Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  Luckily, the worst hazards have been marked with crossed trail markers. One of them is a ravine perhaps 50 feet deep and twice that across, with impossibly steep sides. At the very bottom, just when the dogs are moving fastest despite my attempts to keep them slowed down, the trail makes a sudden swerve to cross the channel of the stream responsible for this monstrosity. As the team jogs right and then back to the left, I’m left gaping at the open creek bed, which looks like a tank trap about three feet wide and as many deep.

  An old wooden pallet has been wedged into the banks as a sort of bridge, and someone has thoughtfully tossed a bale of straw next to it; the straw has obviously been smashed by more than a few drivers who missed the crossing. I manage to keep one runner on the alleged bridge while planting one foot on the bale to keep the sled upright. I stumble in the straw and get dragged behind the sled as the team inexorably pulls it on up the opposite near-cliff. As I finally regain my precarious perch on the runners, I can at least congratulate myself for not wrecking the sled, although I may have wrecked my shoulder and certain other parts of my person.

  Now I know why Martin Buser, who trains on these trails, suggested the race not use this segment for the outbound leg. He was worried fresh teams would have been impossible to control on this stretch with the minimal snow cover, and especially in the ravine. Having now seen it firsthand, I heartily applaud his foresight; the ravine would have made the hill down to North Rolly Lake look like kindergarten. Besides, I don’t think the borough would have had enough emergency vehicles to pick up all the pieces of sleds, dogs, and drivers.

  By the time we get to the Little Susitna River I’m not surprised at anything any more. This Zen-like state of equanimity is a blessing because it keeps me from running screaming into the woods when the trail quite literally drops down to the river ice over a sheer five-foot bank. The dogs have to jump down onto the river ice while I keep the sled from tumbling on top of them. When I finally shove the sled over the edge it is vertical, and almost goes over on its back until the dogs pull the front end forward. All I can do is hang on to the handlebar for the knee-popping drop, which I manage to survive without breaking anything. The other bank of the 40-foot wide river is the same thing in reverse: the dogs somehow scramble up (I don’t know exactly how) and then I have to lever the sled up and hold on while they pull everything up and over the lip.

  Fortunately the Little Su marks the end of the obstacle course and the trail becomes merely awful once we’re up the bank. A couple of miles later we swing onto an open slough where a pair of snowmachiners is waiting. I stop to ask them what the trail is like ahead; they say it’s okay. I tell them it’s been a horror story behind me, but they allow as how they wouldn’t know about that because nobody’s been crazy enough to drive a snowmachine over it.

  I inquire how far it is to Big Lake; it’s only a couple of miles, for which I am profoundly thankful. Then one of them says, “By the way, you’re ninth.” I almost fall off the sled in surprise. There’s no way I can be so far up in the standings unless everyone else has scratched, gotten lost, or been abducted by aliens. I know almost half the original 26 starters have dropped out, but that still doesn’t put me into the top 10. All I can do is shake my head and push on; this race is getting weirder by the mile.

  As we push on across the open swamps interspersed by stands of spruce and birch, the dogs seem to be flagging a bit in the bright sun when we cross the exposed areas. I try to remedy the situation by singing to them; the only song I can think of off the top of my head is Hobo Jim’s Iditarod song, whose refrain of “Give me a team and a good lead dog and a sled that’s built so fine” seems marvelously appropriate for what we’ve come through.

  My serenade actually appears to work; I can see the dogs’ ears prick up and one or two will occasionally peek around to see what’s making the terrible noise. I feel like an overdressed arctic cowboy crooning to the herd, but there’s nobody out here to critique me, and the dogs seem to enjoy it. They keep pulling steadily and soon enough we bounce onto the ice of Big Lake; the finish line is only a few miles ahead and I think the dogs want to get there as badly as I do. Our collective fun-meter is pegged by now, and all I can think of is a steak dinner and the dogs no doubt are daydreaming about their cozy boxes full of straw.

