Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  Let me tell you about Summit. Summit is a regal leader through and through. He knows he is king but in a humble manner that doesn’t demand submission. A beautiful, solid male with a unique blue fur coat that makes him stand out from any other dog. His upright posture and noble demeanor inform us all that we are in the presence of power and grace. Summit can see through to your soul and know what is needed without being told. All dogs are willing to follow his lead. He is serious yet loves affection and praise (see figs. 4 and 5).

  Summit has led me through many hazards: blizzards, crazy-thin glare ice with sideways winds, snow up to our thighs, and overflow so deep the dogs have to swim. He is the epitome of a sled dog leader. Not only is he gorgeous and strong with a fiery willpower, but he has the intelligence to find his way along the trails and the heart to care enough to pull the musher and team to safety.

  Let me tell you about Blondie. Blondie came to us from the kennel of Kelly Maixner and was three years old when I first met him. Physically, Blondie has the build of an Ethiopian marathoner. His fur is thin and light colored, and there is hardly any of it on his belly. My first thought was that this dog won’t make in the Arctic (see fig. 6).

  Then, I saw him run, got to know his personality, and watched in amazement as his heart proved to be five times bigger than his skinny body. This tiny dog, by himself, in single lead, would time and again lead the entire team through thousands of miles of difficult trail. He is somewhat socially awkward but leans into my legs for assurance and affection whenever I stand near him. I have never seen anything like it. Before long, Blondie became my number one leader, ever ready to give you his all.

  Now, let me tell you about Rambo. Rambo is a team dog. The lead dogs aren’t the only critical part of the team. Rambo was never technically a leader, as far as running at the front of the team goes, but he was the strongest of team dogs for his entire career. There never was a more resilient and capable dog than Rambo. When it is time to go, he is the first one standing. When the winds blow strong, Rambo leans into them. When all else is going wrong and the team has nothing left to guide them, Rambo stands up, barks, and pulls the team and me through with the sheer force of his will—toughest dog I have ever met (see fig. 7).

  That is the thing about sled dogs. Beyond being exceptional athletes, they exemplify characteristics we aspire to. They mirror unconditional love, loyalty, determination, strength, and willpower. Beyond that of our ever-faithful house dogs, sled dogs have equally the respect and trust to go into unknown conditions. These dogs are born with an inherent love of travel and the ability to run.

  There is an unparalleled camaraderie found in traveling with your closest companions, and that is exactly what you get in dog mushing races. Dog races can be categorized by distance—either as sprint, middle distance, or long distance. Sprint races, such as the Fur Rondy Open World Championship Sled Dog Races in Anchorage, are run in heats over a few days, each heat averaging about twenty-five miles. Middle-distance races span one hundred to five hundred miles and include the Kobuk 440 in Kotzebue and Kuskokwim 300 in Bethel. Long-distance races are over five hundred miles long and include the Yukon Quest, running between Whitehorse and Fairbanks, and the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, which runs 1,049 miles from Anchorage to Nome. In the races, teams start out with twelve to sixteen dogs, but during training, teams can be anywhere from five to twenty-four dogs.

  While considered to be Alaskan huskies, sled dogs are not a breed recognized by the American Kennel Club. Alaskan huskies weigh between forty and sixty-five pounds and are bred for speed, endurance, power, intelligence, fur, feet, attitude, among other distinguishing attributes. They are serious athletes, not pets. Affectionate sled dogs have the heart to run in camaraderie with their musher. Some sled dogs are more akin to wolves, however, and don’t care for the affection of their human musher. They don’t bother about adoration and snuggling. They have the soul to devour meat, pull, and run to the next adventure.

  Each dog holds a unique place along the gang line. The lead dogs run out in front of the others. Their job is vital to the success of the team. Fearlessly, they find the trail and keep the team lined out true as an arrow. The bond between musher and lead dog is trusting, deep, and pure, born of mutual respect. Swing dogs stay behind the lead dogs and help them swing the team around any turns. Wheel dogs are in the back of the team, and their role is to keep the sled lined out as it goes around tight corners.

