The Sled Dogs of Alaska
Between the laborer who earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow, and the spoiled favorite of fortune who neither toils nor spins, there is not more difference than between the workers of the North—the Sled Dogs of Alaska—and the pampered, fur-coated, jewel-hung dogs “in society”; dogs who have their silk-lined baskets, their gold-mounted toilet articles, and the exclusive services of a personal attendant. But “Dogs is Dogs,” and the unhappy accident of birth that gives to such a dog the humiliating experience of having his teeth brushed by a maid, or a massage of cold cream after a bath in a silver-plated tub, should not be held against him—for he may still retain some of his admirable, lovable canine qualities through the human veneer.
A dog’s intelligence and his faithful, affectionate nature are his chief assets in his association with man; and if he preserves these in spite of his artificial surroundings as a mere toy, his development along those lines is almost unlimited when he becomes a co-worker with his master, and a devoted comrade through adversity and peril.
Incident in the Ziegler Polar Expedition, 1903–5
Mr. Anthony Fiala with His Dog Teams—Lat. 82° N.
Far beyond the Aleutian Islands, which stretch a grim barrier between the North Pacific and Bering Sea, almost to the bleak coast of Siberia, there lies that part of Alaska not familiar to the average tourist. The Alaska of primeval forests, of great, almost unknown rivers, of vast areas of snow and ice that reach to the desolate shore of the Arctic—the Alaska of the Dogs; and here in the “Land that God forgot,” the dog holds a unique place as an indispensable factor in the settlement of the country.
He discovered the North Pole with Peary; he discovered the South Pole and the Northwest Passage, too, with Amundsen; and he played a pathetic yet heroic part in the brave, if futile, efforts of Captain Scott to reach his goal; just as he has ever played well his role of support to those who have sought to penetrate the trackless wastes at the ends of the earth.
Late in October, usually under leaden skies, nearly the entire population of Nome stands upon a dreary beach watching the last boat of the open season, the “Victoria,” steam slowly out through a sea already heavy with young ice, and disappear in the misty grayness of the horizon. The parting salute of the ship’s siren has been answered by all of the town whistles; and then as if to add the fitting climax to the gloom of the occasion, it seems that every dog within hearing raises his voice to join in a mournful farewell chorus—a blood-curdling wail that is characteristic of these Northern dogs with their strong wolf strain.
A Typical Scene in the Arctic Regions
But the people look with kindly eyes upon them, and even listen with kindly ears—for they know that every letter, paper, and magazine from now till the middle of June, will be brought in over fifteen hundred miles of ice and snow and frozen sea, by the United States Government Dog Team Mail; and that, except for the wireless system, all of the news from the great world “outside,” from family and friends, depends upon these Postmen of the Silent Trails. They go where soft snow and other conditions make it impossible to use horses. No service is too lowly, no mission too high. They pull the baby in his tiny sled, are the means of delivery for the merchant, and they carry the doctor and priest to the bedside of the sick or dying in some lonely, distant cabin.
Eskimo family and malamute—At Home.
Owing to the prohibitive tax rate on railroads which traverse practically uninhabited districts in Seward Peninsula—a tax which has only been abolished within the past few months—dogs have become the motive power instead of engines; and in place of the “toot-toot” of the locomotive as it takes a freight train out to the mines with supplies, there is the “bow-wow” of the dog team “Kougarok Limited” or the “Little Creek Express” as it starts down the track with a loaded flat car.
As to “joy riding,” the “Pupmobile” has every automobile completely outclassed when it comes to the maximum of joy, and the minimum of danger. Given a winter night when the frosty air brings the tingling blood to cheek and finger tip, when the glittering stars seem close above one’s head in the clear sky, and when the trail glistens like a silver ribbon in the ghostly radiance of the Northern Lights, it is a phlegmatic person indeed who does not feel the thrill of excitement and delight that animates the dogs as they strain in their harness to be away for a spin across the snows.
Then there is the famous All Alaska Sweepstakes race each April from Nome on Bering Sea, to Candle on the Arctic Ocean and return, a distance of 408 miles; and the dogs as well as the men who have won their laurels in this contest are the sort of men and dogs who are making the History of Alaska—who are creating an Empire from a Wilderness.
There are two types of dogs used in the race. The Siberians, small, prick-eared, with bushy tails curled up over their backs, and with apparently decided traces of the fox; and the Alaskans who are of mixed breeds—setters, pointers, collies, hounds or what not—with a more or less pronounced wolf strain inherited from the McKenzie River Huskie or coast Malamute.
Both types have their staunch supporters, and for excellent reasons—for both possess wonderful qualities that endear them to dog users and dog lovers. The Siberians have not the speed, and many claim not the responsiveness and intelligence of the Alaskans—but they are gentle, tractable, easy to handle and are able to travel more steadily and with less rest than the others.