  As we proceed at a civilized pace across the lake I wonder if anyone is watching from the houses and lodges lining the shoreline. If this were a weekend, there would be thousands of people out here, since this is one of Anchorage’s major getaway destinations. Even if we don’t have an audience, I’ve got to feel a little proud that we’ve made it this far and are still looking good, no matter if the winner did pass this way more than a day earlier.

  At three o’clock we round the last bend and I see the finish line in front of the Klondike Inn and its icebound boat docks. There’s not a soul in sight. As we close on the banner strung across the ice, I’m trying to decide whether to run the dogs over to the truck, which is still parked out on the lake, or drive them up to the lodge. Then a solitary figure darts out of the bar and beats us to the chute by 50 feet. He tells me he’s the checker as he welcomes us in.

  Nobody expected us this soon—we’ve actually made pretty good time considering the bad trail, a bit more than nine hours. Shawn, who left Yentna Station with me, arrived almost an hour ago, just about the time difference I’d expected because of my leader problems at sunrise back on the river. Before I drive the team over to the truck, the checker says I really did finish in ninth place—in the money, no less. All I can do is shake my head. The world is truly turned upside down when my team can pull off a single-digit finish in a major sled dog race.

  Of course there are only 12 mushers left out of the original 26. I don’t know if this speaks to my good luck, my determination, or my questionable judgment. On the other hand, I do know if I’d scratched without a really good reason—like death or dismemberment—I couldn’t have lived with myself and I would have had severe doubts about my ability to try the Iditarod again. In any case, we’re finally done and we who stayed the course will definitely have something to talk about. After all, we finished when Martin Buser and several other big names didn’t, and we kept ourselves and our dogs in reasonably good shape in the process.

  After I get the dogs fed and bedded down in the truck, I head inside the lodge for a quick bite to eat. As a pleasant surprise, I discover I’m going to get my lost mitten back. The same cross-country skiers who caught my team on Cow Lake were kind enough to pick up my glove and leave a note at the Klondike Inn saying they had it.

  A couple of earlier finishers are still in the lodge when I come in from the cold. They are among the rookies who refused to scratch because they needed to qualify for the Iditarod; they had a sensible reason to stick it out. When they find out I’m already qualified and don’t need this race at all, they look at me like I’m several sandwiches short of a picnic. One of them asks why I did it when I really didn’t need to. All I can say is it’s a long story, longer than he probably wants to hear right now. Maybe I’ll tell it to him in Nome.

  February 14, 1996

  Montana Creek, Alaska

  Be careful what you ask for, it might come true—Part II. Our record-setting snow drought in Southcentral Alaska is finally over. Boy, is it over. After a pleasant four or five inches last week for appetizers, the main course arrived Friday and kept coming until this morning. By Saturday noon we had almost 18 inches of new snow, and it was still falling at the rate of two inches an hour.

  My trusty snowblower, which I’d never even started this winter because of the dearth of snow, was in near-constant operation as I tried to keep ahead of the fluffy deluge. Finally the skies cleared Tuesday morning, revealing more than three feet of freshly fallen Alaska sunshine at my place, and more near the mountains. Somebody living out on our normal 20-mile loop measured 51 inches.

  I’ve never seen this much snow fall in one storm, at least not in the Upper Susitna Valley, which tends to
be much drier than locations nearer the coast or the mountains. Anchorage caught more than 30 inches, bringing the entire city to a slipping and sliding stop.

  The late-season snow derby winner is the town of Valdez, over on Prince William Sound. It’s normally one of the snowiest inhabited locations on the planet, with more than 30 feet of annual snowfall, but until this storm rolled in they had barely an inch on the ground. Now they have about 10 feet, and residents there are actually breathing a sigh of relief because their late-season ski festivals (including a national extreme skiing championship) are safe.

  In our area, though, it’s a case of way too much of a good thing. Our trails are buried much too deeply to try to break them open with the dogs, and the snow is so light snowshoes don’t work. Worst of all, snowmachines don’t ride up and over it to pack it down—they just plow into it and bury themselves.

