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

As a matter of practical necessity Alaska permits dispatching a moose to protect life and property — or a dog team. And the moose isn’t wasted: the musher is required by law to take steps to keep the meat from spoiling and notify the authorities. This applies even in the middle of a race and following drivers must help before they can continue. The meat is later recovered and is given to local charities for distribution. However, it’s safe to say any musher would much prefer to buy a truck full of groceries for the needy than use a dog team to troll for charity meat on the trail. As for me, if donating to the local food bank will somehow keep the moose out of my team, just tell me where to drop the goodies.

It’s finally time for the Copper Basin 300. This is the second of the two qualifying races I must run (and finish), and its reputation precedes it. The course describes a 300-mile circuit around the Copper Basin, 150 miles northeast of Anchorage. The checkpoints are all on the highway system, but many of the trails between them cut across some of the most remote territory in Alaska. The race is widely known for its variety of terrain and trail conditions, its propensity for open water and overflow, and above all its cold temperatures. Experienced mushers have told me running the Copper Basin is the best practice I can get for the Iditarod, but not to be too upset if I don’t finish.

This well-meant advice hasn’t exactly done wonders for my mental state, but there’s not much I can do now. Barrie and I are on the road with dogs, sleds, and what’s left of our self-confidence. Ron and our neighbor Steve Adkins, a veteran Iditarod musher himself, will be our handlers, cleaning up after us at the checkpoints and giving us timely advice. About the only bright point is the weather for the race will be only in the 10-to 30-below range, somewhat better than the 40-below deep freeze we’ve had at Montana Creek.

At any rate, I’ve settled into my fatalistic mode, resolved to see what happens and try to make the best of it. This is rapidly shaping itself into the biggest physical and mental challenge I’ve had in many years, and I’m thinking thoughts about my own capabilities I haven’t thought in decades. After all, I’m 46 years old, not exactly a world-class athlete, starting from scratch in an extremely demanding sport, and about to run one of the toughest races in the state. I’m really beginning to wonder if this time I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew.

My confidence isn’t helped at the musher’s meeting the night before the race when I draw number three — again. I know absolutely nothing about the trail, which means I’ll have to take things cautiously and slowly for awhile. Also, I know my team isn’t as fast as most of the others in the high-powered field, which comprises some of the biggest names in mushing, including Martin Buser and Jeff King. It’s a lead-pipe cinch I’ll be waving to them and a lot of others as they pass me within a few hours after the start.

To complete my pre-race preparation, I only get two hours of sleep at Paxson Lodge the night before the start. After a couple of cups of coffee while my long-suffering handlers get the dogs watered and fed and into the truck, we push back down the highway to Meier’s Lake for the start of what I fear may be a long, hard journey to frustration.

The mental carnage is almost complete when the veterinarians checking my dogs at the pre-start vet check tell me they won’t let me run Wild Thing, one of my best pullers, who they say is too thin. Even though I know this dog is naturally thin and is in great shape, I’m not experienced enough to argue with the vets, so I have to use Kona, a spare dog I’d brought along for just such an eventuality.

So with the stage thus set, I hang on for dear life as Pullman and Bea lead 10 other uncontrollably enthusiastic bundles of energy out of the starting gate like an unlimited class nitro-fueled dragster. Mentally, I’m a vegetable along for the ride through the Cuisinart, and I only recall the race as a series of snapsots from here on.

Copper Basin Snapshot — The First 15 Miles of the Trail from Hell

From the starting line, the trail climbs almost immediately 500 feet up the side of a mountain, then down the other side and up yet another equally brutal incline, followed by an even steeper downgrade. Then it threads through a mile of trees with turns so sharp and frequent I cannot even see the lead dogs most of the time. Finally it crosses the frozen Gulkana River and settles into a merely hideous stretch laden with sidehill slopes and soft shoulders and icy stretches where trickles of water have made mini-glaciers which make control of the sled virtually impossible.

I am practically in shock and almost numb with exhaustion trying to keep the sled upright, but it keeps slipping down the cross-hill slopes and into the soft snow on the downhill edges of the trail, where it usually collapses on its side. This requires me to jump off into the thigh-deep snow and lever it upright while urging the dogs to go on.

Usually I can jump back on the runners as the sled careens back onto the trail, but more often than not, I find myself hanging onto the handlebars with my feet trailing out behind as the excited team charges on down the trail. My stiff, heavy arctic gear makes it almost impossible to regain my feet while the sled is moving, so the only thing I can do is yell at the dogs to whoa up and try to tip the sled into the snow so I can try everything all over again.

By now other, faster teams behind me have begun to pass me with some regularity. On one particularly gruesome sidehill pitch I spend the better part of 100 yards dragging behind the sled until I can get it toppled into the snow and stopped. As I lie there in the snow catching my breath I realize there are several teams behind me who have been waiting to pass during this whole episode. Without getting up I motion for them to come on by, which they do, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to conceal their amusement at my rookie antics. The driver of the last team to pass slows for a moment and asks solicitously, “Are you all right?” I answer “No-o-o-o problem!” before I realize it is Martin Buser. At least he isn’t laughing, although I certainly wouldn’t blame him if he were. My mortification is complete as I watch Martin’s world-class team speed him up the hill and out of sight.

I cannot understand how all of the other mushers have so little trouble controlling their teams and sleds over what is — to me anyway — the Trail From Hell. I still have a lot to learn about this business of dog driving. It’s a good thing I have 285 more miles to bone up in this open-air classroom before I get my report card.

Copper Basin Snapshot — Night Trail Under a Running Moon

The dogs have rested a couple of hours at Sourdough Roadhouse, the first checkpoint, and I’ve actually gotten a few minutes’ nap in the crowded mushers’ warm-up cabin. I finally realize the sun has set and I’ve got to get moving. After I finish the 45-minute process of bootying and hooking up the dogs, Steve Adkins leads the team through the crowded lodge grounds to the outbound trail.

The dogs come alive and pull with renewed eagerness into the moonlit spruce forest. I’ve noticed, the dogs always seem to like to run better at night, and especially under a bright moon. Some old-timers call it a running moon, and under conditions such as we have tonight it can make for a rare experience. For this leg, 65 miles across the virtually uninhabited heart of the Copper Basin over to Lake Louise and Wolverine Lodge, the groomed trail is like a superhighway: hard, smooth, and level. Under the flood of moonlight, the dogs settle into a 10-mile-an-hour trot I know they can hold for as long as I want to let them.