Story: The Last Great Race

Fresh onions browned on a sizzling barbecue pit next to reindeer hot dogs halved on the grill. “This is our Super Bowl!” chimed the announcer over the loud speaker as helicopters buzzed overhead. The smell of wet sled dog could be sensed from almost two blocks away. Tons of fresh snow had been trucked in the night before and shoveled onto Fourth Street to prepare for the ceremonial start of the 34th annual Iditarod Sled Dog Race. Here, dozens of competitors and their sled dog teams were about to dash down downtown Anchorage to the yells and whistles of fans from all over the globe.
I looked across the street toward the Alaska Salmon Chowder House where just the night before I had savored the tastiest lemon pepper halibut I’ve ever had. The plush buffet of beaver earmuffs, fox scarves, mink capes, and chinchilla collars that had hung outside the restaurant since I arrived was now absent from the sidewalk to make way for the estimated 10,000 fans and volunteers who were about to crowd the streets.
Iditarod devotees swarmed to where the mushers (the term for those who direct a sled dog team) gave boisterous interviews and scribbled autographs, while white and black huskies pranced about in the snow. Little booties, which protect the dogs’ feet from cuts and sores, wrapped each paw like custom-made running shoes. Bright orange fencing made a futile effort to separate the spectators from the athletes and officials. Eager grandparents and out-of-towners hurried past the volunteer security guards to the middle of the street where they could pose beneath the starting line and snap a picture of their bundled smiles and multi-hued flags trailing in the arctic breeze.
Two days before, as my plane descended into Alaska, I leaned my head against the cold window and peered out beyond the waters that surrounded the peninsula. I let my eyes drift toward the snow-capped mountains that stretched toward the horizon as far as I could see.
Wild, rugged landscape, its peaks like monuments against the heavens, their gaze quiet and wise. The view reminded me of a frequent destination in my childhood. When I was still in grade school my parents took my sister and me every year to see Half Dome and El Capitan, two granite monoliths at Yosemite National Park in California. They took us to hike among the ancient redwoods within the valley carved by a glacier long advanced. But the towering slopes of the Sierra Nevada and the great cliffs at which I marveled from as a child now appeared but a speck on the vast earthen canvas.
In Alaska, the monuments of ice appear, to lonely wanderer, to go on immeasurably. Raw terrain...untouched by urban sprawl, undeveloped by man’s self-proclaimed conquests, no two-lane incisions winding through its rocky slopes, no shaved mountain faces. The wilderness. Like the seeds that spawned the forest in this wintry valley, even the snow is allowed to rest where it fell.
As my plane drew nearer, I noticed the frost that consumed the landscape and bled into the ocean where the water was dark and chunks of flat ice crowded the surface. The cold bit through my jeans when I arrived at the airport and walked out of the warm terminal into the stark white Alaskan winter. The frigid air scraped my throat when I inhaled. I yanked my wool beanie tighter over my ears and tried to text message my boyfriend through the fingers of my mittens. “You were right about the thermal underwear.” I said. I hadn’t imagined cold like this.
At home, cold is the predictable fog that shrouds the western half of San Francisco. Cold is the afternoon wind that clocks around the Bay and blows between the downtown skyscrapers. Cold is 50 degrees Fahrenheit on a rainy day. I was spoiled by the warmth and mild humidity of my "sunny California." Alaska was Pluto, light years away from the sun.
But drive a couple miles beyond the perimeter of Anchorage or any populated area and the steep blue peaks, abundant fish and game, fresh powdery slopes, and fields of wild fireweed blooming in the summer sun make Alaska a wonderland for the wilderness and adventure lover. After driving past the last shops and homes at the edge of town, it is as though the highway unfolds before the majesty of the mountains and you are but a tiny visitor again in a vast temple with an infinite sky.
The Friday before the start of the race was the Iditarod Mushers' Banquet, where fans and volunteers lined up outside the Sullivan Sports Arena in Anchorage to hopefully get an autograph from one of the people who will brave over a thousand miles of rough Alaskan backcountry with just the gear on their sled and a team of trained dogs.
I knew little about Alaska, let alone the Iditarod, but to see the enthusiastic applause of the fans as the competitors chose their starting positions, and watching people hurry from their dinner plates to the line where they could get a photo with their favorite musher, summoned a swell of communal pride and anticipation, the way I felt when I watched the world cup for the first time having never followed soccer. The excitement was contagious.
The next day, I arrived early at Fourth and D Street in downtown Anchorage to make sure I got a parking spot in a nearby garage before the thousands of spectators clogged the streets to cheer the ceremonial start of the Iditarod sled dog race. The internationally recognized event had the revelry of a carnival come to town. A line of eager kids and adults bundled in woolen hats and puffy coats wound through a gathering crowd at the starting line just to get a hot dog fresh off the grill. The yaps and howls of ready racing dogs jumping and grating their tethered chains filled the periphery. Spectators held handmade signs cheering their favorite musher. Even with the animal skins hanging on the sidewalks and shop windows, the Iditarod sled dog race is—in everyone’s words—all about the dogs.
