After 20 minutes and maybe a mile we reach the top of the first big ridge, 1,000 feet above the valley floor. We run along the ridgeline for awhile and then suddenly drop back down into another valley, surrendering much of the altitude for which we’ve fought so hard. At the same time I notice the temperature has risen dramatically, from 20 below at Chistochina to several degrees above freezing here atop the ridges—almost a 60-degree temperature rise. There’s a big low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska pumping warm air in over the top of the Copper Basin, and we’ve climbed up into the southerly breezes.
At the foot of the second hill, which is the dauntingly steep final climb to the summit, the dogs quit. Socks, my number-one leader, turns and gives me a look that says, “I’m willing to go, boss, but I can’t convince the others.” I know they’re probably overheated, and I know they need a rest. However, there’s no way I can stop them here or they’ll balk at every hill from here on. Somehow I’ve got to get them to the top of this mountain before they stop and rest.
After half an hour of shuffling dogs, I find a combination that will allow me to gently pull them up the hill as they drag the sled. This final 800-foot ascent to the summit is a numbing half-mile slog on a slope almost too steep to walk up. We start up with me leading and the dogs following. The big horses at the back of the team are still raring to go; they think this is all a joke and pull the sled up abeam the more fatigued dogs at the front end.
And I’m not exactly a paragon of athletic competence myself, plodding up the incline like an out-to-pasture draft horse. I have to take a break every few minutes, since I’m still in my full arctic gear and am overheating even more than the dogs. I resign myself to taking the hill a step at a time and just try to put one foot in front of the other. As I crest every little knoll, however, I see yet another stretch heading on up the seemingly endless mountain.
After maybe half an hour of stop-and-go snail’s-pace progress, the dogs start following me without my actually pulling on the leaders’ necklines. Eventually the slope gentles somewhat and the dogs continue past me without my urging. I hop on the sled as it trundles by and the dogs pull me the last few hundred yards to the top as I heap praise and exhortations on them.
Once we finally gain the summit, I stop the team and give them food and let them wolf snow at the side of the trail for moisture. My forced march up the mountain has left me unspeakably thirsty and I slug at least a quart of water from my Thermos after I rip off my parka and hat. Then I lean back on the sled bag to see what we’ve earned.
We’re on top of a windswept peak in the foothills of the Alaska Range, with a 360-degree view of the most spectacular scenery in North America. To the south I can see all the way to the Chugach Mountains on the Gulf of Alaska, and over to 20,300-foot Denali more than 150 miles to the west. To the southeast are the great ancient volcanoes of the Wrangells, topped by 16,300-foot Mount Sanford and backed by the somewhat lower but gently steaming Mount Wrangell. To the north, the 13,800-foot peak of Mount Hayes looms much closer in the great arc of the Alaska Range enfolding the vast Copper Basin across which we’ve spent the past three days traveling. From this lofty perch, I can almost trace our entire path across the distant lowlands.
It is a sublime moment, fairly won and profoundly appreciated, and over all too soon. But underlying all is the knowledge that I’ve learned how to get the team over a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in good order, a skill that will certainly stand me in good stead on the Iditarod seven weeks hence.
Copper Basin Snapshot—Under the Aurora to the Finish Line
I’m only a few miles from the finish line on the final 30-mile run south from Summit Lake to Meier’s Lake, traveling with Wayne Curtis, another Iditarod rookie musher and friend I overtook back on 11-mile-long Paxson Lake. He’s running just behind me and we’re talking back and forth as we tick away the last miles of the race under the clear night sky studded with a million glittering stars. After a period of silence while I half-doze watching the trail ahead, Wayne shouts, “Look up!” I glance to the east, where the full moon has been slowly rising above the hills for the past hour or so.
In an instant I forget the fatigue and worries of three and a half days on the rugged trail. The northern lights are exploding in a luminous, undulating arc across the eastern sky. Curtains of iridescent green and yellow, their lower fringes tinged with red, perfectly frame the brilliant, bone-white moon. The tableau is punctuated by a handful of the very brightest stars glinting like diamonds through the shimmering veils. I feel I am in the midst of some revelatory medieval vision that can only be imperfectly related to those who have not actually experienced it.
As the dogs run smoothly on, Wayne and I watch the display in unabashed awe. It continues for perhaps 10 minutes, waxing and waning and then fading away almost as quickly as it came. The timing was too perfect, the impression too profound to be easily dismissed. It is impossible to escape the feeling that this display was meant just for us, to emphasize that there truly can be treasure buried amid the work and sweat and cold and aching muscles of mushing.
Almost immediately after the aurora fades we round one last clump of swamp spruce and catch a glimpse of the lights of Meier’s Lake Lodge and the finish line. My dogs pick up my excitement and break into a run. Within a few minutes we surge onto Meier’s Lake itself for the half-mile sprint to the finish.
