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.