Dubby, a McKenzie River huskie, of the Allan and Darling Kennel, whose wonderful intelligence, and a record of over thirty thousand miles in harness, established his reputation as one of the greatest leaders Alaska has ever known.
The amount of rest in the race is a question of judgment with the driver, who must decide how much he can afford to take himself, and give his dogs without the unnecessary loss of a moment; but as he must return with every dog—dead or alive—with which he started, it is to his greatest advantage to keep them in the very best of condition. At every road-house and relay camp where they stop for food and sleep, it is “Dogs First,” no driver thinking of himself till his team is fed, rubbed, and bedded. When they are tired or foot-sore, they ride in turn upon the sled, recuperating quickly in this way. Little moccasins of canton flannel are carried to be used on hard trails, and veils of black or green mosquito netting are placed over the dogs’ eyes if the glare of the sun is too dazzling.
In the Sweepstakes of 1910, John Johnson, a Russian Finn, driving a team of Siberians entered by Colonel Charles Ramsay of London, came in first. The weather had been ideal, the trail perfect, and they had broken all records—covering the 408 miles in but little more than seventy-four hours. Closely following them was Charles Fox-Maule Ramsay, nephew of Colonel Ramsay, and younger brother of the Earl of Dalhousie, driving his own team of Siberians; and it certainly seemed that the day of the Siberians had come. But in 1911 and 1912, through terrible blizzards and over miserable trails, the Allan and Darling team of Alaskans, driven by “Scotty” Allan, were the winners; and in 1913, Fay Dalzene, with the Bowen-Dalzene dogs, was first, also using the Alaskan type. So that out of the seven great races that have been held under the auspices of the Nome Kennel Club since it was organized in 1908, five victories have fallen to the Alaskans, and the breaking of the record to the Siberians.
In short distances some of the dogs are remarkably fast, travelling at the rate of fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. Irish, one of the Allan and Darling team, a beautiful setter with some huskie blood, can pace a mile in three minutes; and Spot, a cross-bred pointer and huskie, after leading the team thirty miles over a heavy trail, covered four miles in thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds without breaking.
The starting of John Johnson’s team of Siberians in one of the All Alaska Sweepstakes Races in Nome, Alaska.
As dog teams are not driven with reins, but by word of mouth, there must be in every team a particularly intelligent dog who is the leader. He must understand not only the simple orders “Mush” (go on), “Gee” (to the right), “Haw” (to the left), and “Stop,” but he must have exceptionally quick instincts, a definite acknowledged mastery over the other dogs, and a sort of canine good judgment which tells him the right thing to do in difficulties and emergencies.
The stories of the marvellous sagacity of certain leaders are easy of belief to “the men that know the North” as Service calls them, but they would appear to be gross exaggerations or absolute untruths to those who have never seen dogs work in harness on the trail.
A leader has certain privileges, such as getting into the sled when the driver is not at the handle bars, and reposing in comfort and dignity on the furs while the rest of the dogs lie in the snow; and other perquisites which may occasion bitter jealousy and make necessary the utmost precaution in guarding him from the attacks of his envious team-mates. Sometimes an old leader, discarded or pensioned, will craftily wait for a chance to kill his successor—this chance generally occurring when the new aspirant for honors is tied and at a disadvantage. Some leaders, however, through wonderful strength and other superior qualities, become more or less exempt from this ill feeling, and their leadership is freely and pleasantly accepted both in and out of “business hours.” Of these, Dubby, a magnificent specimen of the McKenzie River huskie, brought down from Dawson by “Scotty” Allan, was one of the most prominent. Dubby lived to be twelve years old, but was pensioned on his ninth birthday, while still in perfect condition and well able to enjoy the rewards of his faithful service. He had a record of over thirty thousand miles, in harness, to his credit, and the anecdotes of his intelligence are legion. He was often driven “loose,” running ahead of the team instead of being hooked up with them; and he was so efficient as a “general manager” that the loss of his pulling power was of small moment compared to his ability to find and keep an obliterated trail, and his capacity for doing the many clever and helpful things that his active mind found to do. A mere hint that some dog was not working was enough, and Dubby would rush back to critically examine them all till the shirker was located by a slack tow line or traces not held taut. The culprit received a warning nip on the ear or flank, which was a threat of worse punishment if he did not mend his laggard habits; then Dub would dash off to give some other evidence of his real generalship. Perhaps it would be to decide that the ice on the river was not thick enough to bear the weight of the heavily loaded sled—for some strange instinct enabled him to know that fact, when an experienced Musher could be readily deceived; or he would choose the correct trail where many met and crossed, in spite of the efforts of an exasperated driver to convince him of the error of his ways. “You stubborn old Siwash (an insult indeed to apply the name of the most shiftless of Indians to a self-respecting huskie), I’ll wager you’re wrong; but do as you please, keep us all out here in thirty below weather, tired and hungry, and then maybe next time you’ll listen to reason.” But Dubby never did make the predicted mistake, and many a comfortable night’s rest in shelter and warmth was the result of his unerring confidence in his own ability which no argument could disturb. He would politely wag his stump of a tail while he listened tolerantly to your opinion, but he ignored it with the same amiable disregard one would show toward the foolish suggestions of a babbling child.
