Less than an hour before the ceremonial start of the 28th Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, the stage in downtown Anchorage was set with yipping, howling vengeance. Up and down Fourth Avenue and its side streets, a record field of 81 mushers and nearly 1,000 huskies were parked at preselected sites. Some 120 dump trucks had spread snow on two miles of city streets. A mile and half of fences were up. Hundreds of volunteers stood ready. Cheering fans by the thousands lined the barricades three and four deep and jammed the upper decks of a city parking garage overlooking the street. Speakers boomed. Cameras rolled. Dogs barked and yowled to be hooked up. Time for the national anthem. That's when Iditarod start coordinator Rick Calcote and his staff - who had leaped a series of logistic hurdles involving full parking lots and snow - discovered one more little problem: The anthem singer hadn't shown. No matter. Calcote sent urgent word to the Frozen Pipes Barbershop Quartet, which was practicing in the VIP motor home parked up the block. The quartet rushed to the starting chute and sang the anthem before launching into the Alaska Flag Song. A few minutes later, as Healy musher Ramy Brooks and his dogs moved up, ready to become the first team on the 20-mile trail to the checkpoint in Eagle River. The crowd started to roar. Calcote, almost giddy with relief, laughed and shook his head. "Now, this is fun. We got it all done," he said. "It's crazy. We've always got a thousand things that aren't going the way you expect them to right at the last second." Every year, the Iditarod plays out in the snowy wilderness, where a musher's luck hinges on dog care and trail choices made far from any crowd. But the 1,100-mile race across Alaska commences with a scene of urban chaos in the center of Alaska's largest city. Because elapsed time for mushers doesn't begin ticking until 10 a.m. today in Wasilla, the Anchorage event has become a staged show, more circus than race start, the biggest breakfast party of sled dogs and mushing fans in the world. "Mostly it's all marketing for the Iditarod and the city of Anchorage," Calcote said. "We're trying to get as much exposure as possible - and make it as ... fun as possible." Imposing order on such an extravaganza means months of advance work, deploying a volunteer army and enlisting scores of city officials. "It's a million phone calls," Calcote said. It's also a million problems. One year, race start officials discovered an Eagle River skijoring race was scheduled to cross the Iditarod trail about the same time as more than 50 dog teams. Another year, novice bus drivers were found driving back and forth across the new trail in the Sullivan Arena parking lot. "We plan for as many contingencies as possible," he said. "You don't know what's going to happen until it happens, and then you deal with it. "It's a great big logistical puzzle," Calcote said. On Friday night, a 25-person crew erected 7,200 feet of fencing along Fourth Avenue and Cordova Street. About 450 volunteers began arriving about 5 a.m., including 150 trail guards stationed along crossings of 26 miles of trail to Eagle River. Another 125 people helped mushers handle dog teams on the avenue. There were security guards, VIP liaisons, ham radio operators. Four motor homes for organizers and the winner's pricey Dodge Ram pickup were parked in key spots. After mushers moved into their holding positions, about 30 vet technicians and volunteers began working the teams, recording the identities of dogs with special microchips implanted in their necks by race officials. Shortly before the race start, security volunteers began clearing the streets of fans. Toddlers in puffy snowsuits rode the shoulders of men in open jackets. Mushers and fans clapped each other on the back. In temperatures that approached 40 degrees, the mood has the jovial atmosphere of a circus midway. Three-time champ Martin Buser was spotted napping in his truck. A relaxed Rick Swenson, the race's only five-time winner and a man who's known for his intensity, told race judge John Anderson that nothing worried him. "He said, 'Why complain? You're the only one who'd listen anyway,' " Anderson said later. Three-time winner Jeff King, wearing a red suit, posed with his daughters before a semicircle of 20 photographers. Parked near Fourth and I Street was the first musher to leave, Ramy Brooks. Handlers began lining out his dogs about 9:30 a.m. Then John Dombaugh, who makes his living renovating historic houses in Boston, took his place in the sled basket as Brooks' official Iditarider. The 61-year-old builder said he bid $2,500 for his chance to ride with Brooks because he wanted to be involved with one of Alaska's most famous mushing families. Brooks is the grandson of mushing legend Gareth Wright, son of sprint champion Roxy Wright Champaine. He won last year's Yukon Quest. "The whole thing is so exciting," Dombaugh said. "If I had gone home yesterday, it would have been worth it." As the start time approached, handlers took neck lines and the Brooks entourage moved steadily up the avenue. Volunteer Russ Wilmot, resplendent in a lynx cap and a white timber wolf parka, halted him at F Street. As a four-member "sled crew" dashed to hold Brooks' sled, Wilmot told Brooks' handlers to climb over the snow berms after they let go. Wilmot then motioned Brooks into the starting chute and stepped aside as the dogs and people trotted past. "I stage all the teams, and I've got one of the best jobs in the Iditarod," Wilmot said later during a break in the action. Farther up the avenue, Calcote watched. "This is it," he said as the countdown began. The crowd began to shout with the announcer: "Five, four, three, two, one - go!" Brooks' handlers leaped back, and the dogs lunged forward, digging into the snow. Calcote cheered with the crowd, for the moment just another fan. "That's it," he said. "We're on." q Reporter Doug O'Harra may be reached at doharra@adn.com.
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