Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  My personal commissary is a junk food junkie’s delight. Almost everything is precooked and ready to heat and eat, or even to choke down frozen if needed. At worst, a few items only need some hot water, which I’ll make at every checkpoint anyway. The menu includes half a dozen pizzas (the slices are individually vacuum-sealed and frozen), several dozen burritos, packages of instant oatmeal, and cups of noodles for every checkpoint. For munching along the trail, I’ve tossed in 10 pounds or so of trail mix, frozen orange slices, lots of beef jerky, boxes of cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers, and enough chocolate to keep me on a permanent buzz.

  What I’ll probably enjoy most, though, is my own canned smoked salmon, which I put up this past summer to use on the race. I’ve been catching, smoking, canning, and, of course, eating my own salmon for almost 20 years, and I never get tired of it. I’m shipping at least a couple of eight-ounce cans to every checkpoint. And there’s also a side benefit: it drives the dogs wild. If I ever get into a situation where I need that one special treat to tempt a tardy eater, all I’ll have to do is pop a can and step out of the way. I wonder what the critics of the race would say if they knew the dogs were being fed premium smoked salmon that would go for 10 bucks a pound at their local deli? I suppose I ought to ship some decent wine and a sommelier’s chain as well; I’m sure the dogs will expect nothing less.

  Today is the deadline to get everything turned in for shipment; it’s five a.m. and I’m frantically working to finish up. I finally got all the raw materials assembled in my driveway yesterday about noon and I’ve been working ever since. It’s taken several pots of coffee and lots of painkillers to quiet my cracked rib, but as false dawn creeps over the Talkeetna Mountains I toss the last package of booties into its allotted bag.

  When I blearily step back and survey my handiwork, I see 45 colorful rice bags, each emblazoned with the name of its designated checkpoint, lined up like signposts across a miniature Alaska: Skwentna, Rainy Pass, Rohn, Nikolai, McGrath, Takotna, Iditarod, Shageluk, Grayling, Kaltag, Unalakleet, Shaktoolik, Koyuk, Elim, White Mountain, Safety, and Nome. Each one is bulging with all the necessities for taking 16 dogs—and me—across 1,200 miles of the Last Frontier.

  Now I just have to get them all into the collection point in Anchorage before the end of the day. Fortunately a friend with a big van has graciously offered to run most of my bags into town for me on his regular supply trip for his grocery store (coincidentally named Gee-Haw Supply). I cram the rest of the bags into my long-suffering minivan and forge my way into the city, fortified with double-strength coffee, a handful of Tylenol, and the sure and certain knowledge that things can only get better.

  At the food drop collection point, located this year as usual in the receiving warehouse for one of the biggest air freight operations in Anchorage, I am once again staggered at the scope of the logistics required to put on the race. A volunteer force of almost 50 people is rapidly digesting each new load in a most workmanlike manner; many of them are friends with whom I worked while volunteering on past races.

  The entire floor of the huge warehouse is taken up by pallets full of Iditarod food drop bags. Each checkpoint is represented by several pallets; as the pile of sacks on each pallet rises as high as a person’s head it is wrapped in plastic sheeting and hauled off by a forklift. Most checkpoints have five or six pallets, and some have 10 or more.

  If my shipment is any indication, the total for all mushers and all locations will be about 120,000 pounds in perhaps 2,500 separate bags. Most of this will be mailed, taking advantage of Alaska’s unique bypass mail system which allows direct air freight shipments to practically any Bush location with a zip code. The balance will be airlifted to remote checkpoints by the Iditarod Air Force.

  Of course, it isn’t free. Mushers must pay for their shipment, although the rate of 25 cents per pound is very reasonable, all things considered. After my bags are checked in and weighed, my total comes to 1,999 pounds. I give the nice lady at the cashier’s desk five new 100-dollar bills and get a quarter back. Still, I feel it’s a cheap price to pay to get the drudgery of the food drop behind me.

