WASILLA - With the launch of the 28th Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race only a hour away, former champion and mushing legend Emmitt Peters strode through last-minute chores Sunday morning with a brisk, preoccupied air - sorting harnesses, digging through his sled bag and repairing his well-used gear. Wearing an old pair of wool work pants and a new windstopper vest over a flannel shirt, the 58-year-old Athabascan from Ruby stooped over a bulging pocket in the sled bag that just would not close. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he told his two sons and several helpers. "I'll just put a snap right here." In moments, Peters had whipped out a Leatherman, slit the material and clamped the bag shut with a carabiner. One more problem solved. Now what? "A-a-a-a-a-a-a," he said, standing, a smile flashing across his face. "I don't know whether I'm coming or going." Peters, whose record-breaking victory a quarter-century ago transformed this race, was back for his 14th Iditarod after an eight-year absence - and one long restless night. "I finally got up at 4:30, starting working with the dogs," he said. "I cooked dog food, and I fed them. They're all set." In the age of $100,000 kennels and space-age gear, Peters offers a flavor of the Iditarod's early years. "To me, it's just like starting as a rookie again," Peters said, a twinkle in his eye and a deadpan expression fixing his mouth. In moments, Peters would join a record field of 80 remaining drivers hauled by nearly 1,300 huskies into the roadless Bush toward Nome. With seven former champs and nine of last year's top 10 finishers, the 2000 race may be the most competitive ever. It includes four men who have won the past nine races - defending champ and two-time winner Doug Swingley, three-time winners Martin Buser and Jeff King, and five- time winner Rick Swenson. Even more significant, the 2000 Iditarod features the eight mushers with the 20 fastest finishes of all time - most established in the past five races. But among the modern, well-financed outfits are mushers who mastered long-distance mushing back in the 1970s. First among them is Peters, whose canny racing tactics and competitive spirit won him the nickname "Yukon Fox." When Peters won the third Iditarod in 1975, his 14-day, 14-hour finish knocked six days off the record - a commanding win that changed the sport from camping trip to high-stakes contest. (Peters reduced the winning time 27 percent. An improvement of the same proportion today would put the champ in Nome in less than seven days.) Peters went on to race the Iditarod 12 more times, with six top-10 finishers. But as the sport became more competitive, the lack of sponsors discouraged Peters and other Bush mushers. A school bus driver and dedicated family man, Peters just couldn't raise the money to field a competitive kennel. After dropping out for five years, Peters returned in 1990 to place 41st. In 1992, he scratched and sold his dogs to pay off debts. Peters credits his return this year to support by individual Alaskans, who collectively raised more than $20,000. "It's here and there," he said. "I don't have no major sponsors. People were nice enough to chip in a few dollars. There's probably been hundreds of them." While he outfitted himself with some new gear, much of Peters' rig dates from an earlier time. "I'll still have the same mukluks, the same martin hat, the same beaver mitts." The core of his team is 13 dogs from the kennel of five-time champ Rick Swenson, who was a rookie in 1976 when Peters was the defending champ. "If it wasn't for Rick Swenson, I wouldn't be here," Peters said. But don't think that means the Yukon Fox plans to give Swenson an edge. "I told him, 'I hope you don't get a crick in your neck from lookin' over your shoulder, because I'll be right behind you.' " Peters, who honed his mushing skills racing his father home from the family trap line, figures he's logged more than 1,000 miles on his dogs this winter. "I go all over the country," he said. "Upriver, downriver, up the road (to Cripple). Gone up to Galena about five times." His only worry is that the dogs will trot into Ruby, sack out on straw in the home dog lot and figure the race is over. "I hope to hell they don't go to Galena (one checkpoint past Ruby) and think they're going to come back," he said. As race time approached Sunday morning, huskies began to wail and bark and yammer, crying with the urge to run. Scores of pickups and dog boxes gave the snowy lot the appearance of a gypsy camp. Dozens of ganglines lay stretched on the snow. When the first teams moved toward the start line, Peters, who started 40th, strode down his own gangline inspecting buckles and tuglines. Then Peters bent over Detroit - a lean husky with a hound's brown and black markings and eerie blue-white eyes - and slipped orange booties over her paws. The 5-year-old leader tried to pull away. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," Peters said softly. Then Peters got a roll of black tape and wrapped the booties again. "You've got to put them on right, or they'll come off," he said. Soon it was time to go. Peters pulled on his parka. His wife, Edna, helped him secure his bib, No. 40, over the heavy coat. Then Edna sat in the sled with a video camera and Peters stood on the rails behind her. With his sons, old friends and a squad of volunteer handlers holding on, the 15 dogs leaped forward and the outfit skidded across the parking lot to the first holding position. Peters stepped off the rails, walked along the team, shifting dogs, moving handlers. At a signal from officials, they again moved forward to the starting line. For the first time, the announcer's booming voice could be heard - a countdown echoing through the trees. A tunnel of beaming faces peered at Peters over the parallel barricades leading up the hill. Edna stood up. "Here," she said, grabbing his arm to get his attention, and gave him a quick kiss. "Goodbye." Ahead along the chute, people cheered and waved. "Come on, Emmitt," a woman called, "Bring back the good old days." Then, at a signal from Iditarod officials, he led the team into the starting chute. "We're glad to have the Yukon Fox back mushing here today," the announcer boomed. Peters strode down the line - shifting a dog, straightening a neck line, adjusting this, checking that. He stepped on the runners as the crowd began the final 10-count. "Wait, wait, wait," he said, bringing laughter from people standing next to him. "Come on, let's get out of here." At the shout of "GO!" the handlers sprang back. "Hike! Hike! Hike," Peters called out. The dogs dug in, jolting into a sprint, and the Yukon Fox zipped away down the chute, on the trail to Nome. q Reporter Doug O'Harra can be reached at do'harra@adn.com.
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