I went through a particularly gruesome episode with Animal Control last year after one of my dogs got excited and nipped me on a training run. Even though it was my own dog and was my fault, and I wasn’t even hurt, I dutifully reported the incident (against the dire warnings of all my musher friends) when I got a tetanus booster shot. Extricating myself from Animal Control’s spider web took me two months, including a 10-day quarantine for the dog, half a dozen letters and phone calls, a 100-dollar fine, and a trip to court to get two additional tickets thrown out. At one point I was seriously worried about being able to continue training for the Iditarod.
Needless to say, I have no intention of ever reporting another dog bite, or even giving Animal Control the time of day if I don’t have to do so. It’s a sad commentary that the Mat-Su Borough, the dog mushing capital of the world which proudly advertises itself as the Home of the Iditarod, has an animal control code easily capable of shutting down any respectable musher on the strength of a few groundless accusations, while the true animal abusers never seem to get caught.
Anyway, for an entire day there are 20 people buzzing around my tiny cabin and dog lot, a goodly number of whom speak lots of Russian and very little English. I’m continually concerned that if any of Kim’s guests gets bitten by a dog or injured on the sleds, I’ll probably lose everything I own, not merely the dogs and any hope of running the Iditarod. I finally just stop worrying about it since there’s not anything I can do.
Once things get moving, Kim and a friend take the sleds on three-mile runs giving rides to the Russians and their Alaskan sponsors. While the girls are handling the main event with the dogs, I’m able to chat with the Russian chaperones and American teachers. I’m surprised to find out the Russians are from a suburban area near Moscow, not a lot different from, say, one of the bedroom communities near Anchorage. They’ve never seen a dog lot, and apparently have little experience in rural, near-wilderness settings like the Upper Susitna Valley.
When Bert told me I was going to be invaded, I simply assumed the Russians would be from the Far East or Siberia, areas with close ties to Alaska since the collapse of the Iron Curtain (which was often called the Ice Curtain in this part of the world). These visitors are actually more like the Europeans who flood Talkeetna every summer, with Continental outlooks and experiences. Although Southcentral Alaska’s forests and climate make it almost identical to much of northern Russia, including areas near Moscow, the 49th State might as well be on another planet for these folks, judging from the questions they ask.
I studied Russian for several years in college and was reasonably fluent at one time, but I avoid any conversations. To say my command of the language is somewhat rusty would be an understatement: Russian decays very quickly for non-native speakers like me, and I’d be lucky to get from the Moscow airport to a hotel without winding up on a bus to Kazakhstan.
To my visitors’ great interest, I point out a couple of my dogs have actually been to Russia. Eddie and Weasel ran on the Hope ’92 race from Nome to Anadyr with Diana Moroney; Eddie made it all the way, but Weasel had pups in Provideniya, a couple of which are now mainstays of Diana’s team. I’ve often thought it a strange irony some of my dogs have traveled to places I’ve never been—such as Russia, a place I’ve wanted to visit for many years.
The entourage departs about sunset; I’m relieved everything went well. Next time, though, I’d like a bit more warning. I can use the time to brush up on my Russian so I can minimize the chances of inadvertently causing some kind of international incident. I wonder how I’d say, “Sorry about that—maybe the doctor in Anchorage can sew your finger back on....”
Foxes are found all along the Iditarod. They scavenge leftovers from checkpoints and prowl the remote stretches waiting for mushers to stop their teams for a snack. Unfortunately, they also sometimes carry rabies.
November 15, 1995
Montana Creek, Alaska
Every musher is, by definition, an astute observer of wildlife. This sort of goes with the territory because a dog team isn’t too far removed from being wildlife itself.
For instance, on the trail it’s hard not to take more than a passing interest in moose and other wilderness denizens capable of eliciting hair-raising reactions from an easily excited pack of instinctive predators.
Even in the dog lot there are more animals to consider than just the dogs. A moose can wander into a dog yard, creating instant mayhem as the dogs go ballistic trying to get at it, even though most of them probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if they caught it. Bears occasionally figure out that chained dogs aren’t a threat and will nonchalantly parade right through the lot looking for munchies while the dogs cower in their houses. (While bears don’t eat dogs, it’s been rumored they will take puppies if the opportunity presents itself.)
And smaller critters merit attention, too. Canny foxes and coyotes prowl the edges of the lot looking for food, and squirrels and mice and voles can demolish a bag of dog food faster than it can be unloaded from the truck. Even the resident house cat wandering where it shouldn’t can cause a commotion, since not all sled dogs are exactly on speaking terms with felines.
But easily the most persistent of God’s creatures that bedevil mushers are the ravens. Central to Native mythology for millennia because of their longevity and intelligence and mischievous exploits, ravens can drive a musher to distraction. Indeed, the black beaked bombers sometimes seem to make a game of playing with a frazzled kennel owner, staging hit-and-run raids on food caches and trash dumps with the skill and cunning of a Special Forces A-Team. Edgar Allan Poe had nothing on mushers where ravens are concerned, and many a frustrated kennel owner would love to tell every one of the brazen beady-eyed birds “Nevermore!”
