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You could hear the dogs for blocks, a cacophony of barks and whines and yelps punctuated by an occasional howl. Five blocks of West Fourth Avenue were outlined in snow fence to keep the crowds at bay. The side streets were lined with fence too. The streets themselves were full of trucked-in snow and dog teams in various states of assemblage and people of all sorts putting dogs into booties or harnesses or just standing around waiting. Beneath the dogs' dissonant din was a steady hum of human voices. People were everywhere: on the sidewalks along Fourth Avenue and in every window that faced it, en route along Third and Fifth, headed downtown from where they had parked, as far away as the park strip or farther. Lots of families with kids. Lots of cameras. Lots of cardboard cups of coffee held in mittened hands. All come to see an event that exists only at the intersection of myth and marketing. The Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race is an event that has almost nothing to do with Alaska's history. Dog teams were not widely used here before whites came. Even during their heyday, most people traveled during summer, when waterways were open. They hunkered down during winter, and when they traveled, they were far more likely to go on snowshoes than by dog team. Dog teams required a lot of food, and people who lived on local resources often couldn't afford to feed them. The Iditarod has even less to do with American Alaska. The first big rush of immigrants came at the very end of the 19th century. Within 25 years there was a railroad to the Interior. At almost the same time, the first airplanes began flying in northern skies. Even the famous dog sled mail routes lasted only from 1910 to the mid-1930s. Today's race is historic in other ways. On established trails, like the short-lived Iditarod Trail, mushers moved from roadhouse to roadhouse. Campouts were caused by miscalculation or misadventure. Everywhere smart travelers sat out bad weather. Only the advent of locator beacons and snowmachine rescuers allowed racers to challenge the fury of nature. The musher, in short, like the grizzled prospector with his gold pan and the dance hall girl with the heart of gold, exists primarily in the Alaska we wish had been, not the Alaska that was. And the long-distance dog race? Pretty much the creation of Joe Redington's canny promoter's mind. The Anchorage start is to the race what the race is to Alaska history. The mushers' times between Anchorage and Eagle River are no longer counted, so what organizers call the "restart" in Wasilla is really the start of the race. What happened in Anchorage on Saturday, which organizers call the "ceremonial start," is actually a giant marketing exercise. Lots of people get to see the dogs and racers and sponsors' signs. The crowds make an excellent backdrop for the photos taken by the race and team sponsors. The racers can carry the people who have paid to ride on their sleds without having to worry about times. And the cash registers in Anchorage hotels and restaurants ring and ring and ring. Commerce has so come to dominate the race that you can tell who has a chance to win by the number of sponsor insignias he or she wears. Even the handlers of last year's winner, Doug Swingley, wore matching jackets sporting a sponsor's logo. Lots of people are anxious to turn myth into money. But that's the American way. And even a publicity exercise gave lots of people what they wanted: a chance to see the dogs and mushers up close. It was just a circus, but like any circus it was fun. q Mike Doogan's opinion column appears each Tuesday, Friday and Sunday. His telephone number is 257-4350, and his e-mail address is mdoogan@adn.com.
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