The Puppies Who Train for the Iditarod

 You might assume that Dan and I and Theo are not dog people. That we have no place in our lives for any creature that barks and doesn't meow. Not true.

In Alaska, we're privileged to visit a place that trains dogs for the famous Iditarod, a yearly long distance sled dog race where man and dogs travel for 938 miles (from Anchorage to Nome) and compete to come to the finish line first. It's a grueling trek, requiring intense training for man and dog. But who are these dogs and where to do they come from?

They are huskies--some Alaskan, some Siberian, and of course, start out as puppies. They spend the first few years in a training camp with other puppies--the owners looking for those few rare dogs that can pull a sleigh through snow and sleet and ice, up and down mountains, across wide expanses of Alaskan wilderness. They race through blizzards, white out conditions, sub-zero temperatures and gale force winds. The wind chill can dip as low at 100 degrees below zero.

This is no task for the faint of heart. 

Theo wanted to come to visit the puppies. We were concerned though that a cat roaming around near all these dogs would cause needless chaos. 

"I'll be good," he promises us, but we've already decided.

"Too much of a risk."

His tiny face is looking through the car window at us, at the puppies he (maybe) can see from the parking lot.  

The Iditarod is a tradition that began in 1973 in order to test the best sled dog mushers and teams, but it's now a highly competitive race. Each team has a musher and between twelve and sixteen dogs that pull the sled. Nowadays the winning mushers and their teams are local celebrities. The usual number of competitors is around fifty teams--most Alaskan--but mushers have come from 14 different countries. In 1985 the first woman musher won the race. The next year another woman won and then won again for the next three years. The fastest time was clocked in 2017 at 8 days, 3 hours, and 40 minutes. 

Some animal rights groups consider the Iditarod animal abuse, noting that over 150 dogs have died during the race over the years. They believe the intense competition results in dogs being pushed beyond their endurance or capability. 

All of these thoughts swirl through our heads when we visit the puppies. We are totally enthralled. In this training center, these dogs are loved and well cared for. They're trained from an early age to pull a sled and work together. They are prized for their potential. 

We have the wonderful opportunity to pick up a puppy and hold him. He is the cutest thing and cuddles in our arms as if he wants us to take him home. We hear a story that a visitor fell so in love with a puppy that she tried to smuggle him out of the facility. So we know that as we're holding our gem, we're being watched. 

It's interesting to note that we learn that these puppies--although cute and friendly when they're babies--are not bred to be someone's pet. They're not socialized for home living. They're taught the skills they need to pull a sled, obey commands. They're groomed for a grueling race. 

Afterwards, Theo is all about sniffing. Me. Sometimes he's jealous. After all, I was cuddling a dog. But this time, when we get back into the car, he sniffs and sniffs and then seems to be okay. 

"That little puppy was cute," I assure him, "but not as cute as you."

Meow!

Can Theo Spot Wildlife in Denali?

 Finally we are cruising along the road in Denali. We're concentrating, so much so, that our eyes hurt--desperate to see wildlife. My expectations that we'll be up close and personal with the grizzlies or the wolves or the caribou are dashed. Instead, we're surrounded by breathtaking scenery--mountains in the distance, clouds floating by overhead, streams and trees and so much greenery that we'd bet the landscape is greener than Ireland. 

"Where are the animals?" I ask no one in particular.

"Out there somewhere . . ." I imagine someone saying.

Everyone on the bus is given the same mission. Shout out when you see something, if you see something. We hear a shout. Our first sighting. But the animal is so far away we don't know if we're looking at a boulder or a living thing. Ah . . . suddenly our guide focuses the lens, and an image is projected on the screen.

Now we can see. But I can't help thinking--this is so ironic. We're out here in the middle of Denali National Park and looking at the animals on what looks suspiciously like a television screen. Really?

"Get a grip on yourself," I can almost hear Theo meowing. "Why would these animals walk along the road, in danger of buses, etc. They live up there." He means the land we can't get to, the wilderness.

No he isn't pointing with his paw, but he's looking at me with that disappointed look on his face. And then he's peering out the bus window. I suspect he can see farther than I can. I suspect he doesn't need the screen to see wildlife.

We have other sightings. The white blobs are Dall sheep. There are caribou. Ironically, we have seen more bears and wolves in Yellowstone National Park--at dawn or dusk. Through binoculars. 

Dan saves the day. "Forget about the wildlife," he tells me. "Look around. Isn't the landscape magnificent?"

