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Article:
Starting A Dog Sled Race
Sheep Mountain 150
By Andy Moderow
PDF Version
Editor's Note: The Sheep Mountain 150 is a early season sled dog race that takes place in southcentral Alaska. This article describes the excitement of heading out on the trail... As you will see, things can get exciting when dog teams are beginning a race!
The Sheep Mountain 150 in December 2005 was an amazing experience for both my dogs and me: All 13 of us experienced terrain unlike any we had traveled over before. The race was the first I had ran since Iditarod 2001, and when I left the starting line with 12 dogs, many of the challenges and feelings associated with mid distance racing came back to me.
Just a few seconds into my run I was reminded of how strong a team of twelve is when leaving a starting line. Excitement fills the air at races, put out by both people and dogs alike. The dogs sense the excitement of people around them and feed off of it, becoming more energized themselves. In the seconds before a departure, a team's energy reaches its peak: All eyes and attention are focused on them, and they sense what soon awaits them.
'5..4..3..2..1..Go!' is the conclusion to all the pre-race starting rituals, and the team leaves the chute, giving the musher a feeling that is hard to describe. The power of the dogs is felt in the musher's shoulders as they grip their handlebar firmly. The sound of barking dogs still awaiting their turn to depart is quickly left behind. A sudden change from anticipation to action can take even a veteran musher off guard, and the first seconds of a run feels much like flying; it feels as if your sled is barely touching the ground.
Thirty seconds out of the chute in the Sheep Mountain I began thinking of how I hadn't felt the exact feelings of a race start for 5 years. This reflection was brief, however, as my daydream became distracted by the task before me. Keeping the operation under control as we settled into a sustainable pace was what needed my attention during these first few miles of trail, and I told the dogs 'Easy', hoping that part of my message might reach them. While I'm certain they heard me, any noticeable effect of the command was unrealized in their actions. Starting a race is what these dogs live for, and nothing but the digging the brake into the snow was going to slow them down.
The first mile of the race trail ran in the ditch of the Glenn Highway. While many may think that a ditch is a lousy location for a 'trail', I've always enjoyed starting races in ditches. There is something powerful about utilizing a historic form of transportation right next to a paved road. When leaving the road corridor and heading into areas where cars cannot travel, I've always felt that my team and I are heading into places kept secret from most people who travel in the region. Exploring different parts of Alaska using this silent form of transportation has always been my second favorite aspect of the sport.
One minute into the race, my attention shifted to my favorite aspect of the sport: The dogs. Starting to settle down just slightly, I felt a small sense of control. I admired each of the dogs in my team, and I was happy because they were happy: Seeing new terrain always excites a dog team, and observing how they react to a new area is one of the best parts of participating in events like Sheep Mountain. One dog in my team, Stony, found an interest in the booties that had fallen off the feet of dogs in other teams. Quite often during the race he would grab one while running, and carry it with him for up to a mile. I'd say his name in an excited tone of voice and he'd look back, bootie in mouth. Then, facing forward, he'd shake his head, playing with his treasure like many dogs play with chew toys. It was hard not to laugh out loud at the pleasure he received from what hundreds of other dogs ignore while running down the trail. How an athlete can play like this after traveling 125 miles in 24 hours I do not know, but his energy did not come as a complete shock to me. It is mind boggling the ability of these animals.
A minute and a half after my start, we were still traveling in the ditch. I glanced ahead at the trail approaching, and noticed a sign a few hundred yards away. I was unable to read it because I was facing the back of it. In most situations, I would have turned around and glanced at it after we went by, because my curiosity would have taken hold as to what the sign said. However, things changed dramatically between the point where I was at and a place where I could have read it; the scenario that grew left no time for curiosity.
Approaching at a high rate of speed, the sign was next to my leaders. I thought to myself; 'Wow, it'd be a bummer to hit that sign!' Noting that the trail was slightly slanted toward the sign, I gripped the handlebar tighter, and prepared to steer away from it. Yet my actions produced the opposite result: My increased grip on the handlebar made the sled top heavy - I started to lean towards the sign, and gravity did the rest.
