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Turner Publishing Company - Lew Freedman

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140 pages

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In IDITAROD ADVENTURES, mushers explain why they have chosen this rugged lifestyle, what has kept them in long-distance mushing, and the experiences they have endured along that unforgiving trail between
Anchorage and Nome. Renowned sports writer Lew Freedman profiles 23 mushers—men, women, Natives, seasoned veterans, and some relatively new to the demanding sport, many of whom are so well-known in Alaska that fans refer to them only by their first names. The book also features interviews with administrators who organize the event and make sure it happens every year, volunteers, and others whose connection to the Iditarod is self-evident even if they don’t have an official title.
Chapter 6 LANCE MACKEY
Despite owning the last name Mackey and being part of one of the Alaska clans with the longest ties to the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, no one saw Lance Mackey coming. One minute he was just a guy who had competed in the Iditarod like so many others and the next minute he was unbeatable.
From also-ran to champion seemed like an overnight journey for Mackey as he accomplished unprecedented feats in long-distance mushing. Until Mackey did it, no one believed that it was possible to win the 1,000-mile Yukon Quest and the 1,000-mile Iditarod in one season. The effort was felt to be too tiring for the dogs – and probably the musher, too. Instead, Mackey showed the back-to-back races were probably beneficial for a top racing team.
Mackey won the Yukon Quest four years in a row between 2005 and 2008 and he became the only musher to win the Iditarod four years in a row between 2007 and 2010. His fourth Iditarod triumph was one of only a few sub-nine-day championship races. Mackey’s accomplishments were all recorded following a life-threatening bout with throat cancer. Mackey’s dog operation is appropriately named “Comeback Kennel.” After his multiple victories in the challenging Quest and Iditarod some referred to Mackey as “the world’s toughest athlete.” For sure he was one of the most inspirational ones.
Cancer treatments alone sapped his strength, ruined his taste buds, and made it difficult for him to remain hydrated. Some side effects continue to bother Mackey today at age 44 and resulted in him taking a leave of absence from competition in both the Quest and Iditarod. In early 2014 it was revealed that after-effects from his cancer treatment were resulting in his losing his teeth and that his medical insurance did not cover his bills. Donations were solicited to help Mackey cope with the costs of his problems.
In-between his illness and the unfortunate turn Mackey experienced, however, the Fairbanks dog driver’s achievements electrified mushing fans and led to his being inducted into the Alaska Sports Hall of Fame. He also shifted his attention to sprint racing and entered the Anchorage Fur Rendezvous World Championship in 2014, one of the events where his father Dick got his start racing decades earlier. Mackey wrote a book about his life and a forthcoming documentary was expected.
Although Mackey did not enter long-distance races until he was in his 30s, growing up in the dog-oriented Mackey family he said he always thought he would try them. Before he won any long-distance race, the Quest or Iditarod, Mackey endured considerable adversity, from spending years finding his vocation and overcoming a battle with drugs, to his highly publicized fight with cancer.
XXX
I tell people I’ve been in mushing since I was in the womb. I was forced into it. My mother Kathi Smith was racing when she was seven months pregnant with me. It’s true.
After that I was handling dogs since I was old enough to mush. I was scooping out dog food for my father’s dogs when we lived in Wasilla from the time I was three or four years old and I raced in the one-dog class at Tudor Track in Anchorage when I was five. Between ages 14 and 17 I entered the Junior Iditarod. But there weren’t a lot of kids’ races and at that point I stopped, from about age 17 to 29. I took a little break.
