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

The one part of getting ready for the Iditarod which is guaranteed to drive the drivers to distraction is the food drop. Planning and executing it is like organizing a Himalayan expedition from scratch. A new musher like me can easily spend weeks putting everything together, not to mention a couple thousand dollars. Even veterans tend to pull their hair out as food drop approaches; sleepless nights and irritable dispositions are the norm while the process is underway.

The rules are disarmingly brief, merely requiring every musher to ship a minimum amount of food out to each of the major checkpoints: this means at least five pounds of food for each dog at 14 locations, in addition to personal goodies and other gear. But it’s not as simple as it sounds.

Lots of factors must be considered in assembling a ton or so of food and equipment for a trip of almost 1,200 miles. For instance, dogs get tired and cranky after several days on the trail and can become picky eaters, so a variety of food is required to tempt their palates. This means mushers must anticipate what their dogs might like and try to cover the waterfront with a selection of entrees like lamb, beef, chicken, turkey, liver, beaver, seal, fish, and a breathtaking array of off-the-wall homemade concoctions — all in addition to a basic fare of commercial dry dog food.

Then there’s race strategy to be considered. Some drivers like to “rabbit” and go as far and as fast as they can before stopping to take their mandatory 24-hour layover, while some like to get it out of the way early on. Regardless, extra food for dogs and driver must be allocated for one or more likely stopping points.

Many mushers like to ship replacement sleds ahead (the race allows no more than two). Sleds break with alarming frequency, and sometimes they can’t be fixed well enough to hold up for the long haul to Nome. Many mushers count on changing sleds after crossing the Alaska Range, and some will switch to a lighter, faster sled out on the coast when they’re likely to have fewer dogs.

All drivers also ship out several replacement sets of plastic runner bottoms; the dogs have a tough enough time of it without having to pull a sled with chewed-up bottoms. Booties for the dogs are another major item — most mushers send out more than 1,000 of them, along with dozens of various lines and snaps. The problem, of course, is deciding just where to ship these key items.

Bags of dog food and supplies sent ahead by mushers await the teams at the Ophir checkpoint. Each musher pays the race organization to ship about a ton of food and other gear to more than 15 checkpoints.

Every musher has to ship out personal food and consumables. For instance, headlamps go through four D-cell alkaline batteries every four to six hours of use, and the bulbs don’t last forever, either. Air-activated disposable charcoal hand warmers are another high-consumption item— some drivers use many dozens of them on the race. And there are other small necessities like dry socks and underwear and spare batteries for the inevitable Walkman, all of which have to be laid out ahead of time.

Musher food is no small matter: Every driver must ensure he or she has enough calories and variety to sustain a grueling pace that can demand 5,000 calories a day. “People food” on the race runs the gamut from peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with candy bars on the side to precooked multi-course gourmet dinners, vacuum-sealed and frozen for quick reheating. Even with the most appetizing bill of fare, however, most mushers lose weight on the race, usually because they simply forget to eat the delicacies they’ve so thoughtfully provided for themselves.

Much of the food going into the bags for the dogs and for me is dependent on the so-called “cooker” I will carry in the sled all the way to Nome. This is actually an enclosed alcohol stove with a metal pot for heating water or melting snow; it isn’t actually used to cook. Of course, as the water heats, it’s perfect for thawing packages of frozen “people food” like burritos or even entire dinners, so in a sense it actually is a cooker. On early Iditarods, mushers built wood fires to make and heat water; later, charcoal stoves were used, but alcohol cookers proved to be most efficient and are now the standard for mushers everywhere.

The entire complicated inventory has to be sorted and packed into special pre-marked, color-coded bags for each checkpoint by two weeks before the race. Most mushers end up packing 40 or 50 bags totaling 2,000 pounds. The race organization collects and ships all the bags and charges the mushers a flat rate of about 25 cents a pound.

Some drivers claim this is the hardest part of the race. Most will readily say actually running the dogs is anticlimactic and many consider the travails of the trail a positively pleasant counterpoint to the logistical nightmare of the food drop.

As for me, I waited as long as I could because a lot of the meat I’m going to ship out comes frozen in 50-pound blocks and has to be sawed into dog-sized chunks. We’ve been in the throes of a midwinter thaw, with temperatures in Anchorage as high as 50 degrees. Since I have no frozen storage capability, the meat could have gone bad if I’d bought it and cut it too soon. If I had waited too long, I might not have gotten it cut in time, or I might not have found what I needed because of the dozens of other mushers with similar plans.

Luckily, I timed it right, although it was closer than I liked. The weather cooled off over the past few days and we are almost below zero. I managed to get everything I wanted: 600 pounds of super-premium dry dog food, 300 pounds of lamb, 200 pounds of beef, 200 of horsemeat, 200 of chicken, 100 of turkey skins, and 200 of herring. It wasn’t cheap or easy, but the dogs will eat like kings.

My personal commissary is a junk food junkie’s delight. Almost everything is precooked and ready to heat and eat, or even to choke down frozen if needed. At worst, a few items only need some hot water, which I’ll make at every checkpoint anyway. The menu includes half a dozen pizzas (the slices are individually vacuum-sealed and frozen), several dozen burritos, packages of instant oatmeal, and cups of noodles for every checkpoint. For munching along the trail, I’ve tossed in 10 pounds or so of trail mix, frozen orange slices, lots of beef jerky, boxes of cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers, and enough chocolate to keep me on a permanent buzz.

What I’ll probably enjoy most, though, is my own canned smoked salmon, which I put up this past summer to use on the race. I’ve been catching, smoking, canning, and, of course, eating my own salmon for almost 20 years, and I never get tired of it. I’m shipping at least a couple of eight-ounce cans to every checkpoint. And there’s also a side benefit: it drives the dogs wild. If I ever get into a situation where I need that one special treat to tempt a tardy eater, all I’ll have to do is pop a can and step out of the way. I wonder what the critics of the race would say if they knew the dogs were being fed premium smoked salmon that would go for 10 bucks a pound at their local deli? I suppose I ought to ship some decent wine and a sommelier’s chain as well; I’m sure the dogs will expect nothing less.

Today is the deadline to get everything turned in for shipment; it’s five a.m. and I’m frantically working to finish up. I finally got all the raw materials assembled in my driveway yesterday about noon and I’ve been working ever since. It’s taken several pots of coffee and lots of painkillers to quiet my cracked rib, but as false dawn creeps over the Talkeetna Mountains I toss the last package of booties into its allotted bag.