He's absolutely right. The park is a glimpse at a world that no longer exists in too many places. Nature. The air is clean and fresh. Water flows downstream. The trees seem to be saying--we like it here. It's one of those special days when you feel a spiritual presence. When you realize we humans can't be alone on this earth. When you vow to protect our natural resources and, of course, the animals. 

Theo is in his glory. He snacks away. Spots some wildlife. 

And when we stop occasionally and get out of the school bus, Theo is all about sniffing the ground and the flowers. He's immediately connected. And as he boards the bus, he's grateful that he got sort of close to some birds.

"Thanks," he meows. 

Our gangster car is cowed by the beauty and the majesty. And the birds, of course! And, frankly, so are we.

Theo and the Arctic Ground Squirrel

 The morning we actually go into Denali National Park (meaning tall one--referring to the mountain which is 20,310 feet high and North America's highest peak), we're riding a school bus and are part of an official tour. For a price, we have a seat, a lunch and a window that we can look out of. There's a guide in front of the bus, who's visited Denali before, and a kind of television screen to the side that projects images from the outside. Our guide has a transmitter that helps him locate where the animals are.

That's why we're going to Denali. To see the animals. More specifically, Denali is home to 39 mammal species (red foxes, Arctic ground squirrels, marmots), 169 bird species (willow ptarmigans, golden eagles, ravens) 1 amphibian (wood frog) and the Big Five: Grizzly bears, wolves, caribou, Dall sheep, and moose.

The problem is Denali is a big place (6 million acres or approximately 7,408 miles) and the road we're traveling on (92 miles long), which twists and turns, which goes up and down, doesn't take you into the real interior of the park. To get there, you need to be a hiker and have a good map and days and days to spend tramping around. In the middle of almost nowhere. 

So, we'll spend the entire day driving around, hoping to see something, even though if you know anything about spotting wildlife, the best time to see them is early morning or early evening--not mid afternoon. 

Why a tour? Theo wants to know. Because private vehicles can ride into the park only so far. Tour busses can go in further. And, even though we wish we were, we're not professional hikers who can carry twenty pound back packs and use walking sticks. 

We lower our expectations. We're not going to come within two feet of a grizzly bear. We won't see any wolves. Anything we do see will be super far away. At this point I realize that's why those screens are here--to magnify what we can't see so we can see it. 

As I'm realizing all of this, Theo is eating his first snack of the day. He seems relatively unconcerned. I feel a bit devastated. 

BUT, Dan reminds me, we will see magnificent views. Scenery that is over the top. Awe inspiring. The day is beautiful--cool breezes, blue skies with lovely billowing clouds that drift past the mountain top, greenery, streams.

We spot a bird? Not sure what it is:

"Is this okay, Theo?" I whisper. "I mean . . ."

He gives me a withered look. "I can take it, see?"

And then we spot the smallest animal--the Arctic ground squirrel--but, gosh, they are cute. Imagine Theo--his face pressed up against the bus window--as the most adorable squirrels peek their heads out of their burrows and run around.

Our guide tells us that these burrowing rodents are known for their extreme hibernation. Their body temps drop below freezing. Their heart rates slow to a crawl. Which is why they can survive the harsh Arctic winters. They eat plants, seeds, insects and other small animals.

Be grateful, I tell myself. No. Arctic ground squirrels are not a moose or a wolf, but they are animals. 

Theo, surprisingly, takes another view. He's enthralled. He crouches down, with his eyes just above the bottom of the window. Stalking posture. Ready to pounce at any second. If the bus window wasn't there.

Theo Eats at Moose-Akas in Denali

 I blame myself. I've wanted to visit Denali National Park since I was a kid and now finally we're going. I've been talking about it and dreaming about it--the beautiful scenery and the animals we're going to see. Theo listens to every word, salivating at the mere mention of a wilderness area where animals abound . . . or so we both think.

In a nutshell, Denali is all and nothing like I think it's going to be. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Denali is not like your neighborhood park. You cannot just decide one day to go for a walk, put on your sneakers and you're there. It's an experience that takes planning and lots of traveling.  

First, it's the getting there (when you're inAlaska) which includes the traveling by road, awe-struck by the magnificent scenery (and we're not even in the park yet.)

And the deciding to stay at the premier resort--the Grande Denali Lodge, which is all part of the experience.

