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

The weather was absolutely stifling, and the frenetic tempo of the city made Los Angeles seem restful. New York City was the center of the American universe: the richest, most powerful, most exciting, most modern city in the world. Since the mid-19th Century, wave after wave of immigrants had pushed the Atlantic port city to its limits. New York had the world’s grandest mansions, the tallest skyscrapers, the biggest bridges, the busiest shipping docks, the most modern transportation system. But it also had the world’s most crowded neighborhoods, with thousands of poor families stuffed into squalid tenement apartments. In summer, the smell of rotting garbage was overwhelming.

Into this seething cauldron came Balto and the dog team — to appear in theater after theater, none of them air-conditioned. But there was one high point for Balto: He got to pose for a statue for the famous animal sculptor Frederick George Roth at the artist’s studio in nearby Englewood, New Jersey.

It would be one of the happiest short chapters in Balto’s life. Roth greatly admired all animals and was their true friend. He had created dozens of beautiful sculptures — a tiger, polar bears, sea lions, elephants, a horse, a little calf straining at its tether and bleating. As one art critic wrote admiringly, Roth was “able to grasp the character of the animals he portrayed.” And Roth grasped Balto — his quiet dignity, his keen intelligence, his self-control and patience.

The famous dog and the famous sculptor had a lot in common. Roth, too, had been a late bloomer whose talents were not immediately recognized. Born in Brooklyn, he had wasted precious years as a young man trying to please his father by working in his business. He was unhappy, and failed at it.

Finally, he followed his heart and applied for admission to a respected New York art academy. But the academy director underestimated the self-taught artist — just as Seppala had underestimated Balto. After looking at Roth’s sketches, he told him he lacked the talent to become an artist and advised him to find some other line of work.

Roth’s belief in himself was badly shaken, but he decided to pursue an art apprenticeship anyway — in Europe. He spent months at zoos in Germany, Austria and Belgium, observing and sketching animals, trying to capture their strength and poise. He also studied animal anatomy and took art classes in Germany, France and Italy.

Finally, Roth returned to the United States to cast his lot in the land of his birth. This time, he was welcomed into the New York academy, where the took yet more art classes. Soon, he began winning important prizes for his animal sculptures — silver medals at major art exhibitions in St. Louis in 1904 and Buenos Aires in 1910; a gold medal at the Panama-Pacific Exhibition in San Francisco in 1915.

By the time Roth met Balto in 1925, he was considered “a master of living animals” throughout the Americas and Europe, as one critic wrote. “The spirit which conceives and touches the objects that have taken shape for our observance is exactly the one you experience in their maker’s presence,” penned another.

Roth was as kind as he was talented. The 53-year-old sculptor welcomed the travel-weary Balto into his studio as a friend. He laid out tasty dog treats and a bowl of cool water, which he kept filled as the weather was unrelentingly stifling and there was no air conditioning yet in America.

Roth was deeply impressed by Balto’s self-composure — his ability to sit quietly for hours while the artist observed him and made sketches. Balto seemed to understand Roth’s gentle commands, trying his best not to move a muscle — except for his tongue, of course. It was so hot, he couldn’t stop panting. Dog spittle flew all over Roth’s couch, but the artist didn’t care. It was a small price to pay for the privilege of getting to know and draw such a noble animal. When a New York Times reporter visited, Roth praised Balto lavishly as a good artist’s model. His comments appeared in a story in the paper.

But Balto’s career as an artist’s model was short-lived. He and the team soon boarded another train bound for yet another faraway city and another Vaudeville theater — and another and another. Life on the road became a blur of strangers, strange places and even stranger events.

In December, they appeared with Santa Claus in Kansas City, Kansas, where some of the dogs were sold to the building superintendent of the Kansas City Star , the city’s newspaper. The other dogs were crated up and sent by train back to New York City, where a publicity agent arranged for them to visit an animal shelter — of all places! (This was somewhat ironic, or darkly humorous, as the crates that Balto and the team traveled in on their many long train trips were a lot like the tiny kennels at the shelter filled with unwanted dogs and cats. Which dogs were worse off — the famous team or the unknown strays?)

On December 16, Balto and Kaasen attended the unveiling of Roth’s statue in New York’s Central Park. It was the city’s first statue commemorating a dog, and about 100 people turned out for the ceremony.

The striking bronze statue was larger-than-life and set atop a large granite rock on the east side of the elegant park near 66th Street. From the rock, the huge dog surveyed the distance — as if he were searching for a trail in a blinding snowstorm. Roth had portrayed Balto panting heavily — perhaps imagining he had just run many exhausting miles to deliver serum. The dog’s great bronze legs were spread apart; the noble body leaned forward powerfully; the gaze was intense and intelligent. Even the fur seemed life-like.

Balto could not have cared less. He had no response at all to the statue, though he was happy to see Roth again. And his massive neck snapped around when he sniffed other huskies — two showed up on leashes with their owners. But the New Yorkers and Kaasen kept the dogs apart.

Ho-hum. By Christmas, the dogs were in Toronto for an appearance at yet another Vaudeville theater. Would they ever find a home?

In the summer of 1926, Seppala was invited to visit New England. The sport of sled dog racing, which had started in Nome, had spread to several northeastern states, and Sepp wanted to get in on the action. And he had a 10-day contract to drive his dog team around the ice arena at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Togo was to receive a gold medal at the Garden for his part in the serum run — better late than never!

So Sepp set off by steamship with sleds, racing equipment and 44 dogs. It was a wild, chaotic trip. Also aboard was a team of 12 Malamutes — the native dogs of Alaska — and their driver, as well as some Eskimos and their reindeer. By the time the ship reached a whaling station in the Aleutians, the long island-necklace in the Bering Sea, the captain was about ready to toss all the dogs and both owners overboard. The Malamutes were great howlers, and every time they started howling their Siberian husky shipmates would join the chorus. The sound was unbearable, and there was no escape from it.

The seas were choppy and there was much seasickness among men, dogs and reindeer. They couldn’t get off the ship fast enough when it made a brief stop at a whaling station on Kodiak Island, known for its large population of Kodiak bears. Sepp bought 16 pounds of fresh whale meat, and the dogs feasted. But the trip continued to be rough, and four pups died between Kodiak and Seattle.

In Seattle, there was more bad news: The agents who had arranged Sepp’s tour and were to pay for his expenses had gone out of business. Sepp and the dogs were on their own, with hardly any money and no place to stay. But not for long. Seattle had a large Norwegian community, and a fellow countryman offered to put Sepp and the dogs up — Sepp in his home, the dogs in a horse barn.