  The next milestone is race day on Fourth Avenue. I just hope I can wake up in time to get to the starting line because right now I’m going to stagger back up the highway to my cabin, take as many painkillers for my aching body as I legally can, and sleep like a hibernating grizzly.

  February 26, 1995

  Wasilla, Alaska

  Kim Hanson is just finishing the Junior Iditarod in ninth place—not bad considering the dogs stopped on her in a ground blizzard on the Yentna River. The Junior is for mushers 14 to 17 years old, and teams are limited to 10 dogs. It’s only 160 miles out to Yentna Station and back but it can be a tough little race, like today with the winds blowing on the river.

  Kim’s parents and I spent most of the day in the race operations room keeping track of her progress. For the longest time we couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t moving; she admits she fell asleep on the sled when the dogs didn’t want to go any farther. However, once she started moving again she set the fastest time for the last 40 miles, which I take as a good sign.

  The dogs come in strongly, trotting at a good 10-mile-an-hour pace across the finish line, smartly lined out. I like to think I’ve trained them right for them to look so good. The only possible sour note is three of the females, including leaders Slipper and Bea, are unexpectedly in heat, which can be very disruptive under some conditions. Still, the team seems to be running smoothly enough.

  We take the dogs back to Montana Creek so I can make a last couple of tuning-up runs before the big race next Saturday. My rib is in good enough shape (or rather, is hurting at a low enough level) to convince me I can get back on the sled. If nothing else, I’ve got to figure out how to handle the team without using some of my still-sundered muscles. But I’ve got faith in the team; we’ve come too far together to turn back now.

  March 3, 1995

  Anchorage, Alaska

  It’s the day before the race and I’m still not ready to go. I have a list of errands as long as my arm which absolutely must get done today, or else. I cannot understand how I’ve gotten this far if I’ve still got this much to do—much less how I’m going to hit the trail tomorrow.

  I brought the dogs into town this morning; we’ll stay at Bert’s tonight and tomorrow night after the run to Eagle River so we don’t have to make the long drive down from Montana Creek each day. I’ve been running around Anchorage all day trying to get last-minute things taken care of—new harnesses, extra booties, a spare-parts kit for the sled, nail clippers for the dogs, more charcoal hand warmers, a new thermos, half a dozen pairs of socks, candy—all of the little things I forgot during the hectic activity of the last few days.

  The booties are especially important. I came up short of the 1,200 I’ll need and had to wait until our in-house assembly line could get into gear. Of course, all of the booties and other stuff I’m picking up won’t fit in the sled, so I’ll have to put everything into bags and mail them to the various checkpoints. It’s not a big deal—almost every musher does it every year. All I have to do is put a label on the bag addressed to me, in care of the Iditarod Checker at, say, Kaltag. The bag will be waiting for me along with the other stuff I’ve already shipped out.

  This week has been consumed with meetings and last-minute preparations. I had good runs with all of the dogs on Monday and Tuesday, although Kona—one of my secondary leaders—seems to have an injured shoulder, probably from the Junior Iditarod, where Kim had to drop her. However, I’ve already arranged with Steve Adkins to borrow three of his dogs as fill-ins for just such an eventuality. The 25-mile jaunt Tuesday night was the settling-in run for these newcomers—Blackie, Ben, and May—and they performed perfectly.

  Tuesday was also the rookie meeting. This took most of the day at Iditarod Headquarters in Wasilla; we picked up some useful information, but most of us could have used the extra time to rest and get our gear in order. Of c
ourse, we had already watched the same stuff on a four-hour videotape a couple of months earlier and we didn’t exactly feel like standing up to cheer. At least they had lots of coffee to keep our eyelids jammed open.

  On Wednesday I had to take all the dogs down to Wasilla for the vet exam. Unfortunately, Batman (a big, fast male I was counting on) didn’t pass because of potentially serious foot problems. This left me with 17 dogs from which to choose the final 16 on race day—not perfect, but still ahead of the power curve.

  Mushers draw for starting positions at the Iditarod Mushers Banquet, always held the Thursday night before the race. Here the author draws the number 23 position for the 1995 race.

