Mush!

“Other engines might freeze and choke, but that oldest of all motors, the heart, whose fuel is blood and whose spark is courage, never stalls but once.” – From an editorial in the New York Sun, February 1925, as quoted in The Cruelest Miles by Gay Salisbury and Laney Salisbury.

The Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race 53 now has its champion(s): Jessie Holmes and his team of sled dogs reached the race’s end in Nome March 14th. The race began at 11 AM on March 3 at Pike’s Waterfront Lodge in Fairbanks, Alaska, and the full route clocked in at 1,128 miles, the longest Iditarod race in history. This year, the route had to be modified because of low snowfall. (You can find out all about it at iditarod.com.)

Here is how iditarod.com describes the great victory:

Veteran musher, Jessie Holmes, originally from Alabama and based out of Brushkana, Alaska, emerged victorious in the 2025 Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race®, securing his first-ever Iditarod championship. Holmes crossed the finish line of the 53rd running of the Iditarod in Nome at 2:55 a.m. today [March 14] with 10 dogs in harness, claiming his first Iditarod championship. After more than 10 days of grueling competition across the frozen Alaskan wilderness, Holmes became an Iditarod Champion today, marking the culmination of years of dedication, perseverance, and hard work. Holmes could not have made it the 1,128 miles from Fairbanks to Nome without his team of incredible dogs.

I have never been on a dog sled, although I would love to ride on one. People have dog sleds in northern Maine, and they raise teams of dogs in Maine, too. I suppose it would be possible for me to enjoy a winter jaunt through the frozen landscape here sometime . . . if we ever get frozen landscapes reliably in Maine again, that is. Given my love of winter and dogs, perhaps you can understand why I am so fascinated by the Iditarod — a race of a week or more through the vast Alaskan wilderness. Imagine!

Actually, I grew up imagining the vast Alaskan wilderness, because my father harbored a dream of going to Alaska. My mother didn’t share that dream, so, for most of his life, my father confined himself to subscribing to Alaska magazine and listening to Johnny Horton sing North to Alaska every so often. (Bing Videos)

Late in my father’s life, however, my oldest brother hatched a scheme to take my father to Alaska. I drove my father to South Station in Boston so that he could catch the Amtrak train that deposited him in Denver, Colorado, a couple of days later, where he met up with my brother. From there, they drove all the way to Alaska, spent some time there, then drove all the way back to Denver. From Denver, Daddy took the Amtrak train back to Boston, where I picked him up at South Station and ferried him home again. (As we say here in Maine, “That sure were a long poke.”) At my father’s funeral a few years later, my brother recounted that he hadn’t had a single boring conversation with our father during that entire journey. That’s the kind of person our father was (and, obviously, my brother is, too). So, there’s a good thing right there.

But, back to the Iditarod. Now, there’s a story. A true “one good thing” story — especially if you go a little way back in history. Today’s 1000+ mile dog sled race is an amazing race, to be sure — a feat of endurance and skill for both the humans and dog teams who compete. The current Iditarod is a multi-million-dollar industry, complete with corporate sponsors to outfit the dogs, sleds, and mushers. (Salisbury 239.) Today, dogs are bred, slower puppies culled from the pack, and teams driven to the extremes of endurance — all in the name of fame, glory, and the purse associated with the Iditarod title. You can even buy all kinds of merch at iditarod.com.

But the humble and unpretentious story of the Iditarod’s origins may sometimes get lost in all the excitement of the current race. To my mind, however, the history presents a great American story. It bears telling just for that reason — perhaps this year above all other years, when great American stories seem to be harder and harder to come by. This year marks the 100th anniversary of that original story, which makes it extra-special. So, let’s go back in time.

In October 1924 — a couple of decades after the gold rush frenzy dissipated — a child contracted diphtheria in Nome, Alaska, and died — the first sign of an outbreak and the first event in a drama that would capture the nation’s attention and affection. The last ship of the year had recently sailed from the exceptionally isolated port of Nome, leaving behind a town whose harbor was now impassable with ice. The town doctor, Dr. Curtis Welch, had only a short supply of anti-toxin serum available. Although he had ordered new supplies during the summer, mysteriously and alarmingly, none had been shipped. Now the shipping route was closed until the spring thaw. The only way to enter or leave Nome would be by dog sled.

Within weeks, more children grew ill. Dr. Welch grimly set about treating them with the limited supply of anti-toxin serum he had available. Pretty soon, there were too many sick children and not enough medicine to treat them all. By January, town officials had placed Nome under quarantine. And Dr. Welch had sent urgent telegrams alerting the nation of the desperate need for anti-toxin serum. While the outside world scrambled to find serum and somehow transport it through the deep freeze, Nome was in virtual lockdown. More children and even some adults grew ill.

