Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  I’ve been having serious cases of the butterflies all week and I haven’t gotten enough sleep despite my best intentions, but now I’m shifting into the go-to-Nome mode anyway. I’m mentally beginning the adjustment to the race routine, to the checkpoint-to-checkpoint rhythm that will govern everything for almost 1,200 miles.

  Last year I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was walking into; I might as well have been a fifteenth-century sailor pushing off toward the new continent claimed by all the legends to lie just beyond the horizon. This year I know only too well the new continent is a lot farther than the horizon, and there are plenty of places along the way where I can fall off the edge of the earth if I’m not careful.

  I’ll sleep as late as I dare in the morning and then load the dogs and my gear and the sled onto the dog truck for the trip back into town. Ron has graciously agreed to feed my remaining dogs while I’m away, and to house-sit my cabin to make sure the generator works and the pipes don’t freeze. I’ve already paid as many bills as I can; at least my most ravening creditors will remain at bay until after I return. I’ll have enough things to occupy me on the trail without worrying if the bank will be trying to repossess my car.

  And I’ve got to make certain I have enough left on my credit card for an airline ticket back from Nome. The $700 or so for drivers to ship themselves and their dogs back to Anchorage has become a hardship for shoestring mushers; more than a few have had to sell dogs and equipment in Nome to get cash for a ticket. Until a couple of years ago the fare was half what it is now, but new airline management stopped the good deal. To its credit, the airline contributes to the race, but this still doesn’t ease the way home for mushers who finish out of the money.

  Partly to attenuate return expenses, the race started paying every finisher $1,000 in 1990, but dwindling budgets killed the stipend within a couple of years. The net result since then has been to hang some mushers out to dry after they’ve struggled to Nome. It’s an often-cited example of how the Iditarod has become so expensive many mushers are simply unable to afford it any more. This cost inflation has especially affected Native drivers from cash-short Bush communities who must fly their teams to the start of the race and home from the finish.

  Hopefully the long-awaited Iditarod lottery should be running for the 1997 race. It been officially authorized by the state, but as usual, the devil is in the details. Once it’s up and running it may ease the race’s fortunes somewhat and might provide more than enough income to give finishers and teams a free ride home.

  The Idita-Rider program is still going strong. At the musher meeting this afternoon I met my passenger, Nancy Bee from San Mateo, California. (I keep thinking she’s from Sacramento because of the newspaper there with the same name, which is part of the chain which owns the Anchorage Daily News.) Last year the Idita-Riders generated $35,000; this year has been equally successful and the mushers think it’s a pretty good idea.

  One of the program’s goals was to help drivers and their dogs get back from Nome, but this year the money will go to the race general fund. We’ve chalked it up to hard times for the Iditarod, which has already had to lower the ’96 purse from $350,000 to $300,000 (not that I’ll ever see any of it). But everyone agrees: before too much longer we need to make sure everybody who gets to Nome can get home without having to mortgage the dog lot.

  Another topic which surfaced in the mushers’ meeting was the infamous Rule 18, better known as the Expired Dog Rule. Adopted last year, it says simply if a dog dies on the race by any cause other than external force over which the musher has no control, such as a moose or snowmachine, the musher will be automatically withdrawn from the race, or disqualified if there is evidence of negligence or abuse. The discussion was supposed to be strictly behind closed doors among the mushers and the race officials, but it leaked quickly to the press and was common conversation at the banquet this evening.

  The rule may have been a well-intentioned attempt to reduce dog deaths on the race, but most mushers feel it was instituted as a knee-jerk response to placate supposedly jittery sponsors. In theory it might look good, but in practice, drivers feel it is a gross overreaction and will be unworkable because it leaves no room for good judgment and common sense. The bottom line is Rule 18 considers a musher guilty until proven innocent if a dog dies.

  And unfortunately, dogs sometimes die on long races. Just like human marathon runners in perfect shape who drop dead in the middle of a run, apparently healthy dogs can expire of causes that are unknown—or more importantly, unforeseen and unpreventable. For example, a dog might be seriously injured or killed by, say, a branch sticking out into the trail. While everyone strongly agreed negligence and abuse should be swiftly and harshly punished, mushers argued long and forcefully they should not be expelled from the race for what effectively is an act of God.