  Yesterday (Thursday) was the main mushers’ meeting at the Regal Alaskan Hotel in Anchorage. This took almost all day but was spiced up by the inevitable wrangling over the interpretation of the rules. This is something that happens every year because of the annual modification of the regulations. For this race, Martin Buser’s trademark sled sail was ruled out, as were a couple of other innovative aids for the well-equipped musher.

  Of potential interest to me and some of the other rookies was the so-called “competitiveness” rule, designed to prevent mushers from dawdling too long behind the main pack. Basically, all mushers must make it to McGrath within three days of the leader, and must likewise reach Unalakleet on the coast within five days of the first driver.

  Nobody really knows how the rule will affect things this year. Last year, it would have resulted in only one musher being withdrawn from the race. (The formal term is “withdrawn,” which is supposed to imply no fault on the part of the musher, as opposed to “disqualified,” which is theoretically reserved for serious transgressions such as cheating and abusing dogs.)

  Last night was the big mushers’ banquet at the Sullivan Arena in downtown Anchorage. This is always a major community event and probably 4,000 people showed up at the 40-dollar-a-plate gala. Some of the entertainment was provided by the fourth graders from Mount Spurr Elementary; they all recognized me from my student teaching. They did fine, bringing the crowd to its feet with an enthusiastic rendition of Hobo Jim’s “Iditarod Trail” (which is practically Alaska’s alternate state song) complete with the rousing chorus ending in “I did, I did, I did the Iditarod Trail!”

  Then came the formal drawing for position. Each of the 58 mushers got time at the microphone to thank sponsors and say anything that came into his or her mind. Some didn’t say much at all, some said way too much; I drew number 23, right behind Martin Buser, and probably said too much. The final musher didn’t draw until almost 10:30; Barrie drew toward the end of the evening and pulled number 57, which means she will leave the chute next to last.

  Today is theoretically free of meetings and other distractions, but I’m like a headless chicken looking for the last few items on my checklist. I should have had most of this stuff weeks ago, but something always came up to make me put it off. Now I’m paying the price in frazzled nerves and lack of sleep.

  I haven’t had more than three hours’ sleep a night since sometime last week. I’m already reacting like someone on the verge of sleep deprivation, which isn’t a good sign so close to the race. But then, I may as well get used to it—as the veterans have told me, the one thing you can’t ship out to the checkpoints is sleep.

  March 4, 1995

  The Iditarod

  Ceremonial Start in Anchorage to Eagle River (20 miles)

  Race day. The Big One. The end of training and the beginning of reality. Ready or not, I’m on Fourth Avenue amid a surging crowd of thousands of spectators with my team and a handful of volunteer handlers. If I wasn’t a zombie from lack of sleep, I’d certainly be wondering if I wasn’t finally in over my head.

  Actually, the 20-mile run from Fourth Avenue in downtown Anchorage out to the VFW post in Eagle River is only ceremonial this year. The times won’t count and the real race will start tomorrow at Wasilla. I’m not even using my regular sled, which I don’t want to risk on the potentially rough trails over downtown streets.

  I’ll also be towing a second sled; this adds drag to keep the dogs from running too fast while they’re still wildly enthusiastic. Ron has graciously agreed to ride my caboose today and also tomorrow from Wasilla to Knik; I can at least tap his experience for the first part of the race.

  Moreover, I have a passenger in my front sled for the first eight miles today. The race organization decided to raise money this year by selling rides to the highest bidders. It was quite successful and all 58 mushers have a paying passenger. In all, the fares have raised more than $35,000 for the race.

  My rider is a businessman from New York who is up here with three of his friends. They paid $500 each for what will certainly be a unique adventure, and I’ll do my part not to disappoint them. My game plan is to let the dogs get over their initial excitement and then let my guest swap with Ron and ride the runners on the back sled for awhile.

  Bert and the rest of my handling crew are on Fourth Avenue at eight in the morning; my actual start time isn’t until about 10:45, which gives us plenty of time to get the dogs ready. The city has trucked in tons of snow to cover a mile of streets to get the teams onto the extensive municipal system of ski trails. I can’t imagine what it must have cost.

