Dog Sled Racing

Dog-sled racing has always struck me as among the more completely moronic of sports, a kind of brain-dead athleticism engaged by social misfits and hermits--potential clock-tower snipers and mail bombers. The races are atavistic and aloof, conducted, as they are, mostly out of sight of potential spectators and, in any case, so sluggishly slow that interested spectators are likely to perish of boredom long before freezing to death.

Twenty sled dogs are straining at their chains, rising on their hind legs to paw the air. They yelp at the humans who are untangling harnesses and choosing 10 lucky huskies who will go for a run in the snowy north woods. The dogs are wilder than a neighborhood full of suburban mutts anticipating a ride in the car. The chosen ones appear ecstatic. The despair of those left behind is articulated by yowls that slip fluidly into the howling of wolves.

While many of the world's top mushers are preparing for the historic 1,100-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race that begins March 3, some are inching along in the grueling race that precedes it: the 1,000-mile Yukon Quest, which this year runs from Whitehorse in Canada's Yukon Territory to Fairbanks, Alaska. With so much jumbled ice on the trail, it has been rough going since the race began Feb. 11. Much rougher for some than others.

While many of the world's top mushers are preparing for the historic 1,100-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race that begins March 3, some are inching along in the grueling race that precedes it: the 1,000-mile Yukon Quest, which this year runs from Whitehorse in Canada's Yukon Territory to Fairbanks, Alaska. With so much jumbled ice on the trail, it has been rough going since the race began Feb. 11. Much rougher for some than others.

The image has been part of the Alaska mystique since Jack London: a team of lunging, yipping huskies fearlessly pulling their master's sled down a frozen trail. Dog mushing is Alaska's official sport, a growing weekend pastime and a minor industry. Annual events such as the 1,150-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race from Anchorage to Nome, to begin this year on Feb. 29, have mushroomed to include network television deals and corporate sponsorships.

To put her situation last year into perspective for the mainstream sports fan, dog-musher Susan Butcher used a comparison: "In many ways, part of my job is being coach of nothing different than a football or basketball team, and last year I simply . . . had the Celtics--too many old ones and not enough young ones in there."

Dog-sled racing has always struck me as among the more completely moronic of sports, a kind of brain-dead athleticism engaged by social misfits and hermits--potential clock-tower snipers and mail bombers. The races are atavistic and aloof, conducted, as they are, mostly out of sight of potential spectators and, in any case, so sluggishly slow that interested spectators are likely to perish of boredom long before freezing to death.

A rookie sled dog racer who disappeared in blizzard conditions during a 200-mile race was found alive by a group of snowmobilers Friday afternoon, six days after he was last seen. Rod Boyce, 38, was found near the race trail in the Caribou Hills of the Kenai Peninsula, said Greg Wilkinson, an Alaska police official. Boyce was last seen while competing in the Tustumena 200 Sled Dog Race on the Kenai Peninsula south of Anchorage.

Obedience school failed to tame the restless Siberian husky. And nightly walks on the beach just left the dog hungry for a tougher workout. So three years ago, undaunted by a lack of snow and driven by his dog Czar's ceaseless yearning for the outdoors, Preston Springston started a sled dog team. Sure, people around Silver Strand beach stop and stare as Springston rides through the neighborhood on a big red cart, yelling musher's instructions to a team of huskies.

With a yell to her sled dog team, Wendy Smith began a 6,000-mile cross-continent journey Saturday hoping to inspire people fighting cancer with a tale of survival. Smith, who recovered from Hodgkin's lymphoma, plans to arrive at the Bering Sea near Nome, Alaska, in mid-April, raising money along the way for cancer programs in North America and her native Britain.

It is 1 a.m. and the thermometer shows 24 below zero in the subarctic wilderness. Overhead, furious northern lights snake across 1,000 miles of sky, great translucent belts and shivers of neon green, tinged in pink--unearthly luminescence known only to those at extremes of latitude. And beyond, colossal stars glint in shades of ruby and topaz and diamond. Crystalline snow underfoot catches the colors: flickers on an empty, quiet, cold, vast shadow land.

To put her situation last year into perspective for the mainstream sports fan, dog-musher Susan Butcher used a comparison: "In many ways, part of my job is being coach of nothing different than a football or basketball team, and last year I simply . . . had the Celtics--too many old ones and not enough young ones in there."

Defending champion Susan Butcher took the lead in the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog race as mushers began moving up the frozen Yukon River in Alaska. Butcher spent only 22 minutes in the village of Anvik before heading upriver to Grayling, 18 miles away, early Saturday. She was followed one minute later by Lavon Barve and DeeDee Jonrowe, both top-five finishers for the past two years.

Rick Swenson won the 1,163-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race for a record fifth time, taking advantage of a blizzard to beat four-time winner Susan Butcher.

Her heroes are explorers, her horizon the northern lights, which is how Pam Flowers came to be marooned on an island in Canada's Northwest Territories for the summer. "I always listened to 'Sgt. Preston of the Yukon,' " she said. "I always wanted to go to Alaska and have a dog team." Preston had one wonder dog, King. Flowers has eight, and they took her 2,000 miles eastward from Barrow, Alaska, through the historic Northwest Passage before the trail turned to water.

In nine years of mushing the Iditarod trail, Martin Buser has seen it all. And then some. Once he saw a freight train parked along the trail. A friend started grabbing his dogs, tying them up and throwing them into a box car. Only thing is, there isn't a railroad within miles of the trail. And Buser's friend was nowhere near that remote area. The long, dark, cold and lonely hours take their toll. Eyes blurred by days of subfreezing wind see trees move and faces lurking in the shadows.