And deciding to hike around a bit outside the park:

And then deciding to eat our first dinner at Moose-Akas, a quirky restaurant, named by weirdly combining Moose (because we're in Alaska) and Moussaka (a famous Mediterranean lasagne-type dish made with eggplant and meat). 

 The chef, Michael Waring, was born in Guam but learned to cook in Serbia. His assistant Maya (his chief operator) and Nicki (part waitress and storyteller) make up the team. We arrive, and they all introduce themselves as if they're distant relatives and we're coming to their house for dinner.

That's the atmosphere. Theo wants to know why there's a bicycle hanging from the ceiling inside? I want to know why there are  grapes hanging from the ceiling in the outside terrace? It is an eclectic place with references to Serbian culture.

 Michael comes out and explains the menu himself. Dan orders the moussaka (made with potaoes not eggplant) and I order the Sarma (stuffed cabbage that is heads and tails above the usual Greek or Polish version.) For appetizers, we order the mixed platter which includes a salad made with potatoes, carrots, peas and pickles.

The food is delicious. The portions are bigger than usual. The prices are reasonable. You make reservations by email (weeks in advance) and basically have to accept the time allotted to you--only a few groups of people at a time. During the meal, Michael comes out and talks about the food--his inspiration for creating each dish, his mentorship with Maya's Serbian grandmother.

Gosh. He doesn't even seem to mind Theo who is basically sniffing the entire place, as if he's making a plan in his head to recreate it when he gets home. He also wanders over and nibbles at our dinner. Do cats like moussaka? Theo, the gangster cat, seems to. And he really likes the ice cream for dessert.

The restaurant is about three miles from the Lodge. We finish later than the hours posted for the shuttle but a wonderful older guy (who works at the lodge) in a tiny van arrives when we finish eating and takes us back to the lodge. He tells us his life story and spends most of the ride convincing us that a heated garage is the most important thing when buying a house in Alaska. 

We haven't even made it into the park yet so stay tuned.

Theo Visits a Railroad Museum

 Most people know that Alaska is a sparsely populated state. You can ride for miles and see more tractors than people. 

After we leave Fairbanks, we decide to stop in Nenana, a small town with about one thousand people total. Its claim to fame: it can offer a "remote experience" and, of course, a railroad museum that focuses on the history of Alaskan railroad.

Nenana's Main Street has a few houses, a grocery store that looks more like a larger than average convenience store and the railroad museum. In the day that's how people came to and left this town--by railroad. In fact, this museum, is a used to be depot.

How do you explain a place like this to Theo? The town sits on the Nenana River (considered to be the interior of Alaska). No animals. Only plenty of opportunities to sniff the bygone past. That's why I want to be here. I love history. I love imagining how life used to be a hundred or more years ago. Theo . . . not so much. 

We hightail it over to the museum, a small green planked building with white trim. As you might expect as you walk through the doors, you're immediately transported to a world that doesn't exist anymore. A bustling railroad depot has been preserved for the few tourists that wander in. 

"Theo, imagine. There used to be scores of people coming in with their luggage. You bought your ticket here for the train . . ."

For a second Theo looks more interested than he should be. He seems to think that's why we're here now. To buy a ticket and leave. To get out of town.

"Of course, the depot is a museum now." 

His momentary excitement fades.

Quickly I reframe the experience. "But there's plenty to sniff, and then we'll get you some snacks."

 I put him down and let him wander around. 

There's a ticket window. An office area behind wider than wide bars with desks and an old fashioned typewriter. 

And there's a museum.

Theo is in the corner sniffing whatever. Dan and I go into the back "museum space." It's what you would expect--old newspaper stories preserved on the wall, photos of life the way it used to be--snow sleds being pulled by dogs.

We come back to the front and casually I look around. Theo has got to be somewhere. But he seems to have completely disappeared. I don't panic. I've learned my lesson. In fact, I think with a small laugh, maybe he did buy a ticket and is sitting on some imaginary train outside on the tracks. 

Dan spots him first. He's jumped up on the ticket counter desk. Not buying a ticket. Oh, no. He's sniffing the small cubbies . . . we grab him.

"Time for snacks."

Finally, we wander over to the "grocery store" for the snacks.

Could I have ever lived in a town like this? It's quaint but so isolated. 

But, later as we're leaving I begin to glimpse the town's allure. The scenery is striking. The quiet is profound (except for Theo smacking his lips.)  And I begin to understand how someone could live here.  

Theo, on the other hand, has a more than serious look on his face. "Where to next?" he wants to know.

Denali National Park. And animals. Yippee!!!