  Mushers teach sled dog leaders common commands such as “gee” (go right) and “haw” (go left). The words “up, up” or a whistle signals to the dogs that it is time to go. “Whoa” tells them to halt.

  When racing long-distance, sled dogs require over 10,000 calories per day. At home, during standard training, this is closer to 2,500 calories. Whether racing or at home, each dog eats a warm meal of meat, fish, fat, and commercial dog food. Between meals, I give my dogs snacks of frozen fish, meat, or fat, depending on the nutritional needs of each. I occasionally give other supplements according to demand.

  While racing, all dogs wear booties to protect their feet from rough trail. Booties prevent snow from balling up on the pads of their feet and cuts from sharp ice. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes but have the general appearance of a sock with a piece of Velcro to secure it to the foot.

  All mushers have a game plan before starting a race. For example, a team may run for six hours then rest for four. Some teams travel over ten hours and take a longer break. Mushers train the team for a specific run-rest schedule to use during races.

  All middle-to-long-distance races have checkpoints that store food that mushers ship out for the dogs. These checkpoints also host veterinarians and other race volunteers. When a dog becomes ill or injured on the trail, a musher carries them in the sled to the next checkpoint, where pending transport back home, the dogs are cared for by the veterinarians.

  When it is time to rest, the musher secures the sled, then puts out straw beds for all the dogs and removes their booties. I remove tug lines so that only necklines attach the dogs to the gang line. The dog cooker, a portable spirit stove, melts snow for dog food and water. Meanwhile, the dogs receive a massage while I evaluate their condition. After feeding the dogs, the musher eats a precooked meal packed in a vacuum-sealed pouch. Depending on the duration of overall rest, a musher may get forty-five minutes to three hours of sleep. If the team is at a checkpoint, there is often water provided and a type of shelter to sleep in. If the team is camping outside, however, mushers often sleep in a sleeping bag atop their sleds, but a few erect tents or bivy sacks to slumber in.

  Modern racing sleds are lightweight and often have aluminum or carbon fiber frames. The frame sits on aluminum runners to which removable plastic strips are attached for smooth gliding across the snow. A gang line stretches in front of the sled and translates the pulling power of the dogs from their harnesses to the sled. Padded by the manufacturers, the harnesses, fit around the dogs’ shoulders and forelegs and are connected to the gang line by sections of rope called tug lines. Sleds have a minimum of two metal hooks to anchor the team for short periods so the musher can stop when required. A sled bag fits inside the frame and holds all needed gear. During a race, mandatory sled gear includes a cold-weather sleeping bag, hand ax, snowshoes, booties, dog food, and a dog cooker for melting snow and cooking dog food using Heet or methanol as fuel.

  Each dog is subjected to stringent workups before being permitted to take part in a long-distance race, including an EKG test, blood work, and a physical examination. For a race, like the Iditarod, well over ten thousand routine checkpoint veterinary examinations take place by one of the dozens of volunteer veterinarians.

  The top race official is the race marshal and he or she is assisted by race judges at each checkpoint. They are in place to ensure that mushers adhere to race rules and that they provide proper dog care. The trail committee will not tolerate inhumane treatment. Each checkpoint also ha
s a checker, who records the time and number of dogs in the team upon arrival and departure from the checkpoint.

  Volunteers—over 1,500 of them—are the heart of the race. They put together the trail, handle pre- and post-race banquets, care for dropped dogs, solicit donations, and take care of a myriad other details.

  Mushers are a unique breed of their own. They are unsupported during the race and must have no outside help. Men and women are equal competitors on the trail. A skilled musher will have drive, experience, wilderness knowledge, swift judgment, and survival skills. These qualities matter more than brute strength and fitness.

  Mushers must dress and be prepared for extreme conditions. Layering is the most effective technique. Weather can be anything from sixty degrees Fahrenheit below zero to forty above and raining. Our bodies lose up to 50 percent of their heat through the head and neck. Mushers therefore prioritize quality hats and hoods, often made with beaver, wolverine, or wolf fur.