  At the beginning of the season, Ron and Steve Adkins and I chipped in to overhaul one of Ron’s old dual-track Alpines—arguably among the best go-anywhere snow vehicles ever built—especially for setting trails. Like my snowblower, it sat idle for months, waiting for a chance to prove itself, but now it just bogs to a sputtering stop in this stuff.

  Even the hordes of recreational snowmachiners from Anchorage who normally descend on us after every good snow are crying in their beers at the local lodges. Anchorage prohibits snowmachine use in the city, and under normal conditions these expatriates are so determined to use their machines they will run under conditions too abominable even for a dog team—but not now. It will take another few days for the snow to settle enough to be usable by the iron dogs. Then our problem won’t be too much snow, it will be trying to avoid being run down by motor mushers working off a season’s worth of frustration in our back yards.

  But at least there will be enough snow for the Iditarod. We’d all been worrying about trail conditions after the Klondike 300 torture test, but it’s been snowing all the way to McGrath and things are starting to look at least passable. This year has been a perfect example of my long-held belief there is no average weather in Alaska—only extremes from which meaningless averages are derived by statisticians. And you know what Mark Twain is alleged to have said on that subject: There are liars and damn liars, and then there are statisticians. And as I repeatedly shoveled one of my shed roofs to keep it from collapsing, I could think the number crunchers must be having a field day about now.

  But I’m not worrying about driving dogs for the moment: it’s Iditarod food drop time again. I tried to get ahead of the power curve this year by getting my meat cut and bagged early, but the snow derailed my schedule. After I finally got my driveway blown out for the last time and then excavated the dog food and other items buried under their protective tarps, I worked from noon yesterday until seven this morning to organize all of the little things I’ll need on the trail.

  I have 54 Iditarod food bags lined up in my driveway, each bulging with everything from dog food to batteries to paper towels. This year I’m shipping out more than 1,800 pounds of munchies for the dogs, which in total is far more than I can ever use, but which might be just right for a particular checkpoint if I get stuck for several days.

  In a change from last year, I’ve shipped out 20 bags of dry dog food from (gasp!) Sam’s and Wal-Mart. I’ve been catching flak from other other mushers for using it instead of the high-priced spreads whose emblems are prominently displayed on the sleds and parkas of the Big Names. Actually, I’ve been feeding Sam’s professional-grade stuff since last spring and—for my dogs at least—it’s turned out to be as good as the elite fare at half the price.

  Anyway, the dogs sure like it and it got them through the Klondike 300 in grand style. There’s nothing wrong with the fancy-name kibbles, but they’re a bit spendy for somebody like me who doesn’t have a big sponsor (and especially a sponsor who happens to be a deluxe dog food company). This is just another of the tricks I’m learning this time around to keep the cost down without sacrificing quality.

  The Iditarod food drop is a massive undertaking. Here the author’s venerable dog truck (minus the dog boxes) is loaded with 54 bulging bags totaling more than a ton, ready for the 100-mile trip into Anchorage. The race will ship out more than 100,000 pounds of musher bags, plus another 50,000 pounds of race equipment and supplies to two dozen checkpoints scattered between Anchorage to Nome.

  I’ve gone over my checklist at least three times to make sure I’ve packed everything I intended, and I’m finally to the point of closing the bags and loading them on my old dog truck for the 100-mile ride to Anchorage. After I tighten up the nylon tie wrap on the last bag, I go sit down on the porch steps and survey what I’ve wrought.

  My first thought is of last year, when I had such high hopes and saw the multicolored bags as a map of my trek across Alaska. This year it’s a bit different. The bags still outline my itinerary, but I don’t see them as magic stepping stones on a carefree camping trip. This time they represent tough goals to be won by hard work, one at a time, with patience and determination. I fully intend to open every one of them myself this year, culminating with the ones in Nome.