  The issue wasn’t really resolved. Mushers were unhappy because Rule 18 turns the race into a crap shoot: no matter how well we take care of our dogs and watch the trail, we’re history if a dog dies. And given nearly 1,000 dogs running to Nome over a two-week period, the odds are one or more won’t make it.

  But as bad as this sounds, it’s still an extraordinary track record. For comparison, someone did a statistical study to show the rate of death would be far higher among the same number of ordinary “civilian” dogs over a two-week period, and no one would stigmatize the owners of the deceased dogs or fine them the tremendous investment a musher forfeits if he or she is pulled from the race. We’ll see how it works out, but the stage has been set for a really bad situation on the trail this year.

  The other main issue in the meeting was the usual one: trail conditions. Snow cover is still far less than normal. This means brush and shrubs and even rocks will be showing through on some stretches of trail where they haven’t been seen for years, and the trailblazers will have a lot less leeway in where they put the actual trail. This will mean sharper curves, steeper slopes, rougher trails, and less direct routes in many areas.

  What most worries everyone is the stretch from Ophir through Cripple to Ruby. There’s been a massive, unseasonable thaw in the area and trails are flooded or have refrozen into glare ice. The rivers are mostly open and no one is certain how the trail will cross them. Worst of all, planes have not been able to land anywhere near Cripple, a vital rest stop 55 miles into the wilderness, because of abominable overflow conditions and soft snow. More than likely, the food and equipment we’ve carefully planned for Cripple will be dropped back up the trail at Ophir, the nearest place with a serviceable runway.

  This will leave us a 170-mile run over atrocious trail, and we must be completely self-sufficient for all of it. Even for the top mushers, the run will take almost 24 hours, including at least five or six hours of rest along the way. Extra dog food, extra booties, extra people food, extra Heet for the alcohol cookers—all must be carried from Ophir. There will probably be a checkpoint of sorts at Cripple, although no one is quite sure where it will be. Since it will probably have to be run in on snowmachines it will offer little besides a couple of tents, a checker, a veterinarian, and hot coffee. No one is looking forward to this torture test. Some mushers are already looking for tiedown straps to fasten extra bags of dog food atop their sleds. For this stretch, at least, we may well get a taste of the travails of the old-time freight drivers as they fought their unwieldy sleds over abysmal trails. It promises to be the ultimate camping trip for back-of-the-packers like me. I fully expect it will take me 30 or 40 hours to get to Ruby, maybe longer. That’s a long time between checkpoints in a race, especially for the Iditarod.

  But there’s not much to do about it now. I file the airfare problem and Rule 18 and the Ophir-to-Ruby marathon in the back of my mind along with everything else and try to sort out what’s going to be critical for the next 24 hours. I’ve just dropped off to sleep when we pull up to my place. I thank Ron for the ride home, stumble into the cabin, and fall into bed still in my clothes. For me the race has already b
egun.

  Sled dogs are the subject of many veterinary studies every year. Weighing selected dogs before and after the race is part of many such projects.

  March 2, 1996

  The Iditarod

  Anchorage to Eagle River (20 miles)

  Ten o’clock on a bright Saturday morning: we’re on Fourth Avenue in Anchorage for the ceremonial start. The proverbial journey of a thousand miles is about to start with a single step, or rather, a whole bunch of steps by my frantically eager dogs. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, and the dogs certainly look to be up to the journey ahead. In any case, there’s no turning back now—it’s redemption time for me.

  The bedlam is at its customary earsplitting level with almost 1,000 dogs in a frenzy to go to Nome. The temperature will be up around freezing for the 20-mile run out to Eagle River, which is great for the crowds but lousy for the dogs. Also, we’re only running 12 dogs for this leg as a result of a new rule designed to keep teams under better control when they’re frisky and full of energy at the start of the race.