  My spot is directly across the street from Martin Buser, and there is a steady stream of admirers brushing by my team on their way to see him. The scene is absolute pandemonium, especially when the teams start moving up; they are parked so the first teams are farthest away and must pass all the others enroute to the starting line.

  As usual, I’ve only gotten a couple hours’ sleep and I’m running on black coffee and nerves. I hope my handlers will keep things in order because I’m not really all here. A few people lean over the temporary fence separating my dogs from the sidewalk and ask for autographs; I think I sign my own name but I’m not sure, and I’m even less certain why they’d want my signature when all the Big Names are close by.

  Soon I see Martin getting ready across the street. The race officials tell me I’ve got 15 minutes to be ready to move. We’ve already got most of the dogs harnessed up; we’ve held off on Rocky and Rosie because they chew things when they’re nervous, and if they’re not nervous now, they’ll never be.

  Almost in a blur the handlers get the dogs hooked up; all I do is point where I want which ones. I decide to start with Pullman and Bea in lead. Bea isn’t really a leader at all, but her brother Nuka is Diana Moroney’s world-class lead dog and she comes from a long line of front-end dogs. She serves as an accelerator for other leaders, and may eventually learn the ropes on her own. Pullman is the real leader, but she’s barely three years old and has never started off in a major crowd situation. She went to Nome with Vern Halter’s team last year, but not in front.

  The real reason they’re leading is because they’re the two who led me most of the way through the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300, and who have guided the team for most of the training over the past several months. I’ve still got Socks and old Slipper in reserve back in the team if I need them, as well as a couple of others who can run up front on the trail in a pinch. Anyway, all we’ve got to do is get a few blocks down Fourth Avenue and make the sharp right turn onto Cordova Street, where we’ll be out of the main crowd area. I figure Pullman and Bea shouldn’t have any trouble handling that.

  Before I realize it, it’s my turn. A race volunteer comes back to help guide us the two blocks to the starting line, which is marked by a huge banner and grandstands on either side, not to mention enough media vehicles to rival Camp O.J.. With a dozen handlers restraining the team,

  we join the procession to glory—or whatever. As we pass the other teams, I see people I’ve run with in the qualifying races and others I know only from reputation. Finally we pass Barrie, whose 57th position puts her almost in the starting chute.

  Most of the pomp and ceremony and excitement goes right over my head. There is a huge to-do about Martin, direct
ly in front of me. Part of this may be because his passenger for the first part of the run to Eagle River is the new Governor of Alaska, Tony Knowles. The Guv plays the crowd like the pro he is, as does Martin, who is no less the experienced showman, although I’m reasonably certain he’d rather be out on the trail away from the hoopla.

  The author and handlers take a photo break on Fourth Avenue before the race start.

  I watch in a trance as the starter gives Martin the traditional five-four-three-two-one-GO! countdown and his team explodes out of the chute and down the alley of snow in the middle of Fourth Avenue. I feel like a footnote to history as my team is finally led into the starting position. I vaguely hear my name called and catch a snatch of my brief biography, which the announcer gets wrong.

  After we’re in position with the snow hook set I quickly run up and talk to every dog, telling Pullman and Bea this is the real thing and not to do anything rash. I hear the starter give the one-minute warning and I walk back to the sled. Now the starter’s countdown is for me, and before I know it we’re off. Pullman is running well and all seems in order: the crowd is cheering, my passenger is smiling, and I even catch myself waving. So far, so good.

  Then about two blocks down the street Pullman suddenly veers over the snow berm on the left and into the crowd, scattering bystanders like tenpins. She’s apparently spooked by the mass of people and the general turmoil. I jam on the brake and ask Ron to keep the second sled anchored while I go up and get things reoriented. There’s a minor tangle, which I get undone in maybe 30 seconds, and then I lead Pull-man quickly back over the snow berm to the race course. I rush back to the sled and tell her to go and she immediately heads back toward the curb like she wants to put a nickel in the parking meter.