  The next two weeks will go all too quickly and there are still many things to do before the race starts. Day by day, I’m getting closer to finishing what I started two years ago. But for the moment, I’ve reached a major milestone for this year’s race, and I might actually enjoy the normally tiring drive into town.

  And when I’ve finished the food drop, I can go pick up my new Bernie Willis sled, finished just a couple of days ago. One of the more valuable lessons I’ve learned is a good sled is worth everything you pay for it. It has to be rugged enough to withstand the incredible abuse it will receive even on a short race (witness last year’s Copper Basin 300 and the Klondike 300 just past) but easy to fix when it finally meets the inevitable immovable object.

  Bernie is a pilot and an aeronautical engineer (and an Iditarod veteran) who appreciates simplicity and ease of maintenance. In the best Alaskan tradition, he has applied modern technology to an old concept. His sleds ride like Cadillacs but can be fixed with duct tape, hose clamps, and bungee cords. After last year I vowed never to be caught on a race trail without a Willis sled and the first thing I did when I sold the Cessna was give Bernie a call. The sled will be an interesting replacement for my airplane.

  I do know one thing: running the sled will probably cost me more every year than the plane ever did, what with care and feeding of the dogs and all the expenses connected with races. And that, in turn, means I’ll have to work longer hours at Hudson’s to earn the money to pay for everything. There’s a twist I hadn’t thought about: I sold my plane, so I’ll have to fly more. Only in Alaska....

  February 24, 1996

  Wasilla, Alaska

  It’s Kim’s turn in the spotlight as she takes most of my team on the Junior Iditarod. This year the race has turned ugly, with lots of fresh snow out on the river and strong winds to drift it into a hard-crusted obstacle course, all combined with subzero temperatures. Bert and Reb and I have been waiting all afternoon as the delays grow longer and the reports from the trail grow worse.

  By the time the first couple of teams have crossed the finish line on Lake Lucille, conditions have become so bad most of the trailing teams are delayed well into the evening. The race marshal finally decides to move the finish line back up the trail almost six miles. Everyone moves out in a convoy of dog trucks to intercept the inbound teams.

  After an hour of waiting, the teams start to straggle in, somewhat the worse for wear. Kim gets the red lantern, but she has held the team together in the face of the elements over a difficult-to-follow trail and everyone looks to be in good shape. As I expected, the dogs didn’t set any new land speed records. But they continued to work for her even when things got tough, and that’s what counts.

  I’m proud of her and of the dogs. Like the Klondike last month, just finishing in good order has been an accomplishment. And now it’s almost time for the
big show on Fourth Avenue. Kim will be riding my second sled out of the starting chute this year. After tonight, no one can say she hasn’t earned it.

  February 29, 1996

  Anchorage, Alaska

  I-Day is approaching with terrifying speed. I know how the citizens of south Florida must have felt as they watched Hurricane Andrew grind inexorably toward them, or the inhabitants of Pompeii as the ash cloud from Vesuvius began to descend from the heavens. Or perhaps more appropriately, one of my friends said I’m starting to have the “deer in the headlights” look.

  The week has been almost completely consumed with meetings and banquets and all the other events leading up to the moment of truth on Fourth Avenue. Of course, there have also been the last-minute shopping trips for all of the zillion things I think I’ll need to take with me on the trail: my checklist actually has more than 150 items on it, all of which I’ll try to stuff into the sled, many of which I’ll probably discard even before I leave the starting gate.

  I’m riding back to Montana Creek with Ron and Steve Adkins after the mushers’ banquet in Anchorage (I’ve drawn number 50). I didn’t want to drive my car back because I’m already so tired I was worried about falling asleep and running off the road. As I half-doze in the passenger seat, the realization sinks in that my date with destiny on Fourth Avenue is barely 24 hours away.

  Granted, I’ll get a brief reprieve after Saturday’s 20-mile run to Eagle River, but it’s time to put on my game face. Once I leave the restart in Wasilla Sunday morning, I will be living on the back of the sled for two weeks, with only occasional stops at checkpoints to remind me civilization still exists.