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

I suppose steam engines have always held a fascination for many people. They are (or were for their time) a culmination of man’s inventive genius, harnessing the elemental powers of fire and water and steel in masterpieces of engineering. At the same time, they are completely visible: the great wheels, pistons, driving rods — everything is out in the open, not concealed behind impersonal metal streamlining as in a diesel engine or an airplane or a car. Steam engines impart a sense of purpose and raw power in a way matched by few of man’s creations.

And a steam locomotive also has a very human side. The engineer and fireman who serve it are in a kind of symbiosis with their machine, tending its needs as they would a living thing. And the engine seems very much to be alive, breathing smoke and steam, drinking water, eating fuel, and moving in a marvelously complicated rhythmic dance. Add in the deep, lonesome wail of a steam whistle on a dark night, and it’s no secret why the steam engine has remained an indelible part of our culture even though it has vanished from the mainline rails.

The links between railroads and steam engines and dog teams may not be obvious at first glance, but any musher can easily see them. Perhaps the most obvious connection is that dog teams and trains are means to travel, and at least in this country saw their heyday in a previous, less complicated era. They are both the stuff of legends and evoke special emotions in many people. Even the narrow dog trail isn’t a lot different from a railroad track, and there’s an unmistakable resemblance between a dog team pulling a sled and an engine pulling cars.

But the real similarities go much deeper. Like steam engines, dog teams are living, breathing entities requiring special care from their drivers. They must be watered and fed at regular intervals and must have their moving parts frequently checked and sometimes even oiled; all mushers carry various liniments for sore canine feet, wrists, and shoulders, just as steam locomotive crewmen carry oil cans. Checkpoints on the big races could easily pass for water tanks and fueling stops; the dogs can only go so far before they must pause for more fuel for their fireboxes and water for their boilers.

Like the old steam engines, dog teams can be temperamental, requiring patience, tact, and diplomacy, and often as not a firm hand to correct wayward tendencies. Most striking of all, though, is the intense bond between the engineer and his engine, be it mechanical or canine. The old steam engineer came to know every creak and groan and rattle of his steel steed, just as the dog driver knows every signal from his dogs.

And finally, with the old engine crews as with mushers, pulling into the station or the checkpoint isn’t always the object of the exercise. The trip is the thing, and the stop at the end of the track — or trail — is nothing more than a temporary layover before the next journey.

This has come to be called the Winter of No Snow. Our small area around Montana Creek has been fortunate in having maybe eight or ten inches total this season, enough to make decent trails. Elsewhere, though, it’s been grim. Anchorage is looking at its first snowless Christmas in a decade, and many mushers around Palmer, Wasilla, and Big Lake are still training on dusty trails with four-wheelers.

The newspapers have been full of stories about the lack of snow and how it’s affecting winter activities, especially dog mushing. The Copper Basin has only two or three inches, and Fairbanks only five. Organizers of the big early-season races are starting to become worried, since the historical pattern indicates this may be a really dry winter.

Just 10 miles south of us, Sheep Creek Lodge had to cancel its 100-mile race scheduled for last weekend, which would have been the kickoff for the racing season. They have a little snow, but not enough to connect to our good trails just a few miles north. The only other place with decent running is on the other side of the Susitna Valley, out toward the Peters Hills. This area always has snow because of its location and rising terrain, although this year it’s a lot less than normal, not really much more than we have here at Montana Creek.

When Sheep Creek Lodge cancelled its race, Forks Roadhouse out on the Petersville Road decided on the spur of the moment to hold one of its own. The format is the same: two 50-mile heats on successive days. They’re doing it today and tomorrow (in the middle of the week) to avoid the crush of urban snowmachiners who will infest the place over Christmas weekend.

As soon as I heard about the race, I frantically worked to get our old dog truck over to the local motor surgeons so they could get it running. Once they got inside it they found a list of woes as long as my arm, but they got it sufficiently reassembled for me to put my temporary dog boxes on the back, throw the sled on top, and rumble over to the roadhouse for the race. I sounded like an Alaska Railroad freight train because the muffler system ended somewhere directly under the cab, but here I am at the first race of the season in the entire state, along with 10 other diehards.

Obviously I don’t intend to win anything; this is mainly to see how the dogs will do in the company of some serious mushers, such as Jeff King (the 1993 Iditarod champ), who brought two teams, and Roy Wade, a perennial contender in the local mid-distance racing scene. Steve Adkins, a good friend just down the road who shares our training trails, is also here; he has a good, solid team and hopes to take home a little money if he can.

Of course, Ma Nature played a little joke on us by dumping 10 inches of snow out here last night (we only got two or three at Montana Creek) and the trail is like a good deep-dish pizza: soft and extra punchy. At the musher’s meeting I draw number 3, just like I did at the Sheep Creek race last year, and at the Copper Basin 300 also. As usual, it means I’ll just get passed by everybody else.

After lots of coffee we hook up and hit the trail. This is the shortest day of the year, but it’s starting off as a beautiful one, with lots of fresh snow and a gorgeous late-morning sunrise over the Talkeetna Mountains to the southeast. The race course has been shortened to only 33 miles from the original 50, ostensibly because some of the teams don’t have enough conditioning. This disappoints Steve, who has been running up to 40 miles already on our good trails and was looking forward to taking advantage of the better training we’ve been getting.

I have a good start and my 12 dogs quickly work out all their kinks. We’re cruising and having a great time on what is essentially a training run over a new trail. Of course, Jeff King immediately shows why he is an Iditarod front-runner as he passes everything in sight. He started number 10 or so, but he motors by me about 15 miles into the race like I’m standing still. Naturally, everybody else passes me by the time I get back, but I still have a very good run and a remarkably good time overall — only two hours and fifty minutes for 33 miles, better than 11 miles an hour. I’m only 35 minutes behind King, who has blasted around the course at more than 15 miles an hour. If my guys can hold a pace like this for the Iditarod, I’ll be in super shape.

The next day dawns dreary and we start before the sun is actually up. Several teams have trouble getting out of the gate, and since I’m starting last today my team sees everything. Sure enough, I have to stop half a dozen times for minor mix-ups by the time we’re two miles out. Then I try to pass another musher who is stopped and his dogs manage to get mine into a colossal tangle. Silvertip and Yankee start snapping at each other because Wild Thing is in heat and Pullman, my fast leader, stages a sit-down strike, along with Weasel, who can be very temperamental when she wishes.