Ravens and dog lots are (to the ravens anyway) a marriage made in heaven. There are always scraps of food and bits and pieces of all kinds of interesting things around the place, and that’s enough to mark it as a raven shopping mall, complete with food court. It doesn’t matter if the munchies or baubles are in plastic bags or boxes; ravens can outwit even child-proof containers with dismaying ease, usually by simply ripping them apart with their powerful beaks and claws. The dark demolishers can even open commercial trash containers: on the now-closed Adak Naval Station, it was a serious offense to leave a dumpster unlocked. The feathered felons knew how to pry open the swinging side doors, after which they would throw everything inside, outside, where they would sort through it like browsers at a yard sale.
Racing season opens up a whole new world of possibilities for the beady-eyed beasts. Ravens long ago deduced that sled dog races are nothing more than long-distance smorgasbords with lots of good scenery. They seem to know mushers’ favorite spots to snack their dogs on the trail and won’t even wait for the team to get out of sight before they descend for their feast. When my team sees a group of ravens on the trail ahead they treat it as a chance to get even with the arrogant aviators. The ravens, of course, will wait until the very last second to flutter out of reach of the frantic dogs, which steams up the team even more.
Ravens have discovered checkpoints, naturally. In some places they are even worse than wolves about breaking into mushers’ food bags. And the damage isn’t limited to rifling food bags. At a particular Iditarod checkpoint which will remain nameless, a local cabin owner unwittingly repainted his airplane the same colors as the color-coded Iditarod food bags. He never could figure out why the resident ravens were so bent on tearing holes in his fabric-covered wings for no apparent reason.
The dusky demons have begun to use my dog lot as a central staging point now that winter is here in earnest. I can almost set my clock in the morning by their raucous cries as two dozen of them strut around the yard just out of reach of the frantic dogs. If I’ve left anything outside and unprotected, such as a dozen bulging trash bags I’m planning to take to the dump, I’ve only got a few minutes to get dressed and charge out the door to scare them away or else my driveway will look like a
truck bomb detonated in the borough landfill. Of course, they know I have to go to work sooner or later and will set up shop in convenient nearby trees and wait for me to leave. As if that’s not bad enough, they will sit on their perches and talk back and forth to each other; they have dozens of different vocalizations and I think I’m finally starting to recognize the ones for “silly human” and “when is he going to leave?”
At my place they’ve been year-round yard guests from Hell. I’ve been at my wit’s end for months trying to figure out how to chase them off and keep them away. Of course, killing one is out of the question. It’s supposed to be the very worst kind of bad luck, and besides, I’m quite sure they’re smart enough to take their revenge by turning my place into a real-life replay of Hitchcock’s “The Birds” if I waste one of their brethren.
For awhile I had some luck with bottle rockets. However, I couldn’t use the most effective ones (with the shrieking three-stage whistle) because they drove the dogs bonkers. So, I contented myself with the simple kind that just pop at the end of their flight, although I had to launch at least three or four just to get one in the general vicinity of my target, and the net effect was to make the dogs think they were under attack by Iraqi Scuds. Unfortunately, the extremely dry conditions this summer forced me to shut down my homemade Patriot battery for fear of burning down the whole valley. By the time the fall rains hit and it was safe to practice backyard rocketry again I forgot where I put my remaining arsenal and the local fireworks stands were shuttered for the season.
I’ve got an idea that may finally solve the dilemma of the devilish dinosaur descendants. I know where I can get some live traps and I plan to capture a few of the more brazen birds. Then I’m going to make some special harnesses and tuglines and hook them up in front of my leaders. I figure it will add at least five miles an hour to the team’s speed and will be an object lesson for the rest of their clan. And if all else fails, I’ll just put up a big KFC sign out front; that should scare them all over into the Yukon Territory....
November 21, 1995
Montana Creek, Alaska
What a difference a year makes. Last Thanksgiving Eve we had just been buried under several feet of snow, followed by a 30-below cold snap. The dogs had been idle for a couple of weeks and I was flat on my back in the Elmendorf Hospital emergency room with pneumonia.
This year we have minimal snow, but enough for decent training, and the temperature has been relatively moderate, only hitting 20 below for a few nights. I’m a lot healthier and the dogs are running often and well. Barring any major problems, we’ve settled into what might develop into a good training season.
Tonight’s run is a beginning of sorts. For the first time since the last Iditarod, I’ve hooked up 10 dogs on the sled (because of marginal trails I’ve so far limited my training runs to eight). We’re headed out for an easy 18-mile run, actually a break-in cruise for a couple of the dogs. In particular, I haven’t run Buck for a week or so because of an apparently injured shoulder, which fortunately turned out to be little more than a bruise.
I expect a good run, but when we explode out of the lot and onto the trail I hang on for dear life. Somehow adding the extra two dogs has crossed a magic threshold and the team suddenly comes together as a fully functioning, Iditarod-quality unit. Indeed, I am chiefly worried the team will go too fast during the first mile or so, risking all manner of injuries too horrible to contemplate. I stand on the drag to keep the headlong rush down to something manageable, but the dogs just want to keep running and I finally give up and let them roll.
