Contributed by Kim Butler
Uttering the words, “I have never tried something”, has never been part of my vernacular. As an African American child growing up in a strict Roman Catholic military family whose parents were raised in the heart of Baltimore City, there was never any notion of not trying. Yes, my parents were poor growing up (and so was everyone else), had limited education and a shaky financial foundation; however, the concept of not trying or doing your best simply was not an option. My father, who was number eight of eight children was born and raised without a father. His father was killed in a work-related accident at a shipyard prior to his birth. Family legend has it, my dad started shining shoes on the tough inner-city streets of Baltimore to help support his family at a tender age of five. Although he did not complete high school in the traditional sense, dad received his GED and participated in the sport of boxing. He also became a strong swimmer through summer programs offered in the city parks during the 1930s and 1940s.
My dad joined the U.S. Army at seventeen, was a Korean War veteran and served honorably for twenty-one years. One of his brothers served in the U. S. Marine Corps and one was a Merchant Marine.
My mother was the first of six children and attended Catholic schools. Several of her brothers also served in the U.S. Marine Corps. With this strong military lineage, not trying was never an option for me.
As a military dependent child, living all over the world, I participated in all the traditional organized and neighborhood sports programs that were offered: baseball, football, soccer, basketball, wrestling, swimming, tennis, table tennis, running, skiing, and ice skating (but I never learned how to skate backward). I often say, I was the raisin in the proverbial bowl of rice. I didn’t care and neither did my friends. Sure, I experienced kids, parents and employers that didn’t like/support me because of the color of my skin. But to be completely honest, prejudice is prevalent in all ethnic groups even my own. Anyone who says different is not being completely honest or hasn’t been anywhere. Nevertheless, I would describe my sports career as a “Jack of all trades, master of none.”
As I matured, my more adventurous side led me to partake in anything requiring a test of my abilities. I learned to fly and earned various licenses and ratings and developed a taste of flying aerobatics. Why? Airplanes were fascinating, and it was my dream despite not having an aviation role model. I believed in the American dream of working hard and not settling for anything less. Did I meet the “standards” all the time? Absolutely not! For me, hard work was analogous to repeatedly practicing a wrestling take down or studying to pass an academic test. It equates to how bad do you want something and how much effort are you willing to give.
I also participated in triathlons, learned to shoot, high altitude climbing (above 18,000 ft. in South America), diving, skydiving, fishing, hunting, snowmaching, studying eight languages, and traveling. You see, I refuse to allow anyone define what I am capable of and what sports I can participate in. At one time, I distinctly remember in the early 70s my grandmother asking me what I wanted to do after graduating from high school. I responded that I wanted to fly airplanes. She said that was nice but there are good government janitor jobs available. Although, a janitor is an honorable profession, my plans did not include being stuck working in a building.
In the mid-90s, I had the opportunity to be sponsored by the U.S. Navy to climb Mt. Everest. Unfortunately, it fell through. It was definitely not from the Navy’s efforts and strong support! The individual I met through Outside magazine who was putting the climbing expedition together, failed to provide the timely information required to go forth with this endeavor. Unfortunately, this once in a lifetime event was reluctantly crossed off my bucket list. Absolutely, you could say I was an adrenalin junkie, but I was never reckless. Everything I participated in was a thoroughly researched calculated risk with the odds heavily in my favor.
Moving to Alaska in 2002 with the military, opened my eyes to a completely new set of adventures. With friends and colleagues, I continued to explore many of the activities this great State has to offer. In 2004, my family and I watched the start of the Iditarod and thought “Wow, these mushers and their dogs are amazing!”
In 2008, we moved to Knik, Alaska and observed my neighborly dog mushers arduously training their teams in all types of weather, both day and night. As the years passed, I began to meet many of the veteran Iditarod mushers: Larry Harris, Charley Bejna, Anna and Kristy Berington, the Redingtons, and Lev Shvarts. I also met a spry middle age corporate executive who voluntarily came to Alaska for 2 years and still counting to learn the sport.
Unlike other sports, mushing is a year-round demanding lifestyle, with high expenses, few sponsorships, and many routine unglamorous duties. This past year’s Iditarod, Mushers experienced temperatures as low as -50 F along the unpredictable trail. Some mushers reported expenditures in excess of $40k a year to train and participate in the Iditarod and all the qualifying races. This is not a sport for the faint of heart or paltry wallets. There is no typical body type, age, or sex of a musher. However, the common denominator is they all have an uncanny devotion to their dogs and are some of the toughest folks I have ever known. Their dogs are unequivocally world class athletes, uniquely bred to run and ready to give their best to the trail and musher. Just as a Labrador Retriever is meant to retrieve, these athletes are meant to run and are the happiest in this element.
No sleep, moose encounters, dog fights, crossing water you hope is frozen, severe wind, blinding snowstorms, extreme temperatures, getting lost, hand injuries galore, the constant aloneness, and losing and finding your team are all part of the challenges these brave men and women face constantly.
One Friday evening in February, while seated at the Tug Bar in Knik, Alaska, next to the owner Tim, we were discussing the Goose Bay 150, a race that was starting the following morning from the bar. Tim was enthusiastically describing the beauty of the trail and that the mushers would be using Talvista Lodge as the turnaround point. Tim went on to mention he would be supporting the mushers with his snowmachine. After a few more probing questions, Tim invited my son and me to bring our snowmachines and help support him on the 150-mile roundtrip ride to the lodge. I hurried home and told my 14-year-old son what I had volunteered us for. We began preparations for the trip that night.
The next morning, after meeting at the Tug Bar, five snowmachines and a snow coach all made the seven-hour transit. A veterinarian, a vet tech, race official, Glenn from the tug bar, Tim, my son on his own snowmachine and I arrived in Talvista around 6:45 pm cold, hungry, but safe. The next morning, several of us departed Talvista lodge ahead of the mushers at 4:45 am for the return journey. It was a dark and cold crisp morning with a windchill temperature of -30 F. As we stopped along the trail to aid an incoming musher, the complete lack of light except for our snowmachines marking the trail, the glow from the stars in the sky, the absence of noise as the dog teams trotted by with a steady gait in tuned with the elements were indescribable. As the last remnants of the Northern Lights faded from the horizon and the majestic early rays of dawn starting to reveal the sun to the east, a sense of peace overcame us all. It was the moment I said to myself “I get it”. Then, I observed one of the mushers, taking his gloves off at -30 F to put on 56 dog booties without complaint. The musher explained that gloves do not provide the manual dexterity to ensure the booties are on properly. I realized these are unequivocally some of the toughest folks I know.
In my humble opinion, as a 30-year military veteran and a former international security contractor who actively participated in a lot of the “interesting stuff”, dog mushers are a breed of their own. For me, the expense, dedication, long training runs both day and night, brutal cold, understanding/handling up to 14 different dog personalities, and the unending chores aligned with this sport, I can finally say without hesitation mushing will always be the hardest sport I have never tried.