The tragedies of the Arctic wastes are many, and would be more but for the faithful dogs; the list of canine heroes is long, and would be much longer were all of their brave deeds recorded. They have never, like some of whom we read, attended an “Acadamie pour Chiens,” and acquired, with a diploma, such unnatural refinements and useless accomplishments as are displayed by “dogs in society.” If invited to attend a luncheon of chicken à la Maryland, served on a decorated table, with Fifi and Bijou as fellow guests, they would not only demolish the chicken in short order, but also the decorations, and possibly Fifi and Bijou as well—classing them with cats and other legitimate prey.
There is no downy cushion before the blazing fire, no chosen corner of the limousine, no tooth brush or manicure set for the work dog of the North; yet they are probably happier than their kin of the governess and college education. They have no time for ennui—there are duties to be done, and it is rare indeed to find a sled dog who does not take pride in his task, show delight at the sight of his harness, and eagerly welcome the preparations for a good long mush.
Perhaps one of the most striking features of the races is the pleasure that the dogs manifest not only in the preliminary training, but in the contest itself. One frequently sees a team of dogs, old in the knowledge of racing, perfectly familiar with the hardships before them, waiting for the signal to leave, and so eager to be off, that three or four men are barely able to restrain them till the dip of the flag starts them on their dash to the Arctic. So, too, it is not unusual for a Mail Team, becoming impatient of the delay in unloading the mail, to run away after having carried a thousand pounds of mail for a distance of two or three hundred miles.
In summer when the dogs are not being used they often spend the time about mining camps where they are fed; or if in town they select one or more houses to which they make daily visits at meal hours if they find the inmates hospitably inclined. In many districts the dogs are virtually turned out to forage for themselves, when the wild strain in them asserts itself to an astonishing degree; but this is not true of Nome where dogs are held in high esteem, and where they are given the proper care at all seasons. And each year when the last boat of the summer sails from Nome, there is a long list of dog passengers. To a fancier they would seem undoubtedly a collection not worth their transportation; to my Lady of the Lap Dog they would cause shudders of disgust; there would be no place at the Bench Show for such as these. They are without pedigree, or beauty perhaps—mongrels if you will—but one never knows what a wealth of fidelity may be hidden beneath a rough exterior. Many a story that touches the heart may be extracted from the prospector going outside accompanied by some favorite dog who has shared his solitude and his hardships; who has helped to bear his burdens, and who is now to enjoy with him what they have earned together.
Perhaps that blind old huskie has guided his bewildered driver along the right trail to safety, true to the instincts of the wild, when the whirling snow and icy sleet cut like stinging whip lashes into the face and eyes, making sight impossible.
Perhaps this ragged, ungroomed malamute with his wolf head and his human heart, dragged himself with patient, bleeding feet, half starved and nearly frozen, to some remote camp with the warning that his unconscious master, caught unprepared in a sudden storm, needed help.
Perhaps—but after all, each tale is only another variation of the same theme: dog’s loyalty to man. And as pampered pets, or as valued assistants, in society or out of it, this loyalty justifies the attention and regard they receive. It is the one thing all dogs have in common, and whether in their veins runs the blue blood of generations of prize winners, or the humble strain of some obscure street waif, it is to You, and not to what you possess, not for what you can offer him, that the dog gives his steadfast allegiance.
Sometimes when life has gone wrong with you
And the world seems a dreary place,
Has your dog ever silently crept to your feet,
His yearning eyes turned to your face—
Has he made you feel that he understands,
And all that he asks of you
Is to share your lot, be it good or ill,
With a chance to be loyal and true?
Are you branded a failure? He does not know—
A sinner? He does not care—
You’re Master to him—that’s all that counts—
A word, and his day is fair.
Your birth and your station are nothing to him;
A Palace and Hut are the same;
And his love is yours in honor and peace,
As it’s yours through disaster and shame.
Though others forget you and pass you by,
He is ever your Faithful Friend,—
Ready to give you the best that is his,
Unselfishly, unto the End.
Esther Birdsall Darling.