THE HOWLER

Although we are well past the spring equinox, the snow remains in Alaska. I walk around nearly 4 feet in the air. Looking around, I think back to myself, how high does this come up in the summer? Trail stakes stick up only one or two inches above the top of the snow. In summer they come up to my chin. Dog houses have become snow caves. The snow has continued to fall and fall this winter. This has been coupled with significant cold and wind. January ranked in the top 10 coldest January’s on record for Alaska. The temperatures were regularly 30 below zero. The cold tested determination and preparation. Now in early April, the temperatures are still falling below zero every night. I know the snow will melt sometime. Already the daylight lasts until past 9 at night. Max keeps telling me that he can’t go to sleep until it is dark. I worry what this will mean as summer progresses.

I have to admit, this is my favorite time of year. I love the lights. I love the short week leading up to the long weekend of Thanksgiving. I love the richness of the foods, the music, and the table. I love the emotional holiday commercials. But more than anything I love the feeling of anticipation.

And nobody does anticipation as well as a sled dog. Just a hint of action near the harnesses or the sled can raise excitement so strong you can nearly taste it.

You know how a certain smell can take you right back to your grandmother’s kitchen or your elementary school classroom? How hugging your child can allow you to feel your baby in your arms? The same is true with the dogs. Born and raised here at the kennel, each dog can take me back to their goofy antics as a puppy and the memorable times we have shared on and off the trail.

Summer is in full swing in Denali. The daylight is everlasting, the snow has been replaced by chattering creeks and wildflowers. As we hike on the trail Max comments, “I love the sound of Alaska.” I expected him to comment on the babbling brook, but instead his observations were keener than mine, noting “the snow, the animals, the wind.”

Puppies, like children grow up with astounding speed. One of the satisfying moments as a musher is when the puppies start running in harness like the adult dogs. While it can be a bit chaotic getting everyone to face the same direction at the same time, once you begin to move, its impressive how quickly they run like they have been doing it for years. The puppies charge down the trail, undistracted by obstacles, finding their footing at varied speeds and terrain.

2019 has roared in with personality. It began with three feet of snow in three days and now has dropped to 30 degrees below zero. The woodstoves are radiating with heat and the dogs are snuggled up in the straw. The snow, so light and fluffy as it fell, gains an ethereal quality in the cold. It squeeks under foot and breaks off in solid, yet light chunks as you chop it. The cold has come with a stillness that leaves the trees covered in snow.

As our summer days grow shorter, sunset becomes a dramatic Alaskan event. Perhaps it is the novelty of an increasingly dark evening after months of light. Perhaps it is the timing, nearly midnight in July and progressing earlier on a daily basis. Perhaps it is the low angle at which the sun depends below the horizon. Regardless, it lends itself to beautiful moments.

Summer in Alaska has such a magical feeling to it. There is something about the fact that it never gets dark that makes you feel like you are in a fairy tale. The summer light paints the mountains and the clouds. It illuminates the world all night long. When I wake in the night it looks like day outside.

This was the winter that kept on giving. We had a great snowfall throughout the winter. In April, when our days are typically warm and above freezing, mother nature decided to continue with her winter work. After getting over two feet of snow on April 20th and 21st, it continued to snow every day.

During the Iditarod race, mushers decide when, where and how long to rest their dogs. The only exceptions to this are the 3 mandatory stops. There is an 8 hour break that must be taken at the second to last checkpoint, there is an 8 hour break that must be taken at one of the checkpoints along the Yukon river, and there is a 24 hour break that can be taken at any one of the checkpoints. When to take this break is a big decision for a team. Not only is there strategy, but there is also luck involved. Weather and trail conditions can change and favor either the team that stopped early or the one that pressed on. As the teams stop for these breaks, it becomes difficult to gauge who is really leading the race.

While many people associate March Madness with basketball, here in Alaska it can mean only one thing: Iditarod. With intensity equal to the growing daylight, mushers and fans come together in Anchorage to celebrate this Last Great Race. It is a fascinating experience. The draw is so strong that I talk to fans and volunteers who have given up their entire year’s vacation time and money to come to the frozen North and get a chance to be near these incredible dogs. They come year after year, giving me the feeling that, like the mafia, once you are in the Iditarod family, there is no getting out. As a dog musher, the Iditarod is like an addiction. We made the decision this summer that Mike would not be racing this year. He wanted to have more time at home with Max before he starts kindergarten. However, I cannot begin to tell you how extremely difficult it is to not be racing. I am sure this feeling is shared by any of the others who have participated in this race either as musher or behind the scenes. We watch longingly, immersed in our personal memories.

There is nothing that makes you feel quite as cold as the wind and Cantwell is known for it. Mother nature has spared us for the past few years, but this last week the wind was back. Blowing with a passion out of the North, the snowflakes travel nearly horizontally creating white-out conditions. The snowpack is whipped clear of loose snow leaving a surface of polished ice. Daring to make my way 25 feet to the car is not only bone chilling, but so slippery I must hold onto the tailgate so as not to be blown across the parking lot like an ice skater. The temperature has hovered near 20 below. The defrost must work hard to hold back the ice pushing its way inward from the edges of the windshield and my windows at home build up ice near the bottom.