Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  Andy Sterns, a rookie with whom I ran the qualifying races, is running barely an hour behind Max on the last 22-mile leg in from Safety when another terrific storm explodes. Max makes it through, but Andy gets pinned down in a raging ground blizzard with zero visibility. He decides he has no choice but to scratch in order to get help for his dogs. He’s barely three miles from the finish line. He’s the only person to ever scratch so close to Nome, and my disappointment can’t be anything compared to his.

  Ben Jacobson is at the back of the pack but determinedly pushes on. He links up with Larry Williams, who has been sponsored by zillionaire heiress Marylou Whitney in a true-to-life Iditarod Cinderella story. They both get caught in the vicious Norton Sound storms after they leave Koyuk and are forced to hole up in a shelter cabin between there and Elim until the tempests abate. Larry makes it in a day ahead of Ben, who eventually pulls into the chute and under the burled arch after 17 days on the trail. Ben earns the Red Lantern, which he didn’t really want but which he is more than proud to receive.

  Tim Triumph’s best leader, Victory, pulls a shoulder in the Farewell Burn and Tim has to carry her almost 80 miles in the sled. He pushes on with Cooper, a ragtag leader who is a refugee from a trapline work team. Tim is dead last all the way to the coast. He finally makes it into Unalakleet, but it’s more than five days after Swingley sweeps through and the race officials withdraw him. Tim refuses to quit and forges on, being hailed as the “phantom musher.” Cooper turns out to be one of the best storm leaders ever to run the race, dragging the team through whiteouts so bad Tim can barely see his wheel dogs. Tim actually reaches Nome ahead of Ben Jacobson and Larry Williams, whom he helps through the blizzards around Elim.

  Still, his finish isn’t official, although many people (especially the media, for whom Tim has become a cause celebre) think he deserves the fabled finisher’s belt buckle as much as many of the mushers who finished before—and after—him. I have to confess a grudging admiration for Tim, despite our sometimes-significant personal differences off the trail. The more I think about it, the more I believe he did what I should have done: press on no matter what the odds and run my own race. Next year, I’ll remember. (Tim’s finish is later officially recognized and he is awarded his belt buckle.)

  My interest in my erstwhile peers aside, the pervasive media blitz is too much. I can’t watch the coverage without pangs of remorse mixed with undercurrents of extreme anticipation. Every shot of a team heading out of some isolated checkpoint sends chills through me.

  I should have been there, and I will be there next year if it’s the last thing I do. A major part of my life has been left unfinished and must be made complete. I have seen and experienced just enough—and suffered and despaired and exulted just enough—to know that I now have no choice but to keep at it until I succeed.

  The trail and the dogs own me, like an insidious drug owns an addict, like blind faith owns a true believer. Part of me is still out there with my team, on the lonely stretches I didn’t get to explore, and I won’t sleep easily until I’ve become whole again.

  April 15, 1995

  Montana Creek, Alaska

  Life goes on. The race has been over for nearly a month and I’ve been trying to put it behind me, but it keeps forcing its way back into my every waking hour. The best therapy I can devise is just to get as involved as I can in the hectic activity of the upcoming summer. Maybe a steady diet of hard work can get my mind off the events on the way to Rainy Pass.

  I’ve been working hard for the past month learning how to fly around—and on—Mount McKinley for Hudson’s. Although I’ve been flying for almost 30 years, this is “pushing the envelope” even for me. Flying for the Iditarod demanded its own special set of skills and knowledge, but working The Mountain is something else altogether. We fly our ski-equipped Cessna right to the limit of their capabilities—and ours—while still leaving enough margin for safety to feel comfortable. It promises to be a long and interesting summer, although it will be a lot of hard work and 12-hour days.

  Like driving dogs, being a bush pilot in Alaska in the summer requires a lot of work and patience to get to the payoff. Nonetheless, payoffs there are, and on a scale that (as Teddy Roosevelt once said of a trip in Colorado) bankrupts the English language. The ever-changing views of Denali, the satisfaction of a particularly well-executed landing under tricky conditions, being able to communicate to a visitor from Outside the overriding sense of awe and respect for the North Country felt by any honest Alaskan—these are rewards worth much in their own right, never mind the paychecks.

