Tuesday, March 10, 1998
Copyright 1998 Anchorage Daily News
Garnie embodies spirit of dog mushing's roots
By LEW FREEDMAN
Joe Garnie is the past come back to life, a figure from Iditarod history trying to recapture the glory of a decade ago using dog-raising methods that date back a century.
Dogs run in Garnie's family. His father mushed dogs, his grandfather mushed dogs. In Teller, on the Bering Sea Coast, Garnie mushes on, the dogs his partners in daily life. They help with the hunting. They haul fuel. They work.
Not so very long ago, all Alaska huskies were work dogs, animals whose primary job was utilitarian transportation, not racing for prize money. Oh, they did that in their spare time.
What Garnie, 44, is trying to find out during the 26th annual Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race is whether dogs can still be multi-faceted and seriously contend for the $50,000 first prize - or any other top-20 spot in the 1,100-mile race between Anchorage and Nome.
And he hopes to learn one more thing during these days of March: whether he still has the love for racing in him. It's an edge that led to brilliant success in the 1980s.
"I'm still keeping race dogs," said Garnie at the Iditarod start Saturday. "So I figured I'd better go."
Call 1998 the year of the Native Iditarod resurgence. What in the early 1990s was the shame of the Iditarod - the high cost of competing nearly priced Alaska Eskimos and Indians out of the event entirely - has for the moment been a problem rectified.
Garnie is back after a five-year absence. Ramy Brooks of Eureka is a musher showing steady improvement. So is John Baker of Kotzebue. Mike Williams of Akiak is making his mark. And veteran Ken Chase of Anvik has returned to the Iditarod for a second straight year after a long absence.
When the Iditarod started in the early 1970s, Native mushers were a major force. Carl Huntington, Emmitt Peters, Herbie Nayokpuk, and others, were mushers of renown. It was a public relations black eye for the Iditarod when Natives seemed to be pushed aside because they did not have the advantage of living on the road system.
Williams, in his fifth race after a career-best 18th-place showing last year, said there more Natives are training in villages, and he expects them to come on strong.
"We're coming back," said Williams, whose village is in Southwest Alaska. "They're coming back. There are a lot of good, young dog teams and they're getting better. It's so expensive, it's tough. All they need is a little support."
Make that a lot of support.
Williams raced in 1992, 1993, and 1994, then took a three-year break to pay his bills. He figures on spending $20,000 just to have a chance to get to Nome, $30,000 to be competitive, and $50,000 and up to even think of challenging for victory.
Chase is one of the Iditarod oldtimers. He competed in the first one, placed fourth in 1978, and had seven top-20 placings in the 1970s. He was absent from the Iditarod for most of the last 15 years, and collected the Red Lantern for a last-place finish in 1997.
Baker, 35, is being watched closely as he leaps up the standings. He was 22nd as a rookie two years ago and 11th last year.
Brooks, 29, has bloodlines at least as impressive as his dogs. His mother, Roxy Wright Champaine, is a retired sprint mushing world champion. So is his grandfather, Gareth Wright. In his four previous Iditarods he has never been out of the money.
Brooks exited Fairbanks in favor of the more-remote Eureka this winter, but he's still on the road system. Optimistic that the previous downturn in Native participation was a blip, Brooks hopes he has such company in the Iditarod for many races to come.
"There's gonna be cycles up and down," said Brooks. "Mushing in the Native community is pretty healthy."
Garnie symbolizes the Native community's long commitment with dogs. He was 21st in his first Iditarod in 1978, but in the mid-1980s he and then-partner Libby Riddles took turns racing and were a powerhouse team. Garnie placed third in 1984, second in 1986 and fourth in 1988. Riddles helped trigger an outpouring of international attention for the Iditarod when she became the first woman to win in 1985.
Respected as "a good dog man" - the ultimate, succinct, compliment mushers pay those whose handling they admire - Garnie said in recent years he has used his huskies for tourist rides and to aid his subsistence lifestyle. Dogs accompany him when he hunts for caribou and moose, and just like in the old days he feeds them a lot of fish.
"Every time I feed my dogs, something's got to die," said Garnie.
The Iditarod is different than it was when Garnie first competed, with sophisticated nutritional knowledge and high-tech, lightweight equipment.
But Garnie laments that something once unique is now missing from Iditarod racing because full-time racers with big-time corporate sponsors have replaced mushers whose dogs were entwined with the fabric of their subsistence lifestyle.
"The Iditarod has lost a piece of realism," said Garnie. "It's not a necessary part of people's lives. My dogs are a working, functioning part of my life."
He would probably deny it, but in an offbeat way, perhaps Garnie is too much of a romantic for today's Iditarod.
Lew Freedman is the Daily News sports editor and an opinion columnist.