Men and dogs in a race across the Alaskan wilderness

Press, 8 July 1976, Page 21

Men and dogs in a race across the Alaskan wilderness

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CLAY HASWELL

“There are strange things done 'neath the Midnight Sun by the men who moil for gold. and the Arctic nights have seen strange sights that would make your blood run cold . . .* —Robert W. Service. The Cremation of Sam McGhee.

About three months ago the people of Nome, Alaska, had something to cheer about. Which may not seem particularly significant unless you know something about the place. Nome, Alaska, is a dreary little town on the banks of the Bering Sea, about 60-miles south of the Arctic circle. It consists of several tin shanties, public bars, a fish cannery, more public bars, a few churches, and public bars. The good people of Nome have a Kind of an unwritten agreement which is strictly adhered to in the winter. They do not consume strong drink before sunset. During the winter, the Arctic night lasts up to 21 hours. The pulse of Nome is chronicled se.’’-regularly in a newspaper called the Nome Nugget, published whenever the editor — a squat, grey-haired man by the name of Albro Gregory’ — feels up to it. The newspaper’s motto is, "There’s no plat? like Nome.” Albro Gregory never pulls his punches. Tourists are drawn to Nome for two reasons. Second is th” scenery: to the north, sou n, and east are bleak. featureless polar icefields. To the west is a bleak, f"tureless icefield called the Bering Sea, which is actually water for several months a year. The first reason for visiting Nome is a dog sled race called the Iditarod. a 1049-mile trek across the Alaskan wilderness. Nome is the finish line. The Iditarod dog sled race is unique; as a test of stamina, endurance, and skill no other event ’ the world is in it: class. Since the race was introduc'd in 1967. newspapers across the United States and Europe have gradually taken an interest in the event. Last year the race was covered by two American and one European wire service, a world photo network, two American television networks, one German television station, and documentary film makers from Switzerland and the United States. Only one newspaper in New Zealand had a., .coverage of the race this year, and that "article” was three sentences long. I have been asked to cor-

rect that unfortunate oversight. The race commemorates the famous serum run of 1905, when a FinnishNorwegian musher named Leonhard Seppala carried a load of diptheria serum to Nome in time to check an epidemic. Swapping dogs with fur trappers along the way, Seppaia is said to have travelled some 600 miles without stopping, in spite of 40degree Fahrenheit temperatures. Part of Seppala’s journey followed the Iditarod Trail, a line of communication to gold miners during the Alaska Gold Rush at the turn of the century. Following the Iditarod River, mailmen on dog sleds carried food, messages, and gold up and down the trail. (Note: "Mush” is an Eskimo term commanding dogs to pull; a “musher” then is the driver of a dog team.) Dormant for decades, the trail was used again in 1967 in a race commemorating the onehundredth anniversary of the purchase of Alaska from Russia. The race reached its present form in 1972, when it was expanded to more than 1000 miles, compared to 250 miles for the centennial race. Dog mushing is not a fair-weather sport! A good musher exercises his team all year round, and expenses can be phenomenal. However, a good musher can win $15,000 to $20,000 over the winter season. Last year, winning the Iditarod was worth $15,000, with lesser prizes down to twentieth place. The cost of preparation, equipment, and aerial, drops of food and supplies along the trail can cost up to $7OOO. In spite of this, 46 mushers entered the race this year, less than half of whom were destined to finish the gruelling marathon. The mushers themselves — like their dogs — are a different breed. Most are fur trappers and homesteaders reluctant to give up the traditional Alaskan mode of transportation. Others, however, come from as far away as New York and Greenland to take part There are, to be sure, some incredible characters involved in Iditarod. One

example: last year a musher by the name of Norman Vaughan listed his age on the entry form as 70. I got in touch with Mr Vaughan and asked him, somewhat naively, what kind of experience he had had in the sport. He replied that, among other things he had been in cliarge of the dog teams on Byrd’s Antarctic expedition of 1928-30, and had been mushing ever since. "I’m just a young boy,” he told me. “Age is just a state of mind. I’ll be a 70-year-old. when I enter this race, and I venture to say there’ll be more than one young — giving me chase.” Mr Vaughan was correct in his prediction — for a few hundred miles. The race began at Anchorage, Alaska's biggest city with a population of 150,000, headed north around the tip of Cook Inlet, and off toward the Alaska Mountains. Then disaster struck. Contrary to expectations, a warm spell hit, and the snow turned to slush, increasing drag on the sled’s runners as the mushers struggled from sea level to a pass through the mountains known as Hell’s Gate, at an altitude of 7000 ft. The strain was too great for many of the teams, which were flown back to Anchorage. Several mushers were lost in the hail

Farewell Station, fed his' team, and then collapsed. An air force plane flew him back to Anchorage, where doctors treated him for frostbite from the knees down. From his hospital bed, Vaughan vowe.d to enter again this year. He did. This time, his dogs strayed from his campsite during the night, and Vaughan turned out after them. For three days Air Force rescue teams combed the trail looking for Vaughan, only to have him turn up at the same

checkpoint he had left days earlier. “My dogs were lost,” he explained matter-of-factly. After ten days on the trail, the leading musher reached Ruby, Alaska, an Athabaskan Indian settlement on the Yukon River marking the halfway point on the trail. For the 600 villagers in Ruby, it was the most exciting night of the year. I found it more nauseating than exciting. The leader at that stage, an Eskimo ivory carver named Herbie "Cannonball” Nayokpuk, shared my cabin, and he spent the next four hours boiling sea! meat for his dogs over a pot-bellied stove. I

Emmitt Peters and the birth of a great musher, known thereafter as the Yuk?.n River Fox. Alaskans will not soon forget the drama played out over the next four days. “Cannonball” Nayokpuk, who earned his name by eschewing rest periods, burned a trail to Nome along the shore of the Bering Sea. “The Fox” continued to plot,, running his dogs, hard, resting them, and running them hard again. Peters passed Nayokpuk, Nayokpuk passed Peters.

The two mushers, who are in fact the best of friends, battled tooth and nail through the Arctic night. Both stopped for the night in Shaktoolik, an old whaling station on the Bering Sea coast now all but deserted. Sound asleep, I heard Cannonball’s voice screeching into the night: “You Ruby Indian!” “The Fox,” who had taken care to rest his dogs along the trail, had only pretended to sleep, and had roused his team and departed into the darkness. Nayokpuk’s team was too tired to move. At midnight the next day, the sirens on Front Street in Nome erupted as Emmit Peters, the Yukon River