  I’d hoped to be able to continue running the dogs until breakup, but we were hit with a vicious and unseasonable late-March cold snap. The temperature hovered around 20 below or worse for most of the last half of March, and only warmed up to zero so the winds could blow. Normally, most mushers in this area will try to get in late-season running to try out puppies and train leaders, but all the trails were blown in and the conditions weren’t worth the effort to harness up and go anywhere. A lot of people just found someone to feed the dogs for a few weeks and headed for Hawaii.

  The horrible conditions continued into April, and then, after one last 25-below morning, warmed up to almost 60 in less than 12 hours and have hardly gone below freezing since. The belated warmth didn’t help the trails, though, since everything melted at an astonishing pace. So, late season mushing has been pretty much a fizzle this year.

  Not that I haven’t been busy with the dogs. Even though I haven’t been running them, I’ve been setting up to bring them over to my place from Ron’s, which means starting a kennel operation mainly from scratch. I’ve already decided on a name: White-Knuckle Kennels. This is actually part of a long-running inside joke based on some of my early flying exploits in Alaska, but seems especially apt to describe my mushing career so far.

  I brought one of the dogs over early. Josephine, a marvelous three-year-old female I acquired back in November, was bred in early February as the beginning (and, as it turned out, the end) of my “planned parenthood” program. Her bloodlines are impeccable, going all the way back to a particularly notable line of dogs on the Seward Peninsula. Josephine herself is a littermate of longtime Iditarod contender Joe Garnie’s best leaders. The only reason I got Josephine was because Garnie thought she was too small and sold her to another musher, from whom I picked her up.

  I didn’t run Josephine in the Iditarod because it’s not a good idea to stress out dogs in the last part of their pregnancy. As a rookie breeder, I was as nervous as a new father and wanted to make sure everything was just right when the day came. I needn’t have worried. Tough dogs from the Bering Sea coast like Josephine have been giving birth and raising pups under abominable conditions for generations, and the best thing I could have done was just leave her alone, which I finally figured out to do.

  Her day came—and went. Now, a week later, she looks like a big bouncing basketball with legs, head, and a tail, but she’s as lively and friendly and apparently unconcerned as ever. I worry a bit, but my friends tell me to just stay away and wait. Finally, above the rustling of the wind at one o’clock on this cloudy morning I hear the first pup’s cry. I can’t quite place it, but then I realize my team of the future is at last making its grand entrance. The others follow every hour or so: huge pups, seven of them, four females and three males, all healthy and yelping, all looking remarkably like their mother. I stay up all night but manage to keep my fumbling assistance away from where it isn’t needed. Josephine knows exactly what she’s doing; I’m excess baggage.

  For people brought up on farms, I suppose animals giving birth is nothing new. For me as basically a nonfarm type, this is suddenly very personal. Josephine is having pups because I want her to, and I’m directly responsible for her and her offspring. I feel these are my pups as much as they are hers, and I realize they are not only a responsibility but a future as well. These pups are intended to become the heart of my team in a few years, and from that s
tandpoint they represent my ultimate commitment to mushing.

  In short, I’m no longer a “walk-on” dog driver who drops in on a ready-made team for a quick run and then returns to the real world with scarcely a glance back. In more ways than one, Josephine’s pups have tied me to mushing more surely than the strongest chains.

  Being a successful “Denali Flyer” can be as challenging in its own way as running the Iditarod. Ski landings on the glaciers surrounding North America’s tallest peak can never be taken for granted. Small planes are the only way in or out of the main mountaineering base camp at the 7,200-foot level of the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. The sheer north face of 14,570-foot Mount Hunter towers barely two miles away.