For a while I was a Bering Sea fisherman and during the Iditarod I would always listen to the race on the radio from the wheelhouse. People were always asking me when I was going to do it and I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t want to make a commitment. I was making good money fishing and I didn’t want to spend it on dogs.
Then I moved to the Kenai Peninsula. I was married with kids and I lived right around the corner from Tim Osmar, who was racing the Iditarod. We had eight or nine dogs and the kids, Amanda, and Britain, liked them. I wanted them to learn responsibility and they liked riding with the dogs on the beach down there. Having dogs had nothing to do with me wanting to do the Iditarod.
But next thing I knew I was going to the Soldotna sprint mushing track and getting to be friends with other mushers. It was starting to rekindle my original interest in dogs from when I was a kid. It was just an easy fit. I bought a sled for $200 and collected some free dogs. By then it was not just the kids and the dogs, I wanted to do it too.
Within a year, by 1999, we had 20 dogs. It was just living in the neighborhood with other dog mushers that rubbed off on me. I started doing well in the short races. These were 10-milers. But invariably I would get the last paying position. Remember, these were all dogs that nobody else wanted because they didn’t think they were fast enough. I wasn’t raising dogs or breeding dogs. I just did a little training with them. I started to think, “What if I put a little effort into this?”
I didn’t have many dogs or much money, but I decided, “I’m gonna run the Iditarod next year.” That was 2001. I was just like any other Alaskan who wanted to do the race. I was going to do it once. That was it. I did the Copper Basin 300 as my first qualifying race. Then I did the Clam Gulch Classic for my second one. I won that one.
So I entered the Iditarod in 2001. My rookie race I finished 36th out of 57 finishers. My thinking was that I was going on a leisurely camping trip to get a finisher’s belt buckle. My thoughts were that “I’m never going to do this again, so maybe I can have some fun and make some memories.” Some people said, “I told you so” that I wasn’t really ready. But all it did was motivate me more. I started thinking that 36th wasn’t bad and “What if I do this and this?” I could finish much better. It wasn’t a realistic daydream at the time. I put everything I owned financially into doing the first one and I won $1,049.
Before long I was dealing with something much bigger than the Iditarod, cancer stuff. When I went into the hospital after the race I didn’t know whether I was going to live or die. I entered in 2002, but that race I was sick and I didn’t finish. I did win the Most Inspirational Musher Award. I did that race with a feeding tube in me. When I was at my sickest, thinking of doing the Iditarod again was one of those things that I could look forward to in order to keep me going. Me doing the Iditarod was something that made my parents proud and it was an opportunity for me to change my life. It was just a familiar family dream.
Everybody tried to talk me out of starting the 2002 Iditarod. I wasn’t very strong. But I learned something about myself. I was pretty stubborn. It wouldn’t have looked good if I had gone out there and passed away on the Iditarod. I pulled out in Ophir. I felt like a complete loser. I had had so much support. I felt like I was letting down so many people, friends, supporters, doctors. I had huge doubt. I sat there at the checkpoint for about two days before I decided I wasn’t going to make it to the finish. In the end I gave Bill Borden, who was from Georgia, my sled. He finished 53rd.
After that I worked on rebuilding my health. I didn’t enter the Iditarod in 2003. I just did middle distance races. I needed to get my health up to par. In 2004 I entered the Iditarod and my brother Jason and I ran together and took 24th and 26th. I was just trying to get better physically and get better as a dog musher.
