Outdoors/Adventure

Mushers' main job isn't winning, it's tempering dogs' desire to run too hard

DONNELLY — It is time to write of dogs. Dogs and men. Midwinter is when our state sport of running sled dogs shines bright. Tourists come with starry eyes and blurred vision to experience the magic of sled dogs dashing through the snow. Typically, there is excitement as mushers and their furred companions struggle against the wind and cold to be first to the finish line.

It is exciting. I love the starry eyes. After all, as I hook up for a run, my eyes have the same look after 60 years of dogs and 40 years of sled dogs. However, there are dog men and dog drivers. It is unfortunate that some mushers who compete in our state sport race only to try to win. The journey is forgotten in the drive to be first.

I can forgive the disgraced Lance Armstrong, who had that laser focus on winning in another sport. His drive to win was so great that he was willing to cheat those of us who watched and marveled. I can forgive Barry Bonds. Because he wanted to be the best, he sacrificed his health and our trust to do so. I have more trouble exonerating those who mistreat animals in their passion to compete.

Alaska's past is filled with the memories of dog men who kept sled dogs for their work and daily lives. They ran them hard and depended on them.

Conditions were harsh then. Sometimes it was tough to feed the dogs, and the working animals didn't have it easy. Their owners did the best they could by them and understood them well — because they wanted to and because they had to.

As has forever been the case in the lives of men, mushers wondered and speculated as to who had the best dogs and teams. Races followed. The men who had dogs came.  

Today, few of these men exist. People rarely keep dogs for work alone, and those who do seldom can afford the high cost of a major sled dog race. Just consider the Iditarod, with its $4,000 entry fee plus another $1,000 to ship dog food to the trail, plus a bunch of other expenses. Trapline dogs and the working teams of village dogs are priced out of the Iditarod.

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Replacing them are people who keep dogs only for racing. It's the evolution of the sport. Horses went that way. So have race cars and snowmobiles.

Dogs should be different. These are animals that not only work for us, but that sometimes live in our homes. Dogs and humans have been intertwined forever — in fact, there's evidence that dogs' DNA profile may have started to change 100,000 years ago.

What have we learned in that time? A bit. Many of our pet dogs could be treated better — though I hope most of that mistreatment is well-intended. Sled dogs? These animals don't ask to be driven in a race. It is, however, their extreme passion to run. Sled dogs will run before eating. They will run before sex. As dog men, we need to treat that mania with the utmost respect.

Unfortunately, some dog drivers are willing to run their charges into the ground for the sake of competition. After all, there are plenty of sled dogs — and always more to be had. Dogs who can't hold the pace don't run for long. Speed and toughness is the ultimate goal.

The dog man or woman tempers that desire. I listened to an interview with musher Paige Drobny soon after she finished the Yukon Quest in fourth place, jumping up from 13th a year ago. She seemed to struggle with her desire to compete and her innate need to provide adequate rest and care for her animals. Drobny did well, no doubt, and the condition of her dogs at the finish spoke volumes.

Others have not fared so well. To be sure, it helps to be on the inside of the sport and have background knowledge. Watch for teams that were toward the front of a race and suddenly dropped out. Did the dogs quit? Were they driven too hard? Something else?

You may also see teams running in the front pack that suddenly slow and drop back, continuing at a more sedate pace. Good for these guys. They have recognized the true ability of their teams and made the necessary adjustments.

Every one of us who races sled dogs has made mistakes. I ran a nine-dog team into the ground in my 1987 Yukon Quest run, in which I ended up sixth. It was minus-60 degrees and I finished hard. I still kick myself and vow never to do it again.

We are not responsible for just ourselves and our desires, but for the competitors we're driving.

All of us who drive sled dog teams must take care to balance the dogs' extreme desire to run against our need to be competitive. The best dogs will run until they die. It is our job to see that this never happens.

John Schandelmeier is a lifelong Alaskan who lives with his family near Paxson. He is a Bristol Bay commercial fisherman and two-time winner of the Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race.

John Schandelmeier

Outdoor opinion columnist John Schandelmeier is a lifelong Alaskan who lives with his family near Paxson. He is a Bristol Bay commercial fisherman and two-time winner of the Yukon Quest.

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