Eventually serum was located in Anchorage and shipped by train to Nenana. But for the final leg of the journey — 674 miles from Nenana to Nome — the serum would have to be transported by dog sled.

Around midnight on January 27, an odyssey across Alaska began as the first musher packed the serum into his dog sled basket and set out. For six days and nights, 20 mushers driving teams totaling 160 dogs relayed the serum across the frozen land. They traveled around the clock while temperatures dropped as low as 62 degrees below zero Fahrenheit (52 degrees below zero Celsius). They traveled in nearly complete darkness (the land of the midnight sun in summer being also the land of the mid-day moon in winter). At least four dogs of the 160 died. At least one musher donned the harness and ran along with his team of dogs after placing some injured dogs in the sled basket. On day five, a blizzard blew in from the east. The dog teams mushed on through piercingly high winds, with no visibility. In those extreme conditions, the humans had to rely on the dogs’ acute sense of smell to keep them on the trail.

Teams traveled anywhere from 18 to 53 miles, with the exception of one extraordinary team, driven by Leonhard Seppala and his lead dog Togo. Seppala’s team traveled a total of 261 miles, starting in Nome to meet the other mushers halfway. On one day alone, he and his team covered 81 miles.

Leonhard Seppala and his lead dog Togo

When the final musher, Gunnar Kaasen, took up the final leg of the journey at 9 PM on February 1, he traveled into a blizzard in utter darkness. The fearsome magnitude of the storm must certainly have caused growing and gnawing concern. At one point, winds in excess of 60 or 70 mph upended Kaasen’s sled. Huge drifts forced the team off course. And for large parts of the journey Kaasen lost all ability to find the way. But the superior instincts of his dogs persistently guided him to safety.

In the early morning hours of February 2, Kaasen finally pulled his team to a halt in Nome in the midst of the howling blizzard and delivered the serum into Dr. Welch’s hands. He reportedly staggered off his sled, stumbled up to his lead dog Balto and collapsed, muttering: “Damn fine dog.” (Salisbury 225.)

Two weeks later the quarantine was lifted.

Gunnar Kaasen and Balto (from www.cowboysindians.com)

In 1925 the mushers were hailed as national heroes. Today their heroic efforts are remembered every time the Iditarod Race is held. Part of today’s 1000+ mile race traverses the trails of the Great Serum Run. But, of course, those original mushers themselves took part in the relay not for fame or glory but because others needed their help. Musher Bill McCarty called the relay, “kind of a normal operation.” (Salisbury 258.) Before he died, the last surviving musher, Edgar Nollner, told the Associated Press that he was surprised by all the attention the relay had received. He had never expected to be famous. “I just wanted to help,” he said. (Salisbury 256.) ‘Just wanting to help,’ the mushers risked their lives to deliver the serum.

What incredible bravery. Traversing Alaska in the dead of winter — spending hours driving their sleds in darkness through the frozen landscape, through blizzards and howling winds, through whiteout conditions that made them completely reliant on their dogs’ acute sense of smell to keep them on course — well, such a journey would not be for the faint of heart. The mushers summoned great courage to set out. How much easier it would have been to stay at home! But children were dying. So, of course the mushers pulled their boots on and harnessed up their dogs.

There is this, too, and it’s important to note: Not a one of them labored alone. A musher and his dogs form a team together. Moreover, the mushers worked in relay fashion, delivering the serum from one person to the next, from one team to the next. And isn’t that how we move the world forward? With people, with teams, doing what we can, going as far as we can, then passing the torch to others when we cannot go any further?

Great journeys start with a single step . . . and then another and another, one foot in front of the other. We seldom take those steps entirely without the help of others. Even great leaders have scores of people alongside them who support them as they go.

In our fraught times, when we often don’t know quite the right way forward, the story of the Great Serum Run is a good reminder that working together, taking one right step after another, passing what is most precious from one hand to another until we bring it to its goal, is the best way forward on our journey, even in the times when the road seems too steep and the way ahead appears to be obscured.

Here’s my friend Jud Caswell, reminding us how to do this:

That's the Way We Climb - YouTube

Love,

Sylvia

Sources:

Miller, Debbie S. 2002. The Great Serum Race: Blazing the Iditarod Trail. (New York: Walker and Company.) (A good children’s book about the diphtheria outbreak and the dog teams that brought serum 671 across Alaska to Nome.)

Salisbury, Gay, and Salisbury, Laney, 2003. The Cruelest Miles: The Heroic Story of Dogs and Men in a Race Against an Epidemic. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company.) Factual information about the Great Serum Race comes mostly from this book.