Normally they will slow down after the excitement wears off. To my amazement, though, Buck keeps up a blistering pace, loping for mile after glorious mile, and the team stays right with him. Everything is as perfect as I’ve seen it this year. The temperature is a brisk 10 above and the sky crystal clear. To the west the setting sun has erected a palace of reds and yellows and pinks. At every turn is another picture-perfect view of Denali 60 miles to the northwest, its peak aglow with the rich, golden winter light, its rugged flanks steeped in deep blue shadows.
Even when we reach the steepest hill on the trail, the one which has always given the team pause, they charge into it at a dead run, shifting smoothly into low gear to grind their way up the steep 200-foot ascent. As we crest the grade, I glance back over my shoulder at one of the finest views in this part of the state, just as Denali’s four-mile-high summit flames a fiery orange with the very last of the sun’s rays.
Still the dogs don’t let up. At the top of every hill, they accelerate as if they had just left the yard. I try to stop them at the far end of the run to give them a break but they won’t have it; little Maybelline screams to go almost immediately and the others respond by roaring off back down the trail. I have to catch the sled as it careens by, but I’m not at all put out. Finally I have a team again, and this one seems to be better than last year’s in every measure I can imagine.
With Buck bounding effortlessly on, we roll away the miles on our way back home, toward the fading sunset. In my mind’s eye I project myself out past the Alaska Range, cruising for the western horizon with Nome somewhere beneath the brilliant evening star. At first I try to put myself in last year’s race, pretending I never scratched at Rainy Pass, imagining this is somehow a way to reclaim what I lost.
Gradually I realize last year is ancient history. There must be no more dwelling on the past, only a focus on the future. This isn’t last year’s team; this is the team with which I’ll share the trail to Nome in barely three months. This finely crafted machine is going to give me a chance to redeem myself, and not just in my imagination.
Now, finally, I’ve been jolted into the look-forward mode. I’m preparing to run the upcoming race, not trying to relive the last one. As the team tears around the last corner and Buck breaks into a sprint for the last quarter-mile into the yard, I silently thank him for putting everything into perspective. There’s a lot of work yet to be done, but now I’m satisfied we’re all back on the right trail.
November 26, 1995
Montana Creek, Alaska
We’re just sliding into our first serious cold snap of the season and it’s already 30 below and dropping. When the clear, still, glacially frigid nights start to dominate our area late in November, and temperatures plunge to levels considered brisk even for the Last Frontier, the dogs must suffer along with us humans. After I feed the dogs I walk through the lot to see how they’re coping with the onset of the “real Alaskan winter.”
Wolves, of course, have survived for thousands of years in 60 below and worse, but they have always had the advantage of freedom of movement to find shelter. Dogs on chains can only curl up in their houses or on the ground.
Some dogs have coats thick enough to insulate them from cold ground and frigid air; these hardy individuals seem to be impervious to cold. For instance, Silvertip is what I call a “40-below” dog; he’s at least three-quarters wolf and his wild heritage has endowed him with a deceptively thick coat which lets him sleep anywhere he wants, no matter how cold it gets. I’m continually amazed to see him sleeping on his house or on the icy ground at 30 below, curled into a compact, heat-conserving ball with his bushy tail covering his muzzle. His coat will be covered in frost, which means he is insulated so well his body heat doesn’t even melt the fragile frost crystals. He and a few of his cohorts just can’t be coaxed into their houses during the winter, although during warmer seasons they will sometimes deign to use their accommodations when it rains or the sun gets too hot.
Others, especially those whose gene pools include breeds less adapted to cold weather, can run into problems when the weather turns really cold. Martin Buser said an old Native musher once told him the best indication of a dog with insufficient insulation is to look at the size of the hole melted in the snow underneath it in the morning: the bigger the hole, the more heat the dog is losing. It’s been estimated a dog can consume as many as 2,000 calories a night shivering on below-zer
o ground. This is not insignificant when the dog in question is already burning several thousand calories a day, as is common in training.
The net result of any calorie shortage in dogs is the same as in humans: an inevitable drop in weight as fat and muscle must be metabolized just to break even in the daily calorie battle. On an extended race, when the dogs need up to 10,000 calories a day and every calorie is critical, a cold-induced deficit can quickly spell major trouble.
Sometimes on the trail, dogs can simply curl up and let falling or blowing snow cover them up. They sleep very comfortably in their natural snow caves, which serve admirably to insulate them from the outside air. However, there are surprisingly few places on the trail where this kind of refuge is available. All too often the snow is too thin or the wind too strong.
Another partial answer is the use of dog blankets, which cover everything from the neck to the tail and wrap around underneath. The dogs can wear these while running; they’re especially useful in windy conditions when even the best-insulated dogs can lose heat at astounding rates and can risk frostbite as well. However, dog blankets have limitations: they’re expensive, they can be tight enough to restrict a dog from curling into an energy-efficient ball, and some dogs will simply eat them if given the chance.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 25