  We’ll still be pulling two people and two sleds plus carrying our Idita-Riders, for a total load of as much as 700 pounds. Most of the mushers think this may be a bit much for just 12 dogs, but then, this leg doesn’t count for time so we can take it easy. Like last year, everyone is worried about the heat affecting the dogs, especially those like mine and Steve Adkins’ and some of the ones from the Interior which have been training in subzero temperatures all season.

  Since I drew number 50 out of 61 this year, I’ll start 49th. This is because there are only 60 teams—the number one bib in the race, and the first starting position, is honorary. The parking spots are arranged in reverse order so the trucks of teams already started can drive off without interfering with teams waiting to go. This means my spot is near the front and every team before me passes by on its way to the start a block away.

  It’s quite a fashion show. I’m still amazed by the money some of the frontline kennels put into their teams, with color-coordinated harnesses and sled bags and musher outfits. Some of the handler crews are uniformed like Olympic squads, especially those sponsored by outdoor-gear companies. And the sleds are technological wonders, some with fancy seats and special handlebars and more gadgets than James Bond’s trusty Aston-Martin (or is it a Beamer he’s driving now?).

  The author at the start of the Iditarod with Silvertip, his former personal pet and accidental sled dog who is mostly wolf. Wolves have long been out of favor as sled dogs and Silvertip is a throwback to the early days of the century when mushers sometimes ran wolf hybrids or even full-blooded wolves in their teams.

  For low-budget drivers like me and Steve Adkins and John Barron, things are a lot simpler, and I’m not so sure I don’t like it that way. My harnesses are off the rack at the local musher supply store, my handlers are friends in jeans, and my sled is a standard Bernie Willis model, solid quality but far from the dream machines gliding by. My sled bag matches my slightly-the-worse-for-wear cold-weather gear, mainly because Bernie’s wife found a matching piece of fabric when she made it.

  Soon enough the bib numbers passing by creep into the 40s and we get the dogs out of the boxes and harnessed up. The teams are starting at two-minute intervals, with every fifth team waiting three minutes to allow a television commercial break. Hooking up goes smoothly and before I realize it we’re in the grand parade up to the banner marking the starting chute. People I haven’t seen for years shout encouragement from the crowd, to which I weakly wave back and put on my best smile.

  Now it’s my turn. The team is lined out smartly with old veteran Socks up front; I’m not taking any chances about going over the berm and into the crowd this year. I dimly register the one-minute warning, then suddenly it’s 15 seconds, then the final five-second countdown. The starter shouts “Go!” I yell “Okay!” and the team leaps away from the starting line with as much energy as any of the Big Names. No dives over the berm, no hesitations—we’re well and truly off and running like we know what we’re doing. I take it as a good omen.

  A full 16-dog team Iditarod team is an incredibly powerful pulling machine. In some cases, each dog has its own holder for the stop-and-go procession to the starting line.

  With Kim on the second sled and Idita-Rider Nancy Bee in mine (I keep thinking she’s from Sacramento), we make steady progress out of downtown Anchorage and onto the network of bike trails which become ski and dog trails in the winter. The only hitch is a new stretch of trail about five miles out, where the downhill curbs have been obliterated by the dozens of teams in front of me. I see the sled is going to slide off the trail as we cut across a corner. I warn Nancy to hang on but we dump despite my best efforts to keep everything upright; sleds just don’t maneuver well with people in them. We crunch against a tree and she takes some of the impact. She says she hurts a bit, but all I can do is try to joke with her and point out mushing is sometimes a contact sport as we pull back onto the trail and push on.

  A few miles later, after a storybook run through the snow-covered birch forest, we stop to let Nancy out at the pickup station; she’s forgotten her bruises and has apparently enjoyed the trip. She says she’d love to go on to Eagle River, but I’m worried the extra load in the afternoon heat would prove too much for only 12 dogs. Besides, I know there are some bad stretches ahead and I’m worried another crash might sink the entire Idita-Rider program.

