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

During the months leading up to the race, ITC Headquarters sends out multiple editions of the seemingly ever-changing race rules, policies, and regulations, each of which must be examined carefully for some modification which might require frantic compliance action. These are accompanied by periodic updated lists of the mushers and their sponsors. The ITC also issues a steady stream of letters, instructions, booklets, and pamphlets on everything from dog care to preparing for the food drops to what kind of vet services will be available on the trail.

Race Director Joanne Potts punctuates this torrent of type with periodic reminders to tardy mushers to catch up on their paperwork — or else. As the deadline for forms submission approaches, her gentle memos grow ever more forceful. I’m sure more than a few drivers have wondered if she ever worked for a collection agency at some time in the past.

The dogs generate their own blizzard of paper. As race day draws near, every dog must have a valid rabies vaccination certificate, proof of inoculation against parvo, distemper, and corona virus, and a signed record of having been dosed with a special race-provided worming medicine. Every canine must also receive an electrocardiogram with the ensuing printout (all free of charge), as well as a complete pre-race vet check and certificate of health (also provided by the race organization).

Finally, the week leading up to race day is consumed by meetings and briefings, with still more handouts and notes. Rookies must also endure the real-life edition of the interminable video they viewed months before. And then everyone goes to the mushers’ banquet on the Thursday before the race to draw for starting positions; this alone can take six hours, and at a time when most drivers would just as soon get a good night’s sleep.

Any musher could easily fill up a couple of good-sized boxes just with paperwork by banquet time. Most, however, take it all in stride, although not without some inevitable grouching about bureaucrats and paper-pushers. But there’s a reason for killing all the trees: having worked the support side, I know the Iditarod is really a large and complex undertaking more akin to a major military operation than a sporting event. While some of the paperwork may arguably be administrative overkill, most of it — and the draconian measures such as $100 fines used to enforce its timely submission — has evolved out of necessity over the years. The number of potentially show-stopping loose ends in an enterprise of this magnitude is mind-boggling. It’s a wonder more race personnel don’t get ulcers and suffer screaming nervous breakdowns.

This year’s race manager and chief candidate for stress-induced gastric upset is Jack Niggemyer, whom I’ve known for a number of years. He’s held this position for much of the past decade, with a couple of breaks for such diversions as climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and being the Iditarod color commentator for ABC Wide World of Sports. Jack is a musher, of course, but he’s never gotten around to running the Iditarod because of injuries and other problems. In fact, many of Bert Hanson’s dogs — comprising most of my team — were in Jack’s kennel before we moved them up to Montana Creek, and Jack ran them on some of the shorter races like the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300. So, Jack knows more than I do about many of my dogs, and he’s offered me lots of on-the-side advice and encouragement.

The race manager position is one of the few full-time paid positions in the Iditarod organization; many people who know what the job entails will say whatever the pay is, it’s not enough. The race manager must make arrangements for just about everything from Anchorage to Nome, including the actual building of the trail, which is nothing less than a yearly highway construction project. Setting up the two dozen or so checkpoints involves intricate agreements and sometimes protracted negotiations with village governments, lodge owners, and government agencies. Dog lots must be set up, logistics must be arranged, and lodging and work space found for race volunteers and mushers. And all of this must be done within what is often a miserly budget that seemingly can never be stretched far enough.

And once the race is underway, the race manager is the on-scene boss of everything. He must be everywhere all the time and if anything slips through the crack he’s the first to be blamed. In 1994, Martin Buser sneaked out of Kaltag ahead of his competitors for the 90-mile run to Unalakleet. Jack was in Unalakleet frantically trying to get last-minute arrangements made, all the while trying to juggle the media and make sure everything was in shape on down the line toward Nome. When Martin made record time and a chance snowmachiner’s report revealed him only a few miles out of town, hours ahead of schedule, reliable sources swear Jack actually materialized in at least five different places at once getting things sorted out.

The race manager is hired for a year at a time, and some years the incumbent adamantly (even violently) refuses to be considered for a follow-on term. Jack is one of the few repeat race managers who has managed to keep his sanity (and even several of his friends). Having watched him in the heat of battle on the trail for a few years, I’m just glad I’m not in his position. In more than a few cases, he’s had to make decisions where there was no easy way out, which can be very hard on one’s social life when erstwhile friends and acquaintances are involved.

The fact is simply the Iditarod is like no other sporting event on earth. It’s by far the world’s biggest, longest, richest, and most famous sled dog race, and a major part of its mystique is its remote route. This creates a set of problems rivaling even those faced by the Olympics, only without the infrastructure of roads, railroads, and other niceties of normal urban and suburban civilization. On top of everything, the race receives an inordinate share of media attention, not to mention potshots from animal rights activists and other detractors and cynics.

Putting on this incredibly complex affair year after year requires an incredible amount of effort by the Iditarod staff as well as several thousand volunteers. I guess I can’t really argue about a few reams of paperwork. Pushing a pencil to fill out a few forms so I can drive my dogs to Nome is infinitely preferable to the headaches and hoop-jumping endured by the folks behind the scenes.

Iditarod Air Force planes wait on the runway at Rohn. The Rohn checkpoint is completely isolated and is often the most difficult to establish and supply.

Having finished the Copper Basin, we are mainly concerned with keeping our teams peaked up for the Iditarod and working on specific problem areas we’ve noticed. My dogs can use some work on hills, as much to build their strength as to bolster their confidence. I don’t need any more balks at the bottoms of steep mountains, especially if I’m not in a position (or condition) to lead the train up the hill myself.

Fortunately, we have some of the best hill training trails in the state right in our back yard. Our usual 20-mile run includes some serious 100-and 200-foot climbs and is a good workout in its own right, but the ultimate ascent starts right where we would normally turn back for the dog lot.

At the high point of the regular trail, we veer onto another trail continuing on up the flank of the Talkeetna Mountains. Normally used by snowmachiners for access to the wide-open tundra areas above timberline, it’s well known by dog drivers as a super training run. After skirting for several miles along the rim of the 200-foot-deep canyon of the South Fork of Montana Creek, steadily climbing all the while, the trail winds for a couple of miles through open spruce forest before breaking out onto the open tundra.