Dog sledding with champions
Know who Mitch Seavey is? Since 1995, eight times he’s placed in the top 20 in Alaska’s Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. He won in 2004. Last September I trained some of his dogs.
Well, OK. I didn’t train them, per se, but I was part of their training. I sat on a wheeled, six-seater “sled” that a team of 12 dogs pulled around the Seavey training grounds.
After dropping Mark at the docks in downtown Seward, Alaska, for his deep-sea fishing trip, I arrived at Seavey’s site 20 minutes early. It’s back a gravel drive. Two small wood-slatted shacks sit in a clearing, behind which is a dense, green forest—like a jungle. Such lush vegetation isn’t what I had pictured for Alaska, even in September. The barking coming from the jungle is quite raucous, and intriguing: pure eagerness without a hint of malice or suspicion, making me—and all the other guests who are there early—want to tramp through the jungle to get to the dogs.
Soon enough, a young man gathers the 23 of us waiting guests and splits us into three groups and we follow on the short path back to the barking. The dogs are not barking for us but are voicing their willingness to pull to the drivers unhitching dogs that hauled the last batches of guests around.
On a quarter of an acre, by my estimate, are 86 dogs and their shelters. Each dog is chained to the upper, short end of a pivoting metal rod that stands about four feet tall, allowing them to run around their own house. The houses are simply plastic 55-gallon drums laid on their sides and propped on lengths of 2-x-4’s at both ends to keep them off the ground. Most dogs are active, trotting around their drums, watching the lucky dogs getting hitched to pull, wishing they were going too. Dogs close enough to the action are standing at attention, ears perked, tails high but still, seemingly so interested in the activity of the driver connecting the harnessed dogs to the main pull.
The driver explains that he’s pairing inexperienced dogs next to veteran dogs so that the newbees can learn from them. He also explains that mutts make the best sled dogs. We guests had in mind the sturdy huskies. The mutts look like they have a bit of husky in them, but they appear quite more lean, similar to how muscular sprinters compare to long-distance runners.
As the driver puts each dog into its harness, it’s obvious which are veterans: They flip their front legs, one at a time, into the harness as the driver holds it out. We can imagine them thinking, “OK. I’m in. Fasten this thing and let’s get going. COME ON!”
Other dogs are hesitant, not knowing what to do, and the driver must pick up each front leg and guide it through. The dogs, once in their harnesses, either pull the driver to the sled or are easily led. One, however, seems frightened about the prospect of pulling: ears down, curved back, tail between his legs. Once hooked next to his experienced partner, he seems to loosen up.
The driver takes his spot behind us and, before ordering the dogs to leave, tells us the harnessed dogs that are barking are fairly new to this. The experienced dogs know to conserve their energy.
A tangle of trails leads deeper into the forest, and the 11 dogs deftly follow their leader’s last-second commands: “ha” for left turns, “ghee” for right. Some inexperienced dogs jump the main pull—so that they and their partner are pulling from the same side— and we stop every 3 or 4 minutes so that our driver can correct that. Others have an odd, sideways gait that he says they grow out of.
The ride lasts 20 minutes before the tour continues on to the puppies. Just 18 days old, they don’t have much personality and would rather stay by their mom than be handled. Bummer.
A small stage is next to the puppy area, and upturned pieces of wood serve as audience seating. Most of us stake a stump and watch Robin model gear. Robin, a champion lead dog, has this cushy job now because her paw was injured in a collision with a moose—though she runs occasionally with a young lead dog for training.
You know how some dogs, usually small ones, proudly wear sweaters and hats while others seem embarrassed? Robin was in between, depending on what she was modeling. She was good with the booties and the torso wrap worn to keep dogs warm during the race. But the hat made her hang her head and show her big puppy-dog eyes—literally! The hat was a joke. Racing dogs don’t wear hats. Male dogs do wear wraps to keep their penises warm though.
A driver takes 15,000 booties for 16 dogs to be in the Iditarod. That many wear out in 1000 miles. The booties cannot be made of more durable material because dogs sweat from their paw pads.
