Mike Dillingham - Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers - The Adventures of Balto, Back of the Pack, Honor Bound, Rivers

The situation is complicated when deepening winter snows restrict moose to the paths of least resistance — which also tend to be the same paths used by snowmachiners, Nordic skiers, and of course, mushers. The problem is worse later in the winter when browse grows scarce and undernourished moose become ornery. Toss in the age-old genetic enmity between moose and wolves (and thus dogs) and the complete scope of the Moose Menace becomes clearer.

For many mushers, moose present probably the single biggest ongoing threat to peace and tranquility. A moose can wreck a dog team in any number of ways. The most obvious, of course, is for a moose to wade directly into a team on the trail and physically abuse or even kill dogs. The harnessed dogs can do little to avoid the flailing hooves and antlers and the musher often as not has to shoot the moose to save his team and very possibly himself. The normally placid creatures can do the same thing if they wander into a dog lot, although this is much less likely because moose usually won’t intentionally venture around barking dogs. Besides, the dogs — even though chained — can at least hide behind trees or in their dog houses.

Moose can wreak woe on mushers in less direct ways. A team scenting a moose will try to break into a run, even if the moose isn’t in view. If this occurs at an inopportune time, the driver can lose control. If the dogs actually see the moose, they will go crazy. In the atavistic frenzy of pursuit, brakes and drags are often insufficient to stop the team despite the musher’s best efforts. The entire team may actually chase the moose off the trail and into the woods, resulting in no end of unpleasant possibilities.

The most insidious moose-generated problems don’t even require the perpetrator to be present. A moose walking on a trail tends to punch through the hard crust with its hooves. These holes become traps for fast-moving dogs, who can dislocate shoulders and even break legs by stepping into a foot-deep moose print. A musher whose team has barreled into a mine field of moose tracks can easily make the saltiest sailor blush with his (or her) language.

Any musher would much rather scare a moose off than try to blast it out of a team. To this end, everything from flare pistols to whistles to fireworks has been pressed into service with varying degrees of success. Some drivers carry pepper spray or mace, although these devices aren’t effective unless the moose is almost on top of the team, and then there is a real risk of gassing the dogs as well.

So, most mushers carry some sort of firearm as a last-resort moose defense. Some pack a rifle or a large-caliber pistol, while others tote a shotgun loaded with slugs and buckshot. No musher wants to get into a situation requiring heavy artillery, but once in a great while there’s no choice when a run with the dogs turns into a combat mission.

This winter we’ve had more than a few close calls with moose around Montana Creek. Thanks to the very heavy snow before Christmas, moose took to the lowland trails much earlier than normal. Even our half-mile driveway from the road to the dog lot has turned interesting. A young cow moose has come to regard it as her own and is often grazing there when I drive through in my minivan. Usually she will turn and run up the driveway until she nears the dog lot and hears nearly 100 dogs barking at her. Then she will stop, lay back her ears, raise her hackles, and make a couple of bluff charges at my car. At that point, I’ll turn off the engine and the lights and wait. After a minute or two she will think the car is dead and no longer a threat and will charge by it like a four-legged freight locomotive.

Some dogs are more susceptible to cold because of thinner coats. Special dog coats provide protection in extreme conditions. Booties protect the dogs’ feet from abrasion and trail hazards. Most dogs are bootied on longer races such as the Iditarod. Booties can last from 20 to 200 miles, depending on type and

At night it’s not a little unnerving to sit there as an angry 800-pound stomping machine materializes out of the dark and thunders by within inches of my car window in a pass that would earn an ear for any torero. At such times, even the car doesn’t feel very safe.

Out on the trails, I’ve been lucky so far and haven’t had to draw down on an errant moose. I’ve had a couple of close encounters of the frightening kind, though. One night a few weeks ago the dogs were trotting down the borough road (which we now call “Moose Alley”) on the way home when I saw a pair of brake lights repeatedly flashing ahead. As we got closer I could see a large cow and her calf in the truck’s headlights.

The cow had her hackles up and was yielding ground only grudgingly. Because of the very high berms thrown up on either side of the road by the snowplows, the calf couldn’t climb out of the road and the cow wouldn’t leave her calf behind. Of course, the dogs saw the moose about the same time I did and went wild. The brake was only marginally effective on the icy road and I could only keep the team down to a slow trot.

Fortunately the driver of the car was a neighbor and musher who understood my predicament. She used her vehicle as a shield for my team, slowly herding the moose up the road. After perhaps half an hour of this strange rodeo barely 50 feet separated the increasingly irate cow from my leaders. I had my shotgun out and was preparing for the worst if she charged past the truck to get at my team.

Finally the calf darted through a fortuitous gap in the seemingly endless berm; the cow made one false charge that scared me out of my wits and then clumped off the road in high dudgeon after her offspring. Somehow I maneuvered the team past the gap and we got back to the dog lot in one piece, although I had sweated completely through my parka. Too close, way too close.

This afternoon I’m in almost the same location as the previous incident. I’m outbound with eight dogs I haven’t run in a few days and they’re really rolling as we round a corner. Suddenly I see a blur of brown above me on the six-foot snow berm. A young bull moose has been using the hard-packed berm to reach some higher branches and we’ve surprised him. He jumps clumsily down from his perch and I’m sure he’s going to land right in the middle of my team.

I jam on the brake with everything I’ve got and manage to slow the team almost to a walk for a critical half-second. The moose lands sprawling perhaps 10 feet in front of my surprised leaders, scrambles back to his feet, and for a moment stands glaring at my team with his ears back and hackles up. I can literally smell his breath and am completely convinced the end of the world is at hand. It’s deja vu all over again,

only without my vehicular angel of mercy. It’s probably the longest five seconds of my life.

Then young Bullwinkle decides discretion is the better part of valor, turns, and lumbers off up the road. The team chases him, of course, but with only eight dogs I’m able to keep their speed down sufficiently for the moose to steadily gain ground. After half a mile we reach our planned turnoff and the moose continues straight on down the road. The dogs reluctantly acknowledge I’m not going to let them keep after the moose and they swing onto the side trail. I belatedly realize I never even tried to get out my shotgun, which is a good thing because I’d probably have blown off my own toe or clipped one of the dogs in my haste.

But too many other mushers have had dogs crippled or killed by moose attacks, even on major races such as the Iditarod. Susan Butcher was knocked out of contention on one Iditarod by a moose that killed one of her dogs. Diana Moroney, who gave me several of my dogs, lost her world-class leader for several months earlier this winter after a moose attacked her team practically in her own back yard. John Barron had to shoot a moose out of his team a couple of months ago, luckily with no major injuries to his dogs or himself. In the ultimate case of self-defense, a musher on the Yukon Quest a couple of years ago who was armed only with an ax went “mano-a-mano” with a charging 1,200-pounder; he won, but just barely.