After 300 miles spanning three days and nine hours on the trail, we roar into the chute and under the banner marking the end. The awards banquet has just concluded and dozens of people are waiting to welcome us in. Every musher in sight shakes my hand and congratulates me on finishing, because they’ve all been where I am and they understand that this has been a voyage of personal discovery. Merely finishing is more than enough reward. For me, it’s especially satisfying because my hard-won 33rd-place finish—even though it’s well out of the money—officially qualifies for the Big One, the Iditarod. But there’s no time to reflect on that. The dogs must be fed and bedded down and then I’m going to have a well-earned steak dinner and a beer. And then I’m going to sleep for a week.
February 1, 1995
Iditarod Headquarters—Wasilla, Alaska
When I was flying transports for the Air Force, we used to say only half-jokingly the airplane wasn’t allowed to take off until the gross weight of the paperwork equaled the gross weight of the pilot. The Iditarod seems to have a similar rule, and I’m starting to wonder if all the paperwork could be stuffed even into one of the old-time freight sleds.
The avalanche of cellulose begins every year at the original sign-up with the forking over of the $1,750 entry fee. In return, mushers receive a package of forms to do any bureaucrat proud. Lurking inside the plain blue folder are the detailed entry application, a biography sheet, and a sponsor list, not to mention a public relations release form, a local contact form signed by someone in the Anchorage area who will be responsible for dropped dogs during the race, and a certification of a $200 deposit with a veterinarian to treat returned dogs if necessary. And of course there’s the Nome housing form, designed to match every musher with a host or hostess on arrival in Nome. Every rookie also has to get a picture (some call it a mug shot) taken as quickly as possible.
Every rookie musher must also view a four-hour video of the previous year’s pre-race rookie seminar and sign yet another document attesting thereto. Rookies must also provide proof they have finished the appropriate qualifying races in the form of certificates signed by the marshals of the races in question, but which many rookies (including me) often fail to get in the fatigued, confused hours after the finish of races like the Copper Basin.
During the months leading up to the race, ITC Headquarters sends out multiple editions of the seemingly ever-changing race rules, policies, and regulations, each of which must be examined carefully for some modification which might require frantic compliance action. These are accompanied by periodic updated lists of the mushers and their sponsors. The ITC also issues
a steady stream of letters, instructions, booklets, and pamphlets on everything from dog care to preparing for the food drops to what kind of vet services will be available on the trail.
Race Director Joanne Potts punctuates this torrent of type with periodic reminders to tardy mushers to catch up on their paperwork—or else. As the deadline for forms submission approaches, her gentle memos grow ever more forceful. I’m sure more than a few drivers have wondered if she ever worked for a collection agency at some time in the past.
The dogs generate their own blizzard of paper. As race day draws near, every dog must have a valid rabies vaccination certificate, proof of inoculation against parvo, distemper, and corona virus, and a signed record of having been dosed with a special race-provided worming medicine. Every canine must also receive an electrocardiogram with the ensuing printout (all free of charge), as well as a complete pre-race vet check and certificate of health (also provided by the race organization).
Finally, the week leading up to race day is consumed by meetings and briefings, with still more handouts and notes. Rookies must also endure the real-life edition of the interminable video they viewed months before. And then everyone goes to the mushers’ banquet on the Thursday before the race to draw for starting positions; this alone can take six hours, and at a time when most drivers would just as soon get a good night’s sleep.
Any musher could easily fill up a couple of good-sized boxes just with paperwork by banquet time. Most, however, take it all in stride, although not without some inevitable grouching about bureaucrats and paper-pushers. But there’s a reason for killing all the trees: having worked the support side, I know the Iditarod is really a large and complex undertaking more akin to a major military operation than a sporting event. While some of the paperwork may arguably be administrative overkill, most of it—and the draconian measures such as $100 fines used to enforce its timely submission—has evolved out of necessity over the years. The number of potentially show-stopping loose ends in an enterprise of this magnitude is mind-boggling. It’s a wonder more race personnel don’t get ulcers and suffer screaming nervous breakdowns.
This year’s race manager and chief candidate for stress-induced gastric upset is Jack Niggemyer, whom I’ve known for a number of years. He’s held this position for much of the past decade, with a couple of breaks for such diversions as climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and being the Iditarod color commentator for ABC Wide World of Sports. Jack is a musher, of course, but he’s never gotten around to running the Iditarod because of injuries and other problems. In fact, many of Bert Hanson’s dogs—comprising most of my team—were in Jack’s kennel before we moved them up to Montana Creek, and Jack ran them on some of the shorter races like the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300. So, Jack knows more than I do about many of my dogs, and he’s offered me lots of on-the-side advice and encouragement.
The race manager position is one of the few full-time paid positions in the Iditarod organization; many people who know what the job entails will say whatever the pay is, it’s not enough. The race manager must make arrangements for just about everything from Anchorage to Nome, including the actual building of the trail, which is nothing less than a yearly highway construction project. Setting up the two dozen or so checkpoints involves intricate agreements and sometimes protracted negotiations with village governments, lodge owners, and government agencies. Dog lots must be set up, logistics must be arranged, and lodging and work space found for race volunteers and mushers. And all of this must be done within what is often a miserly budget that seemingly can never be stretched far enough.
