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

I watch in a trance as the starter gives Martin the traditional five-four-three-two-one-GO! countdown and his team explodes out of the chute and down the alley of snow in the middle of Fourth Avenue. I feel like a footnote to history as my team is finally led into the starting position. I vaguely hear my name called and catch a snatch of my brief biography, which the announcer gets wrong.

After we’re in position with the snow hook set I quickly run up and talk to every dog, telling Pullman and Bea this is the real thing and not to do anything rash. I hear the starter give the one-minute warning and I walk back to the sled. Now the starter’s countdown is for me, and before I know it we’re off. Pullman is running well and all seems in order: the crowd is cheering, my passenger is smiling, and I even catch myself waving. So far, so good.

Then about two blocks down the street Pullman suddenly veers over the snow berm on the left and into the crowd, scattering bystanders like tenpins. She’s apparently spooked by the mass of people and the general turmoil. I jam on the brake and ask Ron to keep the second sled anchored while I go up and get things reoriented. There’s a minor tangle, which I get undone in maybe 30 seconds, and then I lead Pull-man quickly back over the snow berm to the race course. I rush back to the sled and tell her to go and she immediately heads back toward the curb like she wants to put a nickel in the parking meter.

This time there’s a tangle which takes me several minutes to straighten out, and two teams pass us. Luckily the crowd has moved back so I don’t have to worry about shooing a lot of people out of the way. In fact, a couple of bystanders help me by lining out the dogs as I untangle them, which is perfectly legal under race rules. (Anyone can help control an unmanageable team, under which category mine definitely falls at the moment.)

After we’re pointed the right way again, I unhook Pullman and switch her with Slipper, who has done all this before. I lead Slipper back onto the snow and head back for the sled. I don’t even have to say anything and the old veteran leaps off down the street with the team in perfect order behind her to the cheers of the crowd, who no doubt have recorded everything on video. I’m not sure I want to see their footage.

Now we’re moving out, swinging around the 90-degree corner onto Cordova Street, making good time as we pass clumps of spectators, all of whom wish us well. I’m starting to feel a lot better and even Ron is wearing a smile on the second sled behind me. Although the sun is shining brightly and the temperature is an unseasonably warm 25 degrees, the dogs don’t even seem to notice they’re pulling two sleds and three people. Luckily, I’m not carrying any gear in the front sled because of my passenger; gear could add another 100 pounds or more.

I’m still amazed at the power of the dogs, pulling their 600-pound-plus load with graceful ease. This is the first time I’ve run a team of 16—I only ran 14 in the Knik 200, and the Copper Basin only allowed 12—but it seems completely natural and I’m not worried about keeping them under control on the trail. I am glad, however, we’re not starting with 20 dogs as in previous years; that would be just too much.

After a southbound run of 10 or 12 blocks we come to the hill at the end of Cordova Street leading down to the 200-mile city bike path network, which in the winter doubles as a maze of cross-country ski trails — and is occasionally used as a dog track. We pound down the hill and onto the perfectly groomed trail as if we actually knew what we’re doing. The bike path runs along the extensive city greenbelt system and there are fewer people down here; the dogs relax and so do I. We’re on our way at last.

After another half mile or so I figure the team has settled down enough to let my passenger from the Big Apple get a taste of the real thing. We’ve already talked this over, and as soon as I stop he and Ron swap places. We’re off again in less than 15 seconds, with my passenger-turned-instant-musher hanging on for dear life on the second sled. He quickly seems to get the knack of it and keeps things in reasonable order as we roar around a couple of sharp turns. I look back now and again and I think he’s smiling, but I’m not sure.

I certainly hope he’s enjoying it, because not many mushers are letting their guests ride the runners today. If he can go home and tell everyone back east how much the dogs enjoy this, maybe we can overcome some of the bad press the animal rights crazies have heaped on the race in the past few years. Besides, the race can always use new supporters to offset our horrendous loss of major sponsors over the past year or two, most of whom have been scared off by groups like Friends of Animals and the Humane Society of the United States and their single-issue cohorts, who are apparently more interested in raising money for themselves than in trying to understand what it’s like to run dogs.

We all know the Iditarod is a vulnerable target for these people, who would have every dog be nothing more than a “companion animal” to lie around and get fat and lazy and probably die early from boredom and too many table leftovers. To my dogs, such enforced inactivity would be a fate worse than death. Running is as natural to them as flying is to birds. They’re smart, inquisitive animals and they live for the trail. They even get bored when we run the same training trail too often.

Some mushers have suggested the “animaniacs” establish their credibility by going after heavyweights like greyhound or horse racing. Both of these are high-stakes, money-oriented industries which have little room for mediocrity in their animals and even less patience for meddling do-gooders. If the animal-rights folks did poke their noses into their neighborhood horse tracks or greyhound emporia, they’d probably receive intimidating visits from menacing squads of corporate lawyers in expensive suits with shiny black briefcases and no sense of humor, urging them to direct their well-meaning attentions elsewhere, or else. The Iditarod doesn’t operate that way, although it’s certainly a thought to bear in mind. In the meantime, we far-from-affluent mushers can only head on down the trail and try to circle our sleds when the heat gets too intense.

Soon we reach the dropoff point for my passenger, who seems mildly dazed by the whole experience, but is apparently happy. Ron hops back on the second sled and we roar off toward Eagle River. After a few more miles we slowly pull up on Wayne Curtis and his purebred Siberians. My guys are a little faster than his, and just like in the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300 he lets me by. His leaders immediately start chasing my team and we run together for five or six miles, until his team gets distracted at a congested road crossing and takes a wrong turn.

Ron and I basically have the trail to ourselves for the rest of the way into Eagle River. The weather couldn’t be more beautiful (if on the warm side) and the dogs have never run better. If the rest of the race is anything like this, I’ll be kicking myself for not doing it sooner. As we cruise across the snow-covered Moose Run golf course on the Fort Richardson Army post I remark to Ron I’ve always wanted to run a dog team from Anchorage to Eagle River (where I lived for six years), but I never figured it would be in the Iditarod.

The leg from Anchorage to Eagle River is a favorite for spectators. Teams are pulling two sleds for this stretch. Here the author and neighbor Ron Aldrich (on second sled) pass a group of well-wishers.

After a tricky section leading down to the crossing of the town’s namesake stream, we haul up the long hill to the Eagle River VFW post, which has been the traditional first checkpoint for the Iditarod since the race’s inception. Like the other 20-odd teams ahead of us — and the 30 or so behind us — we receive a rousing reception. The first 20 miles of the race are under our belt. Even if it’s just been ceremonial and the times aren’t officially recorded, we’re still on our way.