  Why do mushers push the limits of human endurance in collaboration with a team of their closest companions doing the same? The answer is indisputable: it’s the dogs, the wilderness, the challenge, the beauty. And did I mention the dogs?

  Kobuk 440

  Kotzebue, Alaska | 2012

  May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous,

  leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise

  into and above the clouds.

  —Edward Abbey

  The Kobuk 440 race has a history of mushers taking a main traveling trail that is not part of the official race trail. Some years, the Kobuk 440 board allows use of the “cut-off.” This year, they don’t. I have not traveled by dogs to Noorvik and am clueless about where this cut-off trail is. Markers are sparse and knocked over. At three o’clock in the morning, on the last forty miles of trail, I follow the brightest markers I can find, including a nice big XX marking. They look like beacons out of nowhere calling me to them. I go along my way, happy to be on the trail. The dog team is on fire, and there is no stopping them. Every dog travels with pure grace. Their paws land in sync with each other, as if they are not even touching the ground. The leaders eat up the trail with drive and hunger to chase down mile after mile. I just keep quiet, watch in wonder, and try to stay out of their way. Our team is catching up. We will win this race.

  I see two snow machines, the preferred term for snowmobiles in Alaska, coming up behind me and waving at me to stop. The race marshal gets off his machine, walks up, and tells me I am disqualified. I need to go back to the river and continue to Kotzebue, where the Kobuk 440 board will decide what to do with me. I don’t understand what he is saying. I am disqualified? For what? Unlike in the Yukon, in Alaska double Xs are a hazard marking, not a glorious sign from God to go that way. Knowing how the trails are marked in the region I am traveling would be smart.

  I make a U-turn with the dogs, going back one hour to the river. The dogs’ attitude plummets, and their nine-mile-per-hour speed crashes to six. I am a basket case after not sleeping for three days and working hard to perfect my first race. I crash. I cry out loud, screaming in frustration—all things you do not do when you have a team of dogs keyed to your attitude. Mushers don’t have the luxury of breaking down. The dogs’ collective attitude mirrors my mental state even when I don’t say a word. They feel it. They know when I am faking it. I have to feel genuinely positive, confident, and strong, or they won’t. Needless to say, I don’t succeed in this tonight. We maintain our six-mile-per-hour speed back to Kotzebue, finishing in fourth place—a very important lesson learned.

  According to the Iditarod race rules, before registering, you must run two or more approved 300-mile qualifying races and at least one approved 150-mile qualifying race. That’s three races—unless you have run the Yukon Quest, in which case you need no other qualifiers. Many options exist, but living in Kotzebue means I both want and need to complete the Kobuk 440 twice and the Kuskokwim 300. Upon completion, the race marshal signs a form certifying my aptitude as a musher, which serves as a recommendation, a stamp of approval certifying that I won’t kill myself out there. My rookie Kobuk 440 race in April 2012 is my first middle-distance dog race. I have a phenomenal team of dogs from John Baker’s 2011 champion Iditarod team. They are the best canine athletes in the world—and I am the most inexperienced musher.

  The Kobuk 440 is a local race starting and ending in Kotzebue, Alaska. Much of the history of the Kobuk 440 race is unwritten, but the oral history stays with the people who have lived it and the generations that came before them. The Kobuk 440 allows twelve dogs per team and goes through the northwest Alaska village checkpoints of Noorvik, Selawik, Ambler, Shungnak, Kobuk, and Kiana (see fig. 8).

  I have the pleasure to run two littermates, Ocean and Ripple. Both dogs are this rare blue color and have similar builds. But that is where the resemblance stops—one is male, the other female.

  Halfway through the race, I switch up leaders, thinking Ripple’s spunk will get us to the next checkpoint. I experience odd issues with Ripple—she is not acting like herself. The line is loose, and she is messing around with Velvet, the other female leader. We make our way to Shungnak, and there is a photographer kneeling on the ground fifteen yards away from the trail. Ripple takes off after the photographer. We are on glare ice, and I have no way to stop the team.

