Thursday, Aug 21, 2008
Unlike the Iditarod, the Yukon Quest is not about commercialism and sponsors; it's about life and death and covering 1,000 rugged miles by dog sled.
Dec 16, 1997 | Outside Dawson City, Yukon Territory, Canada; temperature, 30 below: For five hours I've been poised by a television camera on a sled dog trail in the vast wilderness of the Yukon. Next to me is the spooky hulk of an abandoned gold dredge, and around me, the scenery that inspired the cry "There's gold in them thar hills!" Feet, fingers and nose report no feeling. My three companions, a television crew, are jogging in place one minute and chain smoking the next. Alternately, I pray for mushers to come by and curse them for not appearing.
From around the bend, we hear the jingle of dog harnesses and leap to the camera. It's Jim Hendricks, from Denali Park, Alaska. "Don't worry, they won't hurt you, keep going, go straight, good boy!" he calls to Buddy, his leader. Then, to us, "Where the hell am I? How far to Dawson?" "Just eight miles," we shout. "Oh, Christ, we'll NEVER make it!" he cries in mock despair.
Watching Hendricks, I am awestruck. His beard is encrusted in ice. His 12 dogs, true athletes, are running gamely after climbing 3,800-foot King Solomon's Dome with a 150-pound sled.
Welcome to Day Six of the Yukon Quest, a 1,000-mile international sled dog race from Whitehorse, Yukon, to Fairbanks, Alaska. Twenty-eight mushers from six nations, including Japan, France and Germany, started the race on Feb. 9. They travel 7-12 mph, running six hours, resting six hours, until they cross the finish line about 12 days later. Top prize is $30,000 and a hero's welcome.
Mushers cross some of the meanest, least populated terrain in North America, following trails first used by fur traders, gold seekers, missionaries and the Canadian Mounties, who considered the successful completion of a winter "patrol" through this country one of their highest honors. Mushers ("mush" comes from the French marche! -- meaning "walk") battle fierce winds, temperatures that drop as low as 80 below without wind chill, icy open water and four summits higher than 3,000 feet. On average, one-third succumb to the hardships of the trail and "scratch."
I am here working as part of a television crew assigned to produce a piece for German television. Our story's protagonist is Ralf Zielinski, a 41-year-old German nuclear power plant engineer and mushing enthusiast. With weeks of government-endowed vacation to enjoy, Ralf's goal in running the Quest is to "relax and recreate." We had hoped he was joking, but so far, Ralf is true to his word. He immediately claimed last place and settled in.
The Yukon Quest, while equal in length to the better-known Iditarod, is considered more challenging by many mushers. The distance between checkpoints, where mushers can meet their dog handlers and pick up food, is often greater -- as long as 235 miles -- and the terrain is more varied and arguably more difficult. But the most significant difference is one of power -- dog power. Quest mushers are limited to 14 dogs, which is intended to allow smaller kennel owners to compete and is meant to ensure that more time can be spent caring for each dog.
The Quest is deliberately less commercial than the Iditarod. Backed largely by local sponsors, the race's low profile has enabled organizers to avoid the kind of criticism that has dogged the Iditarod in recent years. According to mushers who have run both races, the Quest is what the Iditarod used to be, before large-money sponsors put pressure on race organizers to become more PC and conform to the standards of the Lower 48. In fact, the Quest encourages values of the North, expecting mushers to look to each other for support on the trail. And indeed, mushers travel together, build campfires and tell stories as their dog teams bed down, nose to tail. But that doesn't mean mushers aren't competitive. Former Iditarod champion Rick Mackey, who stopped running that race in favor of the Quest, sums it up: "I'm not here for the money. I'm here to win. The money is second."
Dawson, the second-largest city in the Yukon by merit of a population of 1,800, is a six-hour drive north from Whitehorse and serves as a mandatory 36-hour rest stop. Nestled on the banks of the mighty Yukon River, Dawson became an overnight sensation in 1897 when George Carmack and his partners, Tagish Charlie and Skookum Jim, struck gold where Rabbit Creek (soon to be renamed Bonanza) empties into the Klondike. Stampeders caused Dawson's population to swell to 35,000, but its heyday was brief and the decline swift, and since then, the town has been just another small burg on the Yukon. Today, Dawson is finding a revival as a tourist outpost, as the millions generated by Diamond Tooth Gertie's casino fund the renovation of the downtown, where colorful wooden cabins and historic storefronts line the boardwalks. As one Alaskan said, "I hate to be positive, but they (read: the Canadians) did a nice job with this town."
The Quest favorites arrived on Valentine's Day and bedded their teams down in the campground under tarps, snuggled in mounds of hay. Defending champion John Schandelmeier, a trapper from Paxson, Alaska, was first in, followed by Mark May, a veterinarian from North Pole, Alaska. Local favorite Frank Turner from Whitehorse, Yukon, was just two hours behind.
The race's current drama revolves around Mackey, fifth in, who did the unthinkable and overslept by four hours in a cabin 50 miles from Dawson. He was finally roused by a puzzled mid-pack musher who shook him awake, saying, "What did you do? Give up?" When Mackey arrived in Dawson, he was still visibly upset. Sleep deprivation is a major factor in long-distance races. Mushers tell tales of mirages seen under the Northern Lights -- log cabins with lit windows, inviting warm blue lakes. At checkpoint lodges, we see confused and exhausted mushers fall asleep face down on the tables in front of their meals.
We are killing time, waiting for Ralf. We take shifts standing outside by the tripod or sitting in the Downtown Hotel's bar, filled with mushers, dog handlers and the motley crew of 60 journalists. Most everyone smokes, everyone drinks. Conversations revolve around dogs: watering dogs, feeding dogs, exercising dogs.
Journalists were hoping to conjure up some controversy after the newest and largest corporate sponsor, Fulda Reifen, a German tire manufacturer, literally moved into Whitehorse, taking over an office and hanging Fulda banners under highway signs and on City Hall. But the locals just seem happy to have their $180,000 and a pledge not to interfere too much. Money is scarce in the Yukon, where the economy depends on mining and tourism -- and it's even scarcer in winter.
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