It is amazing how fast things can happen at 17 miles per hour. Realizing that my sled was precariously balanced on one runner at a 45 degree angle to the ground, I was startled by the situation I didn't see coming. I somehow had the instinct to release my left hand from the handlebar in the split second before it would have been smashed between the sled and the signpost. The plastic handlebar made contact with the metal pipe, and the grip of my right hand became loose as a result. The sled bounced off the signpost.
Gravity wasn't through with us yet, and the sled did not right itself. Just following the impact, the sled tipped all the way over, and I found myself face down in the snow, gripping the handlebar with one hand, and with that hand, only the tips of my fingers, because the impact had shaken my grip loose. My left hand was at my side when the sled tipped. In a motion familiar to a swimmer doing the freestyle, I propelled my hand forward, reaching for the handlebar. The motion allowed me to feel the bar with the tips of my fingers at the exact moment when the grip of my other hand released. I lay face down in the snow.
Losing a dog team is a musher's worst nightmare, and one that I hadn't lived as a result of musher error since 1997. The last instance when a team left without me was during fall training in 2000 - my gang line snapped, and 14 of my 16 dogs went down the trail alone. In that instance, the fear of the dogs getting tangled up or hurt was absolutely terrifying. Take that feeling, and add in feeling as if everyone around have just witnessed you make a dangerous, stupid mistake. While this feeling set in after the dust had settled, my first reaction was one of pure terror, watching my team travel without me at over 20 miles an hour. My sled hit a bump and was momentarily airborne. I ran after them, and screamed for them to stop. They responded just like they did to my 'Easy!' command given a few seconds earlier: A few looked back, but they kept on going.
A car had witnessed my crash, and pulled up beside me. Before the driver had even offered me a ride, I ran towards it, struggling in the deep, loose snow between the trail and the roadway. We drove past my team, and offering profuse thanks to the stranger who I'd probably only interact with for 15 seconds in my life, I jumped out of the car as it slowed down, preparing to catch my team as it approached. When the team traveled over a driveway 100 feet in front of me, a road crossing guard managed to stop them, ten feet from where I stood. A profuse thanks was once again offered to another kind individual who helped me out of my problem, and once again, with 12 lunging dogs, time didn't allow for any introductions.
Still today I remain rattled from this incident, despite having traveled 149.9 miles that weekend by dog team (with the additional .1 by Ford Taurus), but as the race progressed I relaxed, little by little. As the team settled into their long distance pace and I regained confidence. The terrain that we traveled over was absolutely amazing, and included a mountain pass, where the bases of two large mountains came together and formed a sharp vee. The hills were an athletic challenge for both the dogs and me, but they had just as much fun exploring the new area as I did. In addition, they made certain that I did my fair share of work, looking back at me if I wasn't running up the hill, lightening their load.
The second of the three 50 mile legs occurred between midnight and 5 am. A full moon lit the terrain we were traveling across, and my headlamp wasn't needed to watch my dogs or find the trail. While running lightless increased my chances of missing an important corner and getting lost, I felt that the experience of running in the moonlight was well worth the risk. Fog had left ice crystals on all the brush along the trail, and they sparkled in the moonlight. The first half of this leg was above tree line, and often, in the distance, a lone light could be seen of a musher who chose to have their light on.
In the third leg of the race, we traveled the route that we had run on the first leg of the race, back to Sheep Mountain Lodge. The dogs performed amazingly, including the younger pups (Rosie and Stony) that my mom had raced the weekend before in the Gin Gin 120.
Leaving the checkpoint at 10 AM, I felt much more tired than my team of dogs did, mainly because sled dogs are much tougher than their owners, but also because I had only gotten 2 hours of sleep during our two rests, which had totaled 11 hours. The dogs knew when we were approaching the finish line, and I knew too: Once we reached the trail in the ditch, we were only a few minutes from the end. A mystery was solved on this final leg of the race. Turns out the sign I hit was an Adopt a Highway sign, recognizing the lodge that put on the race.
Thanks to the Pike Legal Group, PLLC for supporting this program!
Copyright © 2005-2006, From Alaska Educational Program, All Rights Reserved.
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