And once the race is underway, the race manager is the on-scene boss of everything. He must be everywhere all the time and if anything slips through the crack he’s the first to be blamed. In 1994, Martin Buser sneaked out of Kaltag ahead of his competitors for the 90-mile run to Unalakleet. Jack was in Unalakleet frantically trying to get last-minute arrangements made, all the while trying to juggle the media and make sure everything was in shape on down the line toward Nome. When Martin made record time and a chance snowmachiner’s report revealed him only a few miles out of town, hours ahead of schedule, reliable sources swear Jack actually materialized in at least five different places at once getting things sorted out.
The race manager is hired for a year at a time, and some years the incumbent adamantly (even violently) refuses to be considered for a follow-on term. Jack is one of the few repeat race managers who has managed to keep his sanity (and even several of his friends). Having watched him in the heat of battle on the trail for a few years, I’m just glad I’m not in his position. In more than a few cases, he’s had to make decisions where there was no easy way out, which can be very hard on one’s social life when erstwhile friends and acquaintances are involved.
The fact is simply the Iditarod is like no other sporting event on earth. It’s by far the world’s biggest, longest, richest, and most famous sled dog race, and a major part of its mystique is its remote route. This creates a set of problems rivaling even those faced by the Olympics, only without the infrastructure of roads, railroads, and other niceties of normal urban and suburban civilization. On top of everything, the race receives an inordinate share of media attention, not to mention potshots from animal rights activists and other detractors and cynics.
Putting on this incredibly complex affair year after year requires an incredible amount of effort by the Iditarod staff as well as several thousand volunteers. I guess I can’t really argue about a few reams of paperwork. Pushing a pencil to fill out a few forms so I can drive my dogs to Nome is infinitely preferable to the headaches and hoop-jumping endured by the folks behind the scenes.
Iditarod Air Force planes wait on the runway at Rohn. The Rohn checkpoint is completely isolated and is often the most difficult to establish and supply.
February 3, 1995
Montana Creek, Alaska
Having finished the Copper Basin, we are mainly concerned with keeping our teams peaked up for the Iditarod and working on specific problem areas we’ve noticed. My dogs can use some work on hills, as much to build their strength as to bolster their confidence. I don’t need any more balks at the bottoms of steep mountains, especially if I’m not in a position (or condition) to lead the train up the hill myself.
Fortunately, we have some of the best hill training trails in the state right in our back yard. Our usual 20-mile run includes some serious 100-and 200-foot climbs and is a good workout in its own right, but the ultimate ascent starts right where we would normally turn back for the dog lot.
At the high point of the regular trail, we veer onto another trail continuing on up the flank of the Talkeetna Mountains. Normally used by snowmachiners for access to the wide-open tundra areas above timberline, it’s well known by dog drivers as a super training run. After skirting for several miles along the rim of the 200-foot-deep canyon of the South Fork of Montana Creek, steadily climbing all the while, the trail winds for a couple of miles through open spruce forest before breaking out onto the open tundra.
This up-the-mountain trail is about 10 miles long; the last four or five miles climb about 1,500 feet, topping out around 2,500 feet above sea level, which is well above the tree line up here at 62 degrees north latitude. Of course, once onto the treeless upper expanses, the sky’s the limit. Given the reasonably firm snow of late winter, there’s no real reason an intrepid driver couldn’t take a team on up into the heart of the Talkeetnas, whose 10,000 square miles and peaks ranging up to 9,000 feet constitute one of Alaska’s lesser known—but no less magnificent—wilderness areas.
I haven’t been up this trail before for any number of reasons, but chiefly because it’s been repeatedly trashed by the resident moose population. Pothole-like moose tracks in a dog trail can be deadly, dislocating canine shoulders and even breaking legs. No sane musher would willingly run a team over such a trail without a very good reason, no matter how good the training would ordinarily be.
Now, however, new snow and
several weeks of heavy use by snowmachiners have yielded a near-perfect trail, smooth and hard. The moose seem to have headed down the mountain in search of more amenable tree-munching areas, leaving the upper slopes to us, although now we have just that many more of the ornery critters to worry about around our dog lot.
I decide to take 10 of the dogs I ran in the Copper Basin 300 and go up the mountain before something else happens to ruin the trail. The dogs are sluggish for the first 10 miles, undoubtedly bored out of their minds by hitting the same old trail again for the umpteenth time. But at the usual turnaround point, when I gee them onto the new trail, it’s like I flip the overdrive switch. They instantly sense a new adventure at hand and pull up the first big slope like a space shuttle heading for orbit.
I went a few miles up this trail yesterday but had to turn around before I made it all the way up. Today I think I’ll have time to get to the top before it gets too dark to appreciate whatever treasures I might find up there. We’re gaining several minutes of daylight a day and it’s plenty light until well after six.
Shortly past our previous turnaround point the trail leaves the birch forest and pushes into the open spruce woods. Periodically we cross broad snow-covered meadows that are bogs in the summertime, climbing steadily. Ahead are sweeping vistas of the high peaks of the Talkeetnas painted gold by the late afternoon sunlight. Over my shoulder I can catch tantalizing views of the entire Susitna Valley spread out below. I realize I’m at a much higher altitude with my dog team than I normally fly with my airplane.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 15