THE QUEST
by Rachel Steer
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LANCE LEKANDER
 

"IF YOU DO CUT YOUR HAIR THIS WEEK, will you save some for me so I can use it to tie flies for fishing Ion the Kenai?" the driver asked.

I fingered a lock of my straggly, unwashed red hair and won- dered if there was a limit to my level of sibling commitment. Riding shotgun in a fellow dog handler’s truck on a desolate stretch of the Richardson Highway, I was bumming a lift to the next Yukon Quest checkpoint to help my brother, Zack, as he mushed the 1,000-mile race from Fairbanks to Whitehorse, Yukon. The dog truck I was driving had broken down in Circle, at the end of the Steese Highway, early in the race.

As we rumbled over the Gerstle River bridge, watching for fender-crushing bison that roam the area, I pensively ran my fingers through my hair, imagining schools of hungry red salmon and rain- bow trout worked up to a frenzy over a tangle of my matted hair. My fellow dog handler’s request had taken me by surprise. After all, it was the first time a relative stranger had asked for a lock of my hair. And that was just one of many things I was unprepared for that week.

Frankly, if I were truly committed to being a world-class dog handler I would have done my own Quest training camp before this race even started. But who really has time for drills in raking straw, scooping poop, sorting through piles of dog-doo-covered booties and drinking copious amounts of whatever alcohol is offered? Quest-handler preparation also involves driving a jam-packed dog truck along unpaved winter roads in the dark with one hand, while rearranging the Snickers wrappers and Capri Sun pack- ets strewn on your dashboard so that your defroster can clear a head-size hole on the windshield. Ancillary training would include running back and forth from the Chena River starting line in Fairbanks to the nearest Kinko’s on a Saturday morning, trying to persuade the employees to open 10 minutes early so you can Xerox a bunch of rabies records that your musher needs to carry in his sled across the Canadian border. If I had done this training beforehand, I would have learned why you don’t see people hurrying in Fairbanks—excess move- ment with that much clothing on is just a bad idea.

After the frenzy of the race start, Anjanette, Zack’s wife, and I leisurely drove down the Chena Highway to- ward Twin Bears, the first checkpoint, 45 miles into the race. Zack told us to be ready for him to arrive between 4and5p.m., soat3wewentfora short ski. We quickly learned handler lesson No. 1: Be there when your musher arrives. A few minutes after stepping on our skis, we popped out of the woods to see Zack at the checkpoint, signing in. I am sure we were the first dog-handling team to wear ski boots while helping their musher park.

Handler lesson No. 2: Get to know your fellow road warriors as soon as possible. I met Alex Olesen, one of Brent Sass’ handlers, at the second check- point—a motley collection of buildings and tailing piles that serves as a summer mining operation at Mile 101 on the Steese Highway. Alex, with hair longer and redder than mine, has a long family history of being involved with the Quest—he has traveled along the race- course for at least 10 years. We discussed the trail ahead and behind and then I sat back, absorbing the scene while Alex and the rest of the checkpoint’s long-time volunteers reminisced about mushers and races of the past.

Ivory Jack’s, the most notorious drink- ing establishment in the Goldstream Val- ley north of Fairbanks, sponsored the Mile 101 checkpoint. Fittingly, Ivory Jacks provided an endless supply of Wild Turkey 101 Bourbon for the checkpoint volunteers and handlers, and I soon dis- covered that 101 goes well with Tang, coffee, Coke, tea, bacon, eggs and even moose goulash.

Handler lesson No. 3: Sleep when and wherever you can. Did you know that the top of a fire truck is a great place to rack out? The community of Circle opens up its fire hall each year as the of- ficial checkpoint, figuring if an inferno occurs while the mushers are passing through, there will be plenty of hands to man the antique fire truck.

Handler lesson No. 4: Your truck is never as good as you think it is. After scoffing at some of the ragtag dog trucks at the Fairbanks start, Anjanette and I were fairly confident that our 2002 Chevy Silverado 3⁄4-ton, with its classy new dog box perched on the flatbed, was up for the road and weather challenges ahead. Our third morning, in Circle, the truck would not start and we quickly fig- ured out it wasn’t a simple dead battery. After hours of deliberation and input from our fellow handlers, we decided to call a tow truck from Fairbanks and find a new way to get to the next checkpoint.

After a while you stop calling this race the Yukon Quest—