally, I go check on Silvertip. He loves riding in little airplanes and probably had a lot more fun on the way back than I did. He’s bouncing with glee to see me, and his injured foot is apparently a thing of the past. I probably could have just left him in the team and run him home from Skwentna, but it wasn’t a call I cared to make.
So ends my first real distance race. I’m tired beyond caring and know I’ll ache for days, but the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment, as well as pride in my team, is beyond measure. I still have a lot to learn, but now I’m confident I can at least keep things intact during the learning process.
January 7, 1995
Montana Creek, Alaska
Let me tell you about moose. That’s right: those big, lovable, half-ton cows of the forest everyone thinks are so cute and can’t resist photographing. Well, to a musher, moose are the spawn of Satan himself (or herself, if we must scrupulously hew to political rectitude).
Every musher has at least one horror story about these ungainly ungulates (and most have several) ranging from the merely scary to the truly tragic. It seems mushers and moose are doomed by fate to dance forever in a kind of mutually destructive embrace. Indeed, mushers have a perspective on moose shared by few others.
Lots of people have never seen a moose in other than its typical roadside shrub-munching mien. In reality, an outwardly amiable moose can suddenly turn into a 1,500-pound herbivorous transformer toy run amok. Annoyed moose can run at greyhound speeds, knock over fair-sized trees, and tap-dance automobiles into tinfoil for what would seem to be the slightest of provocations. They can also mercilessly stomp animals and even humans: fatalities occur every winter in Alaska, even in downtown Anchorage.
One part of the dilemma arises because Alaska’s moose population is kept artificially high to accommodate hunters, particularly in the Southcentral part of the state. In the old days, bears and wolves kept the moose population to a small fraction of its current bloated level. Nowadays, most of these predators are scarce where they are needed the most. In built-up areas where hunting is prohibited and natural carnivores are all but absent, moose become positively bothersome. Within the environs of urban Anchorage, for instance, more than 1,000 moose wander about like sacred cows in Calcutta, causing problems ranging from shredded shrubbery to tangled traffic to stomped citizens.
The situation is complicated when deepening winter snows restrict moose to the paths of least resistance—which also tend to be the same paths used by snowmachiners, Nordic skiers, and of course, mushers. The problem is worse later in the winter when browse grows scarce and undernourished moose become ornery. Toss in the age-old genetic enmity between moose and wolves (and thus dogs) and the complete scope of the Moose Menace becomes clearer.
For many mushers, moose present probably the single biggest ongoing threat to peace and tranquility. A moose can wreck a dog team in any number of ways. The most obvious, of course, is for a moose to wade directly into a team on the trail and physically abuse or even kill dogs. The harnessed dogs can do little to avoid the flailing hooves and antlers and the musher often as not has to shoot the moose to save his team and very possibly himself. The normally placid creatures can do the same thing if they wander into a dog lot, although this is much less likely because moose usually won’t intentionally venture around barking dogs. Besides, the dogs—even though chained—can at least hide behind trees or in their dog houses.
Moose can wreak woe on mushers in less direct ways. A team scenting a moose will try to break into a run, even if the moose isn’t in view. If this occurs at an inopportune time, the driver can lose control. If the dogs actually see the moose, they will go crazy. In the atavistic frenzy of pursuit, brakes and drags are often insufficient to stop the team despite the musher’s best efforts. The entire team may actually chase the moose off the trail and into the woods, resulting in no end of unpleasant possibilities.
The most insidious moose-generated problems don’t even require the perpetrator to be present. A moose walking on a trail tends to punch through the hard crust with its hooves. These holes become traps for fast-moving dogs, who can dislocate shoulders and even break
legs by stepping into a foot-deep moose print. A musher whose team has barreled into a mine field of moose tracks can easily make the saltiest sailor blush with his (or her) language.
Any musher would much rather scare a moose off than try to blast it out of a team. To this end, everything from flare pistols to whistles to fireworks has been pressed into service with varying degrees of success. Some drivers carry pepper spray or mace, although these devices aren’t effective unless the moose is almost on top of the team, and then there is a real risk of gassing the dogs as well.