Hugh Neff was the one who said to me, “You should come and do the other 1,000-mile race.” So in 2005 I entered the Yukon Quest and I won the Quest as a rookie. That just shot everything right up in my thinking. That just built up my confidence in a huge way. I took that same dog team and brought it to the Iditarod and I finished seventh. At that time it was still considered radical to be able to race the same dogs in the Quest and the Iditarod in the same year. But that was the beginning of changing the thinking. In a sense I came out of nowhere when I won the Quest and finished seventh in the Iditarod that year.
After that I won four Quests in a row and four Iditarods in a row. It is crazy. No one in the world, including my family and fans would ever have really thought I could do that. It blows my mind sometimes when I think of it. I think of myself as a musher who is not done yet, as someone who has really just started. There are 80 more things for me to learn. Winning those races four times in a row is a fantasy becoming a reality. That’s exactly what it was.
The Iditarod has become so competitive, with so many good mushers who have a chance to win, I still don’t know how I won four times in a row. When I was closing in on winning the first one in 2007, when it started becoming a reality, when it looked like I had a chance, I remember going down the trail on the back of the sled with a big grin on my face. And then when I got a little bit closer to Nome, I just started crying. It was such an emotional high.
I didn’t really think I was going to win that Iditarod until I got to Cape Nome, outside of the city of Nome. I got down on my knees out there and I hugged every one of the dogs. I was laughing and crying. I was with one of my leaders, Larry, and I pointed down the trail to Nome and I said, “I know you know where we’re at. But we’re here first this time.” Larry looked over at me and he kind of smiled and I swear he winked at me, as if he was saying, “I know, dad.” My dogs knew I was going to win the Iditarod. As we came down Front Street Larry was in lead and he just strutted down Front Street, his chest out.
Finishing that Iditarod in first place was one of the greatest moments of my life. It was louder than most moments in my life with the spectators lining the fencing on both sides of the street. My parents were there at the finish and they were crying for me. To be honest, for a long time I did a lot of things they weren’t really proud of (Mackey has publicly detailed some of his drug problems when he was younger) and they were really proud of me that day. That was probably better than winning the Iditarod. I hugged my mom. My thinking was that “Dreams do come true.”
After I won those races one of the neatest things that happened was being voted into the Alaska Sports Hall of Fame and being inducted at the same time as my dad for his 1978 race against Rick Swenson. In a million years I never thought it would happen that I would be in the Alaska Sports Hall of Fame. It was pretty amazing to be recognized by the people like that. I was thinking, “I’m just some guy from Alaska who runs dogs.” It was, “Really? Me?” And again I was thinking that I was pretty young in the sport and that I’ve really just gotten started in the Iditarod.
That’s one of my most recognized trophies in the house. That’s mind-boggling to me.
Introduction
Chapter 1 Martin Buser
Chapter 2 Jeff King
Chapter 3 Dan Seavey
Chapter 4 Mitch Seavey
Chapter 5 Dick Mackey
Chapter 6 Lance Mackey
Chapter 7 Jason Mackey
Chapter 8 Joe May
Chapter 9 Jon Van Zyle
Chapter 10 Hobo Jim
Chapter 11 Karen Tallent
Chapter 12 Jake Berkowitz
Chapter 13 Aaron Burmeister
Chapter 14 Cim Smyth
Chapter 15 Michelle Phillips
Chapter 16 Bob Bundtzen
Chapter 17 Joanne Potts
Chapter 18 Mark Nordman
Chapter 19 Stan Hooley
Chapter 20 Sebastian Schnuelle
Chapter 21 Hugh Neff
Chapter 22 Newton Marshall
Chapter 23 Paul Gebhardt
Chapter 24 DeeDee Jonrowe
Chapter 25 Mike Williams Jr.
Chapter 26 Pete Kaiser
Chapter 27 Jim Lanier
Chapter 28 Aliy Zirkle
Index
About the Author
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Sujets

