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

The dusky demons have begun to use my dog lot as a central staging point now that winter is here in earnest. I can almost set my clock in the morning by their raucous cries as two dozen of them strut around the yard just out of reach of the frantic dogs. If I’ve left anything outside and unprotected, such as a dozen bulging trash bags I’m planning to take to the dump, I’ve only got a few minutes to get dressed and charge out the door to scare them away or else my driveway will look like a truck bomb detonated in the borough landfill. Of course, they know I have to go to work sooner or later and will set up shop in convenient nearby trees and wait for me to leave. As if that’s not bad enough, they will sit on their perches and talk back and forth to each other; they have dozens of different vocalizations and I think I’m finally starting to recognize the ones for “silly human” and “when is he going to leave?”

At my place they’ve been year-round yard guests from Hell. I’ve been at my wit’s end for months trying to figure out how to chase them off and keep them away. Of course, killing one is out of the question. It’s supposed to be the very worst kind of bad luck, and besides, I’m quite sure they’re smart enough to take their revenge by turning my place into a real-life replay of Hitchcock’s “The Birds” if I waste one of their brethren.

For awhile I had some luck with bottle rockets. However, I couldn’t use the most effective ones (with the shrieking three-stage whistle) because they drove the dogs bonkers. So, I contented myself with the simple kind that just pop at the end of their flight, although I had to launch at least three or four just to get one in the general vicinity of my target, and the net effect was to make the dogs think they were under attack by Iraqi Scuds. Unfortunately, the extremely dry conditions this summer forced me to shut down my homemade Patriot battery for fear of burning down the whole valley. By the time the fall rains hit and it was safe to practice backyard rocketry again I forgot where I put my remaining arsenal and the local fireworks stands were shuttered for the season.

I’ve got an idea that may finally solve the dilemma of the devilish dinosaur descendants. I know where I can get some live traps and I plan to capture a few of the more brazen birds. Then I’m going to make some special harnesses and tuglines and hook them up in front of my leaders. I figure it will add at least five miles an hour to the team’s speed and will be an object lesson for the rest of their clan. And if all else fails, I’ll just put up a big KFC sign out front; that should scare them all over into the Yukon Territory….

What a difference a year makes. Last Thanksgiving Eve we had just been buried under several feet of snow, followed by a 30-below cold snap. The dogs had been idle for a couple of weeks and I was flat on my back in the Elmendorf Hospital emergency room with pneumonia.

This year we have minimal snow, but enough for decent training, and the temperature has been relatively moderate, only hitting 20 below for a few nights. I’m a lot healthier and the dogs are running often and well. Barring any major problems, we’ve settled into what might develop into a good training season.

Tonight’s run is a beginning of sorts. For the first time since the last Iditarod, I’ve hooked up 10 dogs on the sled (because of marginal trails I’ve so far limited my training runs to eight). We’re headed out for an easy 18-mile run, actually a break-in cruise for a couple of the dogs. In particular, I haven’t run Buck for a week or so because of an apparently injured shoulder, which fortunately turned out to be little more than a bruise.

I expect a good run, but when we explode out of the lot and onto the trail I hang on for dear life. Somehow adding the extra two dogs has crossed a magic threshold and the team suddenly comes together as a fully functioning, Iditarod-quality unit. Indeed, I am chiefly worried the team will go too fast during the first mile or so, risking all manner of injuries too horrible to contemplate. I stand on the drag to keep the headlong rush down to something manageable, but the dogs just want to keep running and I finally give up and let them roll.

Normally they will slow down after the excitement wears off. To my amazement, though, Buck keeps up a blistering pace, loping for mile after glorious mile, and the team stays right with him. Everything is as perfect as I’ve seen it this year. The temperature is a brisk 10 above and the sky crystal clear. To the west the setting sun has erected a palace of reds and yellows and pinks. At every turn is another picture-perfect view of Denali 60 miles to the northwest, its peak aglow with the rich, golden winter light, its rugged flanks steeped in deep blue shadows.

Even when we reach the steepest hill on the trail, the one which has always given the team pause, they charge into it at a dead run, shifting smoothly into low gear to grind their way up the steep 200-foot ascent. As we crest the grade, I glance back over my shoulder at one of the finest views in this part of the state, just as Denali’s four-mile-high summit flames a fiery orange with the very last of the sun’s rays.

Still the dogs don’t let up. At the top of every hill, they accelerate as if they had just left the yard. I try to stop them at the far end of the run to give them a break but they won’t have it; little Maybelline screams to go almost immediately and the others respond by roaring off back down the trail. I have to catch the sled as it careens by, but I’m not at all put out. Finally I have a team again, and this one seems to be better than last year’s in every measure I can imagine.

With Buck bounding effortlessly on, we roll away the miles on our way back home, toward the fading sunset. In my mind’s eye I project myself out past the Alaska Range, cruising for the western horizon with Nome somewhere beneath the brilliant evening star. At first I try to put myself in last year’s race, pretending I never scratched at Rainy Pass, imagining this is somehow a way to reclaim what I lost.

Gradually I realize last year is ancient history. There must be no more dwelling on the past, only a focus on the future. This isn’t last year’s team; this is the team with which I’ll share the trail to Nome in barely three months. This finely crafted machine is going to give me a chance to redeem myself, and not just in my imagination.

Now, finally, I’ve been jolted into the look-forward mode. I’m preparing to run the upcoming race, not trying to relive the last one. As the team tears around the last corner and Buck breaks into a sprint for the last quarter-mile into the yard, I silently thank him for putting everything into perspective. There’s a lot of work yet to be done, but now I’m satisfied we’re all back on the right trail.

We’re just sliding into our first serious cold snap of the season and it’s already 30 below and dropping. When the clear, still, glacially frigid nights start to dominate our area late in November, and temperatures plunge to levels considered brisk even for the Last Frontier, the dogs must suffer along with us humans. After I feed the dogs I walk through the lot to see how they’re coping with the onset of the “real Alaskan winter.”

Wolves, of course, have survived for thousands of years in 60 below and worse, but they have always had the advantage of freedom of movement to find shelter. Dogs on chains can only curl up in their houses or on the ground.

Some dogs have coats thick enough to insulate them from cold ground and frigid air; these hardy individuals seem to be impervious to cold. For instance, Silvertip is what I call a “40-below” dog; he’s at least three-quarters wolf and his wild heritage has endowed him with a deceptively thick coat which lets him sleep anywhere he wants, no matter how cold it gets. I’m continually amazed to see him sleeping on his house or on the icy ground at 30 below, curled into a compact, heat-conserving ball with his bushy tail covering his muzzle. His coat will be covered in frost, which means he is insulated so well his body heat doesn’t even melt the fragile frost crystals. He and a few of his cohorts just can’t be coaxed into their houses during the winter, although during warmer seasons they will sometimes deign to use their accommodations when it rains or the sun gets too hot.