So, most mushers carry some sort of firearm as a last-resort moose defense. Some pack a rifle or a large-caliber pistol, while others tote a shotgun loaded with slugs and buckshot. No musher wants to get into a situation requiring heavy artillery, but once in a great while there’s no choice when a run with the dogs turns into a combat mission.
This winter we’ve had more than a few close calls with moose around Montana Creek. Thanks to the very heavy snow before Christmas, moose took to the lowland trails much earlier than normal. Even our half-mile driveway from the road to the dog lot has turned interesting. A young cow moose has come to regard it as her own and is often grazing there when I drive through in my minivan. Usually she will turn and run up the driveway until she nears the dog lot and hears nearly 100 dogs barking at her. Then she will stop, lay back her ears, raise her hackles, and make a couple of bluff charges at my car. At that point, I’ll turn off the engine and the lights and wait. After a minute or two she will think the car is dead and no longer a threat and will charge by it like a four-legged freight locomotive.
Some dogs are more susceptible to cold because of thinner coats. Special dog coats provide protection in extreme conditions. Booties protect the dogs’ feet from abrasion and trail hazards. Most dogs are bootied on longer races such as the Iditarod. Booties can last from 20 to 200 miles, depending on type and
At night it’s not a little unnerving to sit there as an angry 800-pound stomping machine materializes out of the dark and thunders by within inches of my car window in a pass that would earn an ear for any torero. At such times, even the car doesn’t feel very safe.
Out on the trails, I’ve been lucky so far and haven’t had to draw down on an errant moose. I’ve had a couple of close encounters of the frightening kind, though. One night a few weeks ago the dogs were trotting down the borough road (which we now call “Moose Alley”) on the way home when I saw a pair of brake lights repeatedly flashing ahead. As we got closer I could see a large cow and her calf in the truck’s headlights.
The cow had her hackles up and was yielding ground only grudgingly. Because of the very high berms thrown up on either side of the road by the snowplows, the calf couldn’t climb out of the road and the cow wouldn’t leave her calf behind. Of course, the dogs saw the moose about the same time I did and went wild. The brake was only marginally effective on the icy road and I could only keep the team down to a slow trot.
Fortunately the driver of the car was a neighbor and musher who understood my predicament. She used her vehicle as a shield for my team, slowly herding the moose up the road. After perhaps half an hour of this strange rodeo barely 50 feet separated the increasingly irate cow from my leaders. I had my shotgun out and was preparing for the worst if she charged past the truck to get at my team.
Finally the calf darted through a fortuitous gap in the seemingly endless berm; the cow made one false charge that scared me out of my wits and then clumped off the road in high dudgeon after her offspring. Somehow I maneuvered the team past the gap and we got back to the dog lot in one piece, although I had sweated completely through my parka. Too close, way too close.
This afternoon I’m in almost the same location as the previous incident. I’m outbound with eight dogs I haven’t run in a few days and they’re really rolling as we round a corner. Suddenly I see a blur of brown above me on the six-foot snow berm. A young bull moose has been using the hard-packed berm to reach some higher branches and we’ve surprised him. He jumps clumsily down from his perch and I’m sure he’s going to land right in the middle of my team.
I jam on the brake with everything I’ve got and manage to slow the team almost to a walk for a critical half-second. The moose lands sprawling perhaps 10 feet in front of my surprised leaders, scrambles back to his feet, and for a moment stands glaring at my team with his ears back and hackles up. I can literally smell his breath and am completely convinced the end of the world is at hand. It’s deja vu all over again,
only without my vehicular angel of mercy. It’s probably the longest five seconds of my life.
Then young Bullwinkle decides discretion is the better part of valor, turns, and lumbers off up the road. The team chases him, of course, but with only eight dogs I’m able to keep their speed down sufficiently for the moose to steadily gain ground. After half a mile we reach our planned turnoff and the moose continues straight on down the road. The dogs reluctantly acknowledge I’m not going to let them keep after the moose and they swing onto the side trail. I belatedly realize I never even tried to get out my shotgun, which is a good thing because I’d probably have blown off my own toe or clipped one of the dogs in my haste.