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Autour du sport

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Winter Sports

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Iditarod

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Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race

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Publié par	Turner Publishing Company
Date de parution	12 janvier 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781941821527
Langue	English

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Extrait

Iditarod Adventures
TALES FROM MUSHERS ALONG THE TRAIL

By LEW FREEDMAN
Illustrations by JON VAN ZYLE
Text 2015 by Lew Freedman
Illustrations 2015 by Jon Van Zyle
Photographs 2015 by Lew Freedman
except for those on pages 7, 131, 227 2015 by Sebastian Schnuelle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Freedman, Lew.
Iditarod adventures : tales from mushers along the trail / by Lew Freedman ; illustrations by Jon Van Zyle.
pages cm
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-941821-28-2 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-941821-53-4 (hardbound)
ISBN 978-1-941821-52-7 (e-book)
1. Iditarod (Race) 2. Sled dog racing-Alaska. 3. Mushers-Alaska-Biography. 4. Women mushers-Alaska-Biography. I. Van Zyle, Jon II. Title.
SF440.15.F735 2015
798.8 309798-dc23

2014025964
Map: Gray Mouse Graphics
Designer: Rudy Ramos
Published by Alaska Northwest Books
An imprint of

P.O. Box 56118
Portland, Oregon 97238-6118
503-254-5591
www.graphicartsbooks.com
Contents
Map of Iditarod
Introduction
Chapter 1 Martin Buser
Chapter 2 Jeff King
Chapter 3 Dan Seavey
Chapter 4 Mitch Seavey
Chapter 5 Dick Mackey
Chapter 6 Jason Mackey
Chapter 7 Lance Mackey
Chapter 8 Joe May
Chapter 9 Jon Van Zyle
Chapter 10 Hobo Jim
Chapter 11 Karen Tallent
Chapter 12 Jake Berkowitz
Chapter 13 Aaron Burmeister
Chapter 14 Cim Smyth
Chapter 15 Michelle Phillips
Chapter 16 Bob Bundtzen
Chapter 17 Joanne Potts
Chapter 18 Mark Nordman
Chapter 19 Stan Hooley
Chapter 20 Sebastian Schnuelle
Chapter 21 Hugh Neff
Chapter 22 Newton Marshall
Chapter 23 Paul Gebhardt
Chapter 24 DeeDee Jonrowe
Chapter 25 Mike Williams Jr.
Chapter 26 Pete Kaiser
Chapter 27 Jim Lanier
Chapter 28 Aliy Zirkle
About the Author