  May 15, 1995

  Montana Creek, Alaska

  The puppy parade resumes with the arrival of the Iditapups. One after another, Bea, Blues, and Slipper have their litters the second week in May. Amazingly, none of the other three females in heat on my Iditarod team got pregnant. In a matter of weeks I’ve become a full-fledged dog breeder, even if I didn’t exactly plan it that way.

  I’ve already taken Josephine and her month-old brood into town to stay at Bert’s while the next wave hits, and it’s a good thing. Bea is first with five: one male and four females, all different and showing a variety of fathers (at least I know who all of them are). A week or so later Blues has seven black pups with white markings; I suspect Yankee and Blackie are behind these. Finally, old Slipper has two; I’d been worried she wouldn’t have any who would survive because of her age.

  Bert has told me Bea is a good mother, and she seems to do a good job of minding and feeding her pups. Blues likewise is super-protective of her brood. Despite her best efforts, however, Blues accidentally suffocates one of her pups a few days after it is born. I gently remove the lifeless pup to bury it, but Blues becomes distraught when I carry it away. Not knowing anything else to do, I put the tiny inert form back into her house and she quiets down.

  Next morning it is gone without a trace; I assume she buried it or, more likely, ate it. Other mushers have told me good mothers will go to great lengths to keep the den area clean, including licking the sightless pups clean of their wastes. The object of this decidedly ancient and wolflike behavior is to prevent predators from scenting and finding the litter. Eating a dead pup is a logical extension of this self-protective mechanism, and Blues is reaching back beyond the human event horizon for her rearing skills. I am still learning about my dogs.

  Old Slipper also has a problem. One of her two pups is very small; after a week it is only half the size of its brother. One evening when I get home from flying, the pup is no longer eating and is sinking fast. I decide to make an emergency run into Anchorage to drop Slipper and her offspring at Bert’s. Kim has already said she’ll take care of the pup; in the past she’s raised several little ones requiring feeding from an eyedropper and hours of close attention.

  I make the 100-mile drive to Anchorage as fast as is decently possible given the swelling tourist traffic. At Bert’s the sickly pup is still alive, but there is not much to do; it dies in my hands half an hour later. The other pup is healthy, however, and Kim says she’ll keep it under close supervision. We’d like to see the remaining pup survive; it will be Slipper’s last: she’s 11 years old and her last couple of litters have been way understrength.

  To grieve for lost pups, especially ones so young they never really started living, is probably wasted energy, but I feel a bit emotional nonetheless. After all, I’m still new at this, and besides, I’m basically responsible for the pups being born in any case. Maybe I’ll develop a harder shell to protect against this sort of thing later on. On the other hand, maybe I won’t: I’ve seen veteran mushers break down in tears when they’ve had no choice but to put down a friend and traveling companion of many years who’s been badly hurt or has gotten so old and infirm that allowing the suffering to continue would be cruel.

  I guess I’m relearning that mushing, like any other genuinely worthwhile human endeavor, requires a complete commitment from the heart, which brings with it the risk of terrible pain. And I really do think the dogs understand it all even better than we poor, sensory-deprived two-legs.

  June 10, 1995

  Montana Creek, Alaska

  Just when I thought the puppy parade was over, Black Ace—one of the lead dogs I picked up from John Allison just after the Iditarod—turned up in a family way about three weeks ago. This wasn’t intentional, of course, and I only discovered it after she was already well along the way to her unplanned parenthood.

  The proximate cause of the problem seems to have been a stray sled dog we noticed hanging around Ron’s lot back in April and May. Ron also apparently has a few surprise litters on the way from this vagabond.

  I thought for awhile about putting down the pups as soon as they were born, but then figured it wouldn’t hurt to let her keep them until they were old enough to give away. Fortunately, it’s not normally too hard to give away sled dog pups. They generally make excellent pets because they’re smart and have good dispositions; besides, I figured there might be one or two I’d want to keep.

  She started dropping them this morning while I was at work. As I get home, she’s still popping them out. I count at least eight, and as I feed the other dogs she drops a couple more, for a total of 10. For a seven-year-old dog, she’s remarkably productive.