  Kim and I press on. She wants to run the Iditarod in 1998, as soon as she’s eligible, and probably with some of these same dogs. This is a preview for her and I tell her by the time we unhook the second sled in Knik tomorrow she’ll already have run a good chunk of the race.

  After a couple of hours of sun-slowed running and the usual spots of awful trail and another sled spill or two, we pull up the final hill into the Eagle River VFW post that has been the first checkpoint since the race’s inception. The dogs are in superb shape and this has actually been a good warm-up run for them.

  After we get them all cooled off and fed and into the boxes I wander inside for the traditional bowl of moose stew and cornbread. As I eat I’m tired and still filled with uncertainty. Nome is more than 1,100 miles away and this hasn’t been any kind of an indicator of what things will be like out on the trail a week or 10 days from now.

  For a moment I consider packing it all in and letting go of the Iditarod. I wouldn’t be the first person to do so. Then I realize that’s not an option. I have to do this race if I want to live with myself. Finishing it is probably the most important thing I’ll ever do. It has become a Holy Grail for me, a pilgrimage I can no longer explain to anyone, and maybe not even to myself. With a sigh I finish a last cup of Tang and head out to the truck. I’ll need all the sleep I can get before the restart tomorrow—the real beginning of my long-delayed trip to Nome.

  March 3, 1996—The Iditarod: Wasilla to Knik (15 miles); Knik to Yentna Station (50 miles)

  We’re in the procession of teams creeping toward the restart on the old Wasilla airport with steady old Socks in lead. The day is already hot and clear, just what I didn’t need. I wish we could have some 30-below Klondike 300 weather so the dogs can feel comfortable.

  My back-in-the-pack start means it’s almost noon, with the heat of the day soon to come. The first teams are already 25 miles down the trail; they’ll run until mid-afternoon or so and then pull over and rest in the shade. I’ll still be plugging along, making slow time on the wiped-out trail. This is a disadvantage of a late draw, compounded by my slow team. The best I can expect is an average eight miles an hour, as opposed to the 10 or 12 of the better teams.

  We start in the same order and at the same times as yesterday in Anchorage. The starting time differential will be evened up on the 24-hour layover, but in the meantime I’m starting out behind the power curve. Unfortunately, my dogs have trained in cold weather and have heavy coats. This means I just can’t run them as fast or as long as I’d like in balmy weather like this.

  Some mushers have
begun breeding for dogs with thinner coats, on the theory you can always put a coat on a cold dog, but you don’t have many options to cool off a thick-coated canine. I can already see I’ll have to go to a night-running schedule quickly, but today I have no choice but to slug it out as best I can.

  The author’s team erupts from the starting chute at the Wasilla restart of the 1996 Iditarod. Socks and Maybelline are leading. The next stop is Knik, 14 miles away, where the second sled (ridden by Kim Hanson) will be dropped.

  All too soon we’re in the starting gate. Kim is on the second sled again, which we’ll disconnect at Knik, 15 miles away. Today we have all 16 dogs hooked up so the weight penalty won’t be as severe. The announcer gives me a special mention; we met at Yentna Station while he was covering the Klondike 300 for KMBQ-FM. He’s becoming hooked on dogs himself and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him running the race one of these years.

  “Five, four, three, two, one, GO!” We roar out of the gate just like yesterday, but 100 yards down the chute Socks decides to relieve himself before the day’s business gets too hectic. This is his trademark: when he wants to do his thing, he just stops, no matter if he’s in lead and we’re rocketing out of the starting chute of the Iditarod itself. It’s a frustrating habit, but one we’ve never been able to train him out of. So, we stop in front of 500 cheering fans while Socks unconcernedly decorates the snow.

  Then we’re off again as if nothing has happened. I turn to Kim and we shrug at each other. The crowd seems to love it. I suppose it’s Socks’ way of reminding us who’s actually driving this train. Actually, I’m more than willing to put up with his foibles in return for his solid leading. Unlike last year, I’m not really worried about getting the team to go with him up front, and the occasional unexpected pause that refreshes is more than worth the minor distraction it causes.