But too many other mushers have had dogs crippled or killed by moose attacks, even on major races such as the Iditarod. Susan Butcher was knocked out of contention on one Iditarod by a moose that killed one of her dogs. Diana Moroney, who gave me several of my dogs, lost her world-class leader for several months earlier this winter after a moose attacked her team practically in her own back yard. John Barron had to shoot a moose out of his team a couple of months ago, luckily with no major injuries to his dogs or himself. In the ultimate case of self-defense, a musher on the Yukon Quest a couple of years ago who was armed only with an ax went “mano-a-mano” with a charging 1,200-pounder; he won, but just barely.
As a matter of practical necessity Alaska permits dispatching a moose to protect life and property—or a dog team. And the moose isn’t wasted: the musher is required by law to take steps to keep the meat from spoiling and notify the authorities. This applies even in the middle of a race and following drivers must help before they can continue. The meat is later recovered and is given to local charities for distribution. However, it’s safe to say any musher would much prefer to buy a truck full of groceries for the needy than use a dog team to troll for charity meat on the trail. As for me, if donating to the local food bank will somehow keep the moose out of my team, just tell me where to drop the goodies.
January 13-17, 1995
The Copper Basin 300
It’s finally time for the Copper Basin 300. This is the second of the two qualifying races I must run (and finish), and its reputation precedes it. The course describes a 300-mile circuit around the Copper Basin, 150 miles northeast of Anchorage. The checkpoints are all on the highway system, but many of the trails between them cut across some of the most remote territory in Alaska. The race is widely known for its variety of terrain and trail conditions, its propensity for open water and overflow, and above all its cold temperatures. Experienced mushers have told me running the Copper Basin is the best practice I can get for the Iditarod, but not to be too upset if I don’t finish.
This well-meant advice hasn’t exactly done wonders for my mental state, but there’s not much I can do now. Barrie and I are on the road with dogs, sleds, and what’s left of our self-confidence. Ron and our neighbor Steve Adkins, a veteran Iditarod musher himself, will be our handlers, cleaning up after us at the checkpoints and giving us timely advice. About the only bright point is the weather for the race will be only in the 10-to 30-below range, somewhat better than the 40-below deep freeze we’ve had at Montana Creek.
At any rate, I’ve settled into my fatalistic mode, resolved to see what happens and try to make the best of it. This is rapidly shaping itself into the biggest physical and mental challenge I’ve had in many years, and I’m thinking thoughts about my own capabilities I haven’t thought in decades. After a
ll, I’m 46 years old, not exactly a world-class athlete, starting from scratch in an extremely demanding sport, and about to run one of the toughest races in the state. I’m really beginning to wonder if this time I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew.
My confidence isn’t helped at the musher’s meeting the night before the race when I draw number three—again. I know absolutely nothing about the trail, which means I’ll have to take things cautiously and slowly for awhile. Also, I know my team isn’t as fast as most of the others in the high-powered field, which comprises some of the biggest names in mushing, including Martin Buser and Jeff King. It’s a lead-pipe cinch I’ll be waving to them and a lot of others as they pass me within a few hours after the start.
To complete my pre-race preparation, I only get two hours of sleep at Paxson Lodge the night before the start. After a couple of cups of coffee while my long-suffering handlers get the dogs watered and fed and into the truck, we push back down the highway to Meier’s Lake for the start of what I fear may be a long, hard journey to frustration.
The mental carnage is almost complete when the veterinarians checking my dogs at the pre-start vet check tell me they won’t let me run Wild Thing, one of my best pullers, who they say is too thin. Even though I know this dog is naturally thin and is in great shape, I’m not experienced enough to argue with the vets, so I have to use Kona, a spare dog I’d brought along for just such an eventuality.
So with the stage thus set, I hang on for dear life as Pullman and Bea lead 10 other uncontrollably enthusiastic bundles of energy out of the starting gate like an unlimited class nitro-fueled dragster. Mentally, I’m a vegetable along for the ride through the Cuisinart, and I only recall the race as a series of snapsots from here on.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 13