  They all seem healthy, which is a good start. But this makes a total of 29 pups, far more than I ever envisioned in my wildest dreams. My guess is there will be lots of happy new puppy owners in Southcentral Alaska over the next few months. And I’m going to take whatever steps are necessary to ensure I stay out of the breeding business for awhile.

  June 24, 1995

  Talkeetna, Alaska

  Today is the first day to sign up for the 1996 Iditarod. Even though there’s a party down at Iditarod Headquarters and many of my friends will be there, I decide not to go because I can’t come up with the $1,750 entry fee this early. I feel I’m leaving myself out of something important, but I’d rather not be there if I don’t know for sure I’m going to be one of the players.

  Part of it may be the embarrassment of not finishing the ’95 race; I made such a show of going for it last year at the sign-up I want to stay as low-key as possible this go-around. Part of it may also be because I’m slightly superstitious and think maybe it will be better if I do things differently this time. Of course, there’s a practical side: this is a Saturday, and weekends are big tourist days at Talkeetna. I have to fly and pull in a paycheck so I’ll even have a chance to eventually put my money where my mouth is.

  So, I fly tourists and climbers back and forth to the Mountain all day while the good times roll down at Wasilla. Part of my normal local-color spiel while acting as aerial tour guide is a casual mention I’m a musher and I tried the Iditarod this year. Somehow I let it slide today; I just don’t feel up to it.

  Last year I didn’t have any idea what I was getting into. This year it’s different—a lot different. I’m a year older and a lifetime wiser about this lifestyle I’ve adopted for the foreseeable future. I’m also way behind the financial power curve and this will definitely be a no-frills race for me if I can pull it off at all.

  Even more important, I’m much more on my own now. Barrie isn’t running the Iditarod and neither is Ron. I can’t expect the same level of support from Bert, either. If I make it to the starting line next March, it will be with quite a different outlook on things.

  This time I’ll have earned my spot. Maybe it’ll mean more to me, and I’ll be less prone to throw it all away if I have problems. Maybe I’ll have a better sense of perspective. In any case, I have until the first of December to come up with the entry fee; one way or another, I’ll find the money. I’ve come way too far to turn back now.

  Virtually all mushers use chain tethers as the primary means of restraint in their dog yards. Sled dogs intensely dislike fenced-in enclosures and will often
injure themselves trying to get out. Tethers allow mushers to interact with their dogs on a one-on-one basis and promote socialization with humans. Dogs must usually be kept tied up and separated from one another in the dog lot to avoid unwanted pack behavior (and unplanned pups), although most mushers allow a few well-behaved dogs to run loose occasionally.

  July 15, 1995

  Montana Creek, Alaska

  The summer has been frantically busy. I’ve been working six or seven days a week at Hudson’s, usually 10 to 12 hours a day, sometime longer. We’re completely at the whim of the weather, the Mountain, and the Great God of Tourists. It’s a crazy business, sitting around drinking coffee on rainy days and flying nonstop until midnight on others.

  I usually don’t get home until late in the evening, and then it’s about all I can do to feed the dogs and drop into the sack. My main consolation is I’m at least earning a paycheck doing something I enjoy (most of the time) and most Alaskans are keeping the same skewed hours I am. We’re all trying to wring the most out of the magic but short subarctic summer.

  On the puppy front, I’ve been able to give away several. The smallest of Josephine’s seven went to one of my former fourth graders at Elmendorf (with her parents’ approval, of course) and four of Black Ace’s have gone to other folks around the Valley. I may keep one or two of her remaining males, but I’ll drop the others off at the Mat-Su Humane Society, which accepts puppies for $20 each and will hold them until they’re adopted.

  Bea’s pups are down at Bert’s now, and Josephine’s are back here; we felt it would be good to get Bea’s brood socialized with Bert’s kids—such pups always make better dogs. I’ve kept Blues’ pups here; I’ll probably keep all of them (five males and a female) until I can decide which have the best potential.