3/7/05

 Yesterday was the official start of the 33ed Iditarod, the “Last Great Race on Earth”, and Cecelia and I volunteered as dog handlers again. 

 The official start (as opposed to the ceremonial start, which was in Anchorage on Saturday) once again had to be moved from Wasilla, a half hour north of our house, to Willow, an hour and a half north, due to poor snow conditions.  We’ve had some warm weather here, which can be a problem for the dogs. Last year on race day, it was –20, this year it got up into the 40’s.

 Our job is to help get the 79 teams of 16 very strong and high-strung dogs and their mushers from the staging area to the starting line.  This usually requires a dozen to 16 handlers per team, and even with all those people along with the musher riding the break peddle, it’s a struggle that we almost lost a couple of times.  The power and enthusiasm of the dogs is incredible!

 The chute from the staging area to the starting line was downhill through some fairly deep snow, and running along with the dogs while trying to restrain them (who’s controlling who, here?) was a real chore.  Hitting the deep snow was our downfall, a couple of time literally.

 The first team we helped was a bit out of control, and Cecelia and I both got bogged down in the snow and fell, along with two of the other handlers.  On the third team, the handler in front of Cecelia fell, Cecelia tripped over her, and I went down on top of both of them.

 One of the most important lessons they stressed over and over again in our class to become certified dog handlers last year was that if you fall down, immediately roll out of the way.  This is to avoid being run over by 16 dogs, followed by a sled and musher weighing several hundred pounds, who obviously can’t stop and wait for you to get up!  Not only can you get hurt pretty badly, but it really pisses off the musher.  We both managed to get out of the way, although we both get brushed by the sled as it went by.

 It was exciting to be a part of the Iditarod, and today we’re nursing our bruises and following our favorite mushers standings as they head to Nome, 1,100 miles away.