Musher practice only hinted at the big race

 

Last updated 9/5/2018 at 9:36am



The person who called it “the last great race on earth” was probably right.

The Iditarod is run each year the first weekend in March, with the next one is kicking off March 2, 2019.

It’s the sled dog race from Anchorage to Nome, Alaska, a distance of nearly 1,000 miles.

There are actually two routes they use, one for even numbered years and another for odd numbered years, each just shy of the 1,000 miles.

The race tests the endurance of man, beast, and equipment, with the elements usually taking their toll.

It was in 1993 that I met Stan Smith, who at the time was training for his maiden Iditarod race.

I had been in Alaska, in fact on Kodiak Island where I had a several-week consulting job helping the owner of the Kodiak Daily Mirror prepare her daily paper for sale.

On the weekend, I flew to Anchorage, where I was to visit Judy Coffman, a neighbor in Bothell, who had developed a medical practice there.

During our visit, the Iditarod race came up and Judy stated that she knew a guy who was preparing for the race. I asked if he was nearby, and she stated that his place was only 15 or 20 miles out of Anchorage.

After a phone call to Smith, we were on our way to his residence, tucked away in a forested area a few miles off the main highway toward Fairbanks.

When we arrived, we were in the middle of a colony of sled dogs, about half of them standing atop their little houses, with Stan standing among them.

We had the usual exchange of greetings, and he asked if I was ready to go.

I guess I looked like I was broadsided, and his wife, who had come outside, said, “You aren’t going like that.”

I felt ashamed coming to their place in a suit and tie and with oxfords that wanted to step cautiously around the dog houses.

So she marched me to the house where she started pulling clothes and some boots off the mud porch. All the time I was still reeling from the assumption that I was going with Stan on one of his training runs.

I cautiously put the clothes on as Ms. Smith was yanking the suit, coat and pants from me.

As we walked outside I asked, “Where’s the snow?”

I guess this was the wrong thing to say, because Stan said, “We train all year long.”

The dogs were excited and hooked up to a four-wheeler, and Stan told me to get aboard.

As the dogs lunged forward, almost leaving me behind, Stan said it would be his maiden race and since snow hadn’t arrived yet, he was having the dogs pull his four-wheeler instead of a sled.

The dogs were excited, and I was determined to avoid any more dumb mistakes and held on for dear life.

Stan had developed a path about eight feet wide through the trees, and there were stretches of short hills that we were flying over at a ridiculous speed, all to the delight of the dogs and their “musher” and to my dismay.

I learned the next spring that Smith had placed 42nd on his rookie run.

Anyway, the practice run went on for several miles before we turned around and headed back. I could easily see that sled-dog racing was not my forté.

I stayed in touch with my friend Judy Coffman and learned that Smith had a go at it again the next spring and placed 27th that year.

The race had its origins in a serum run in which mushers pressed their sled dog teams to fight an epidemic of diphtheria in a small village near Nome. It was a 674-mile run, and the news media was all over it.

The development caused Congress to declare it a “National Historic Trail.”

It was much later, in the 1970s, that it became an annual race and people like Smith and other hardened Alaskan-type individuals showed up in March for the treacherous run. Dogs developed sore feet, equipment broke down, the mushers failed along the way, and weather elements drove the teams to their knees.

The run goes on for 8-15 days, depending on the year, and the race has about 50 checkpoints along the way.

After one practice run, and a short one at that, it was easy to agree with the person who called the Iditarod “the last great race on earth.”

 

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