INTRODUCTION
Probably the coldest I ve ever been taking notes was standing at the finish line of the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race in Nome in 1991 as the clock inched toward 2 A.M. amidst the reports of winner Rick Swenson approaching on Front Street.
The temperature was minus-twenty-five degrees and the windchill made it feel like fifty below. I stood in place, surrounded by the crowd of spectators, for more than an hour. When Swenson crossed the finish line for his record fifth victory-a mark that still stands-my fingers felt as wooden as the pencil they tried to grasp.
Those of us who waited for the arrival of the king were likely equally frozen, despite the warmest of wardrobes hugging our bodies. It was just a fact of life that if you were associating with the 1,049-mile race between Anchorage and Nome on the Bering Sea Coast, that at one time or another during the event that lasted about ten days, you were going to be shivering.
Even if the wind whipped through those of us hanging out at the finish line near the burled arch that marked the end of the trail, we had it easy. It was always colder, snowier, windier, harder going out there for the mushers and their dogs, in the vast expanse of Alaska, the Last Frontier. No one had any illusions about that.
Termed The Last Great Race on Earth, the Iditarod, named for an old gold mining town in the state s Interior, represented the ultimate wilderness challenge. It was man (or woman) against the elements, with only sled dogs for companions, comfort, and transportation. The Iditarod is a throwback race, an event with its origins stemming from a bygone era.
No matter who you are, a nervous novice testing himself on the trail for the first time, or a hardened veteran, each year, each March, when the race leaves the big city of Anchorage, the weather and the trail can play havoc with wise plans, and grand hopes. No one knows whether a sled will encounter ice or snow drifts. No one knows whether a musher will contend with frigid temperatures or warm ones. Will it be sunny? Will it be gloomy? Each musher takes his chances and hopes he is prepared for anything.
Since its founding in 1973, mainly through the efforts of the late Joe Redington Sr. and a team of helpers he organized, the Iditarod has implanted itself in Alaskans minds as the most unifying and popular event that the union s largest state at 586,000 square miles can wrap its arms around.
While ostensibly a sporting event-the one Alaska is most proud of-the Iditarod is more than that. It represents a way of life. It is an event that is very much of a place, its size and scope giving heft to the boast that it is the grandest sled-dog race in the world. Redington s dual dream of ensuring that the husky dog species was perpetuated and the Iditarod Trail preserved has long been achieved.
Beyond that the Iditarod has become a symbol of Alaska, much like Mount McKinley, the 20,320-foot-high mountain that is the tallest in North America, as its reputation has spread and spread, the one recurring event that nearly everyone identifies with the forty-ninth state.
The race has spawned legends and lore, heroes and icons. Rick Swenson of Two Rivers is the only musher with five victories. The late Susan Butcher won the race four times. As has Martin Buser of Big Lake, Jeff King of Denali Park, Doug Swingley of Lincoln, Montana, and Lance Mackey of Fairbanks.
Family dynasties have evolved. Dick Mackey helped Redington stage the first Iditarod and then outraced Swenson by one second in 1978 in the closest race of them all. His son Rick won in 1983 and another son Lance won those four times. Jason, a third son, is still racing. Dan Seavey recorded a top finish in the first Iditarod. His son Mitch has won twice and Dan s grandson Dallas won in 2012 and 2014.
Mushers have been separated from their dog teams in forbidding weather and had to walk miles to safety, not to be confused with the last checkpoint of Safety, twenty-two miles from Nome. They have somehow navigated blown-in trails where visibility was practically nil. They have suffered frostbite. For one reason or another, even simply dog-tired fatigue, it is always a battle to reach Nome. There a good night s rest, a hot meal, and warmth dispensed by loved ones are on the agenda to soothe the aching body. There is also the glow of satisfaction in the form of prize money if one does well, or the simpler prize of an Iditarod belt buckle awarded for reaching the terminus of the trail.
Not everyone can be a champion. The Iditarod appeals to Everyman and Everywoman, those motivated by the spirit of adventure, the challenge of competition, or the love of the land. Some mushers, Martin Buser, Jeff King, DeeDee Jonrowe, Sonny Lindner, and others, have made virtual careers out of competing in the thousand-mile race each year, raising dogs in their kennels, mushing dogs, suborning other goals, to the Iditarod. Some are full-time, professional mushers, living off sponsorships, appearances, and prize money. Some are hooked by the race and have no desire to remove the hook.
It is often said that the Iditarod is to Alaska what the Kentucky Derby is to Louisville or the Indianapolis 500 is to Indiana. Each year there is great anticipation as the first Saturday in March draws near. Fans have their favorites, for many different reasons. They admire excellence among the front-running contenders. They wish to see a Native musher take a turn, or a woman cross the finish line first. As the mushers work their way across the state, passing through the small villages of almost unoccupied locales that make up the checkpoints, in Rohn and Nikolai, McGrath and Unalakleet, Anvik and Grayling, their presence is eagerly anticipated.
Iditarod mushers are so well-known that many of them are referred to by fans by first names only, as if they are friends and neighbors more than the best athletes in their sport. In a way they are friends and neighbors the rest of the year when they are not busy on the trail.
Whether a musher has completed the Iditarod once, or two dozen times, chances are he or she will have a story to tell. In Iditarod Adventures, mushers explain why they have chosen this rugged lifestyle, what has kept them in long-distance mushing, and what types of experiences they have endured along that unforgiving trail between Anchorage and Nome during their careers.
There are twenty-eight individuals included whose stories are related, and not every one of those people spend their Iditarod time on the trail. Included also are administrators who organize the event and make sure it happens every year, volunteers, and others whose connection to the Iditarod is self-evident even if they don t have an official title.
One thing all of these Iditarod people agree upon is that none of them have seen it all. Each time the Iditarod unfolds it is a new and fresh adventure. Each time a musher steps upon the sled runners and urges the team onward from the starting line, he is plunging into the unknown.
Never was this more evident than in the 2014 race. The trail over the first two hundred miles was brutal, devoid of snow and filled with large boulders. Sleds and human bones were broken and in one day alone twelve mushers scratched. Then the trail became swift and smooth and mushers were on a record pace to finish. Abruptly, on the Bering Sea Coast, the weather changed, the wind blowing violently up to sixty-five miles per hour. Just when it seemed certain that the top three had been sorted out, the Iditarod fooled everyone again, shaking up the final standings.
The reminder was very vivid: A new script is written each March and no one knows the ending in advance.
-Lew Freedman March 2014

The 100th All Alaska Sweepstakes commemorative poster.
CHAPTER 1

Martin BUSER
Born in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1958, Martin Buser is one of the most decorated of Iditarod champions. A four-time winner of the race, Buser, who l