Carla Lapierre and Carrie Beal from Bethel, Alaska, which is about 350 miles away from Anchorage, have been coming to the annual Iditarod for over 24 years. Carrie and her daughter Carla were wrapped head to toe in a calico pattern of squirrel, black bear, wolverine, wolf and seal. It took a year for Carrie's grandmother to collect all the fur and over nine months to sew a hooded coat and boots. Coming in such colorful regalia always brings lots of photographs for Carrie and her mother, but the real reason they came to the event was to "[celebrate] athletic achievement…man and dog faring in the wilderness."
The Iditarod originated as trail between isolated townships. Over 80 years ago, diphtheria broke out in Nome, what was then a small settlement on the western tip of Alaska. What began as a mail and supply route from the coastal towns to the gold mining flats in the interior, became a lifesaving highway as sled dog teams transported serum in relays from Nenana to Nome. In 1967, the first Iditarod race, which was only 25 miles, was organized to commemorate the early use of the trail and the sled dog teams. Today, the "long" Iditarod race from Anchorage to Nome stretches over 1,100 miles through jagged mountain ranges, frozen rivers, dense forests, and long hours of darkness and unforgiving winds in the desolate tundra. Competitors from all walks of life, from fishermen to doctors, train and participate in this annual race, including 22-year-old Rachael Scdoris from Oregon who is one of the youngest mushers to have completed the Iditarod. She is also legally blind.
Rachael, who has been racing sled dogs since she was 11 years old, was born with Congenital Achromatopsia, a rare vision disorder that makes her colorblind and extremely sensitive to light. Race officials have made accommodations by allowing her to have "visual interpreters" who travel ahead of Rachel to provide information on trail conditions. Other than a two-way radio between her and her visual interpreter, its just Rachael, her trained sled dogs and the rough and windy trail to Nome.
Despite crashing "about 200 times in the first 300 miles," and mushing through relentless wind, temperatures that fall far below zero and periods of hunger and fatigue, she described the Iditarod race as an event where she is able to combine all the things that she loves most. "You know, the dogs, the outdoors, the athleticism, the competition, the friendships you make with the other mushers, and the bond with the dogs…the sense of accomplishment in the end is all apparently worth it. Apparently we all keep coming back."
After the restart and watching the sled dog teams dash past the official starting line, I had to hurry into my car to catch a plane back to the mainland. Going to Alaska, you forget you're still in the United States even though everyone speaks English and takes your little green bank notes. As I made my way along the 70-mile drive back to Anchorage, I was humbled by the scenery. I understood why people come here and why they stay. The tallest things here are the mountains, not the buildings. Roads between towns aren't dominated by fast-food restaurants or strip malls, but the quiet expanse of tundra and fields of lupine, poppy and moss. At least for now.
Even the world's most famous sled dog race is slowly succumbing to the challenges of population growth and modernity. This year, Iditarod race officials announced that they were implementing permanent logistical changes to the trail, citing a warming climate and sprawling development. The ceremonial start in Anchorage will go seven miles shorter than the traditional route and the official start of the race will yet again begin in Willow (70 miles north of Anchorage) rather than Wasilla because of the lack of snow.
Wasilla is one of Alaska's fastest growing regions, but the competitive launch—also known as the restart—has not taken place in Wasilla since 2002. "A lot of development in the area makes it less desirable, and there have been less-than-winter conditions," said Stan Hooley, executive director of the Iditarod Trail Committee in a recent press release. "It just doesn't make sense to us to make choices that are not in the best interest of both the two- and four-legged competitors." Knik, a checkpoint along the Iditarod trail and home of the late Joe Redington Sr.—called the father of the Iditarod—will also be bypassed under the new route changes.
The Buena Vista Social Club played on my stereo deck as the trees drew farther away and opened to a single highway in a valley bordered by white mountains. I slowed down my rented PT Cruiser—the only economy rental that seemed to be available—and pulled to a stop at the side of the road. Cars whizzed by me as I stepped out into the crisp arctic air. Nobody uses film anymore, I thought, but I have 400 speed so it should do. And I loaded my father's old Canon SLR, the same one he used to take photos of my sister and me when we were still teenagers. I framed the white peaks against the serrated blue sky and dotted chestnut earth. How beautiful, I thought. But how long? As far away from San Francisco as I was, I was reminded that this, too, was my home.