I love the show and regret that I have to cut it a couple minutes short because I have tickets to Fox Island for lunch and kayaking this afternoon. I can’t miss the boat.
Well, OK. I didn’t train them, per se, but I was part of their training. I sat on a wheeled, six-seater “sled” that a team of 12 dogs pulled around the Seavey training grounds.
After dropping Mark at the docks in downtown Seward, Alaska, for his deep-sea fishing trip, I arrived at Seavey’s site 20 minutes early. It’s back a gravel drive. Two small wood-slatted shacks sit in a clearing, behind which is a dense, green forest—like a jungle. Such lush vegetation isn’t what I had pictured for Alaska, even in September. The barking coming from the jungle is quite raucous, and intriguing: pure eagerness without a hint of malice or suspicion, making me—and all the other guests who are there early—want to tramp through the jungle to get to the dogs.
Soon enough, a young man gathers the 23 of us waiting guests and splits us into three groups and we follow on the short path back to the barking. The dogs are not barking for us but are voicing their willingness to pull to the drivers unhitching dogs that hauled the last batches of guests around.
On a quarter of an acre, by my estimate, are 86 dogs and their shelters. Each dog is chained to the upper, short end of a pivoting metal rod that stands about four feet tall, allowing them to run around their own house. The houses are simply plastic 55-gallon drums laid on their sides and propped on lengths of 2-x-4’s at both ends to keep them off the ground. Most dogs are active, trotting around their drums, watching the lucky dogs getting hitched to pull, wishing they were going too. Dogs close enough to the action are standing at attention, ears perked, tails high but still, seemingly so interested in the activity of the driver connecting the harnessed dogs to the main pull.
The driver explains that he’s pairing inexperienced dogs next to veteran dogs so that the newbees can learn from them. He also explains that mutts make the best sled dogs. We guests had in mind the sturdy huskies. The mutts look like they have a bit of husky in them, but they appear quite more lean, similar to how muscular sprinters compare to long-distance runners.
As the driver puts each dog into its harness, it’s obvious which are veterans: They flip their front legs, one at a time, into the harness as the driver holds it out. We can imagine them thinking, “OK. I’m in. Fasten this thing and let’s get going. COME ON!”
Other dogs are hesitant, not knowing what to do, and the driver must pick up each front leg and guide it through. The dogs, once in their harnesses, either pull the driver to the sled or are easily led. One, however, seems frightened about the prospect of pulling: ears down, curved back, tail between his legs. Once hooked next to his experienced partner, he seems to loosen up.
The driver takes his spot behind us and, before ordering the dogs to leave, tells us the harnessed dogs that are barking are fairly new to this. The experienced dogs know to conserve their energy.
A tangle of trails leads deeper into the forest, and the 11 dogs deftly follow their leader’s last-second commands: “ha” for left turns, “ghee” for right. Some inexperienced dogs jump the main pull—so that they and their partner are pulling from the same side— and we stop every 3 or 4 minutes so that our driver can correct that. Others have an odd, sideways gait that he says they grow out of.
The ride lasts 20 minutes before the tour continues on to the puppies. Just 18 days old, they don’t have much personality and would rather stay by their mom than be handled. Bummer.
A small stage is next to the puppy area, and upturned pieces of wood serve as audience seating. Most of us stake a stump and watch Robin model gear. Robin, a champion lead dog, has this cushy job now because her paw was injured in a collision with a moose—though she runs occasionally with a young lead dog for training.
You know how some dogs, usually small ones, proudly wear sweaters and hats while others seem embarrassed? Robin was in between, depending on what she was modeling. She was good with the booties and the torso wrap worn to keep dogs warm during the race. But the hat made her hang her head and show her big puppy-dog eyes—literally! The hat was a joke. Racing dogs don’t wear hats. Male dogs do wear wraps to keep their penises warm though.
A driver takes 15,000 booties for 16 dogs to be in the Iditarod. That many wear out in 1000 miles. The booties cannot be made of more durable material because dogs sweat from their paw pads.
I love the show and regret that I have to cut it a couple minutes short because I have tickets to Fox Island for lunch and kayaking this afternoon. I can’t miss the boat.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer | 5:30 AM
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