  I wave my hands to get the photographer’s attention. Within three feet of him, I come across a patch of snow and manage to stop the team. Maybe this is normal for the dogs, what do I know? As we get on through a couple more checkpoints, I continue to have trouble with Ripple not listening. She may not be listening, but she’s driving the team at a great pace, and I’m eager to keep that up. After she chases down some kids eating hot dogs on the way back through Shungnak, I remove her from lead and put Summit, her father, up front. It is only then I realize “she” is instead a “he”—Ocean has just led the team for the first time!

  That mistake did not impact my race—but taking the wrong trail out of Noorvik did.

  Rock Climbing

  Laramie, Wyoming | 1997

  Man cannot discover new oceans until

  he has courage to lose sight of the shore.

  —Proverb

  On the outside, I am full of life, passion, and vitality. I work hard for the things I want. I yearn to experience wild places, athletics, dog teams, a family, archaeology, and Josh. I want my dream life inspired by Arctic Daughter.

  Secretly however, my inner life holds little joy, with significant pain and suffering. I have constant nightmares that are mismatched to my reality. Gory, violent, and troubling, they make little sense. By the morning, I shake off the horror and paste an energetic smile on my face. This dissonance is what eating disorders thrive on. It starts slowly at first as if to ease me into the addiction. Before long, bulimia is my only friend. When I feel hurt, it comforts me. It masks my emotional pain so I don’t have to deal with it. It gives me a shelter to hide in, where I can leave life’s problems behind and focus on nothing but counting calories and the scale. My wilderness nature, active lifestyle, and passion for learning seem at odds with mental illness, which can be consuming.

  I have no excuse. My parents got divorced when I was four. So what? They had two new kids each with new families. That’s cool. My mom’s new husband is a jerk. Whatever. Many bigger problems are going on in the world. How am I so self-centered that I can’t control this mental disease? I have no clue what my problem is. The nightmares continue.

  My eating disorder is a secret until I am ninety-four pounds and too weak to pursue my outdoor passions with the required energy. After a month’s stay at an inpatient program for my eating disorder, I head west, first to the Needles mountain peaks in Arizona and later to Devils Tower. I am seventeen years old.

  Josh and I meet up for our first rock climb in Giant City State Park in Illinois, where a thick canopy of trees shelters a mossy, craggy cliff. Ne
ver one to let lack of equipment stand in his way, Josh supplies us with an old rope from his grandparents’ cellar and some harnesses knotted together out of pieces of scrap cord. After anchoring the rope to a tree, he teaches me how to find footholds in my street shoes and to make my way up the rock face hanging on by my fingertips. I love the purity and minimalism when I experience my first real outdoor climb, savoring being twenty feet off the ground, trusting my partner to catch me if I fall. We are in God’s playground.

  Determined to learn as much as I can over the ensuing months, I progress from beginner-level sport climbs to leading traditional, multipitch climbs, high up, with views of exquisite places. Climbing offers me escape, connection, and challenge. It offers solace to the soul, making the eating disorder seem far away.

  Two years later I continue to climb. You can find climbing partners just by showing up. Have your own gear, practice due diligence with the person you choose as a partner, but don’t let a thing like no partner hold you back. While climbing on Devils Tower, I meet two guys who invite me to go with them to Laramie, Wyoming, to climb in Vedauwoo. I stay there for a while, working at a local bakery. Climbing fills the rest of my hours, allowing me to test my skills at a new level. If you count the doughnuts and day-old bread I take home at day’s end, it is a sweet situation.

  In Vedauwoo I learn to night climb. The idea flummoxes me until I understand just how much you can perceive in moonlight. I revel in the dramatic beauty of the moonlight mirrored on the surface of the rock face as I dance my line up the climb, Cat Stevens’ song “Moonshadow” in my head. I sing to the poor rocks, “I’m being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow. And if I ever lose my way, I won’t moan, and I won’t beg.” Butchering a classic, I continue, “Did it take long to find me? I ask the faithful light. Did it take long to find me? Will you tell me what’s right?” Once I know a basic melody, I can sing all night with gusto.