If you go:

Where to stay.

Millennium Alaskan Hotel
Plush accommodations and the official staging area of the Iditarod.
4800 Spenard Road, Anchorage, AK 99517, Phone: (907) 243-2300 http://www.millenniumhotels.com/millenniumanchorage/index.html

Experience Alaska

Matanuska Glacier
An easy day trip from Anchorage, at the 24-mile long Matanuska glacier, you can hike the glacier trails or on your own, camp in the designated areas and even try guided ice climbing. Glacier Park is only open from March through October and is located at mile 102 on Glenn Highway. For reservations and more information call: (888) 253-4480 http://www.matanuskaglacier.com/

Alaska Sealife Center
Visitors can witness sea lions, puffins and harbor seals in a naturalistic habitat in addition to other marine wildlife from the Gulf of Alaska. In addition to the center's many exhibits, the Alaska Sealife Center also conducts research and provides care for sick and injured marine animals. Open November through February, Thurs. – Mon., 10:00am – 5:00pm, March through April, seven days a week, 10:00am – 5:00pm, and May through September, seven days a week, 9:00am – 7:00pm. http://www.alaskasealife.org/

Alaska Zoo
See animals native to Alaska including Polar Bears and the Artic Fox, as well as exotic species such as the Bactrian Camel and Snow Leopards. They also offer private after hour tours with the zoo Director as your guide, along with a professional photographer to record your experience ($250 for up to six people). The zoo offers free shuttles from downtown Anchorage during the summer months. Located on 4731 O'Malley Road in Anchorage. Open 10:00am to 4:00pm daily. Admission: Adults $10, Youth (ages 13-17) $6. http://www.alaskazoo.org/

Sled Dog Day Tours
See the Alaskan wilderness behind by a team of huskies mushing through breathtaking backcountry. And all tours are led by an Iditarod racer! For reservations: (800) 478-3139 http://www.ididaride.com/tours/tours.htm

Where to Eat.

Phyllis' Cafe and Salmon Bake
You can't go wrong with the king crab legs here. Sweet and delicious. Especially dipped in butter with a splash of lemon. Located on the corner of Fifth and D in downtown Anchorage. Open seven days a week from 11:00am to 10:00pm. http://www.phyllisscafe.com/

Alaska Salmon Chowder House
A diner-like restaurant with a simple, almost rustic, atmosphere, Alaska Salmon Chowder House is a local favorite and serves the best halibut I've ever had. Really. Located on 443 W Fourth Avenue in downtown Anchorage and open from 10:40am to 7:00pm, seven days a week. (907) 278-6901

Fisherman's Express
Okay, it's not a place to eat, but you can buy a fresh slab of your favorite Alaskan seafood and cook it to your liking! King Crab legs, wild salmon, scallops and more packed fresh with dry ice and shipped to your home. They even have reindeer sausage! Located on 1350 E First Avenue in downtown Anchorage. Open Mon. through Fri., 8:00am to 5:00pm, Sat. 10:00am to 4:00pm. (888) 926-3474 http://www.fishex.com/