Passions: Dog Mushing

Contributed by Saadiah Freeman

I can’t recall exactly what triggered this disturbing addiction. Was it the frenzy of excited barks, howls and yelps that greeted me as I walked into the snowy dog yard, every dog seemingly begging to be harnessed up for a joyous romp through the freshly-fallen powder? The hushed exhilaration of gliding through the winter stillness in the sled basket, the silence broken only by the swish of the sled runners and the dogs’ soft footfalls on the hard-packed trail? Or, perhaps, the elation of driving the sled for the first time as the trained leaders swung expertly to the left in response to my call of “Haw! Haw!”? These ancient and unfamiliar commands, used by dog drivers (or “mushers”) all over the world, seemed to flow up from a place deep in my belly and emerge from my mouth fully formed, as though they had been sleeping there all along, waiting for this moment to leap into life. I knew I had to find a way to make this last. I had to do it again, and soon. No doubt about it – I was hooked.

My family and friends were understandably skeptical when I told them of my new enthusiasm for sled dog sports. A self-confessed sun-worshipper from Sydney, Australia, I have bee known to rush for an extra layer in temperatures as mild as 60 F° and hurriedly press the “On” button of my trusty space heater. I also happen to live and work in New York, where the typical city apartment is barely large enough to house one person comfortably, let alone a pack of twenty or more adrenaline-fueled Alaskan huskies. And, although I’ve always loved the outdoors, warm-climate sports have historically been more my style. Nevertheless, I suspect my newfound fascination with dog mushing has a lot to do with the fact that it brings together elements of two of my long-standing passions, sailing and horseback riding.

I remember my first offshore yacht race vividly: there came a point where we could no longer see the land or any other boats. We were completely encircled by the sky above and the unfathomable ocean below – the boat’s sonar equipment could only calculate depths of less than 4,000 feet, and the ocean floor was well out of range. Similarly, the perfect clarity and harmony of galloping on horseback across an open field is, for me, another one of life’s unforgettable experiences. Reading mushers’ stories of their adventures (since my first sledding trip several months ago, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit I’ve read little else), it seems to me that traversing the wilderness by dogsled combines the awe-inspiring solitude and majesty of ocean sailing with the profound experience of partnership that horseback riding can offer.

Of course, it also appears that ocean racing and horseback riding both share other, less romantic, similarities with dog mushing. Moments of sheer terror, countless hours of meticulous preparation, and expensive – not to mention highly breakable – equipment are also key features of all three sports. I’m not sure what it says about my mental health that I seek out these kinds of activities as if my life depends upon it. Or that, once a new passion gets its teeth into me, I immediately rush out and buy just about every book on the topic that I can find. Or, perhaps most worryingly, having discovered a new passion, I inevitably begin wanting to do more than dip my toes in – I want to throw myself into the deep end. Fully clothed. With sixteen huskies, a sled and (some might say) the tattered remnants of my common sense. In short – I want to run the Iditarod.

Billed as “The Last Great Race on Earth,” the Iditarod is Alaska’s premier sporting event. It is a sled dog race that crosses more than 1,150 forbidding and inhospitable miles from Anchorage to Nome, on the state’s far north-western coast. The official website explains that competitors can expect to encounter “temperatures far below zero, winds that can cause a complete loss of visibility, the hazards of overflow, long hours of darkness, and treacherous climbs and side hills”. The reputation of the Iditarod is such that many books have been written about this epic contest. There are the race winners, superstars of sled dog sport: names like Jeff King, Dick Mackey and Libby Riddles, who, in 1985, became the first woman to win the Iditarod. Riddles’ win preceded three consecutive victories by Susan Butcher, giving rise to the tongue-in-cheek slogan: “Alaska: Where men are men and women win the Iditarod”.

The books that intrigue me the most, though, are the ones which tell the stories of rookie runs, books by mushers like Lisa Frederic, Don Bowers and Gary Paulsen. These are people who started from a position of relative inexperience and, through hard work and determination, reached their goal of completing the Iditarod, a race so grueling that the dropout rate is typically in the double digits and completing the course is a major achievement in itself – there is even a prize (the Red Lantern) for the last-placed finisher. As a complete novice myself, their stories are an inspiration. However, it soon becomes clear to me that there is a common thread to these tales: these people are definitely tougher than average. Clearly, I am going to have to muster up every ounce of grit I possess (and learn to like, or at least tolerate, extreme cold) if I am ever to complete any long distance sled dog race, let alone the Iditarod.

However, my journey into the world of dog mushing has only just begun, and there are immediate, practical obstacles to consider. New York seems almost impossibly far from Alaska, and, to top it off, summer is rapidly approaching. So, I was excited when I came across an article in the New York Times archives about Kim Darst, a woman who is training for the 2009 Iditarod – in New Jersey. The article is accompanied by a picture of Darst’s dog team pulling her and a helper on an ATV across what appears to be a suburban asphalt road. Investigating further, I learn that, provided temperatures are not too hot for the dogs, race training can, and does, take place without snow, with the dogs hitched to an ATV or wheeled cart instead of a sled. Cart training lacks the romance of gliding through the snow, and offers no opportunity to practice riding the sled itself, a skill which demands a high degree of athleticism, strength and balance. However, for this new mushing addict, it represents an exciting off-season prospect: although there may be no sled and no snow, there are still sled dogs, and it is, after all, these amazing animals that most attract me to the sport of mushing. Perhaps I will complete the Iditarod one day, but, in the meantime, I’m going to look up a sled dog kennel that offers spring mushing lessons – and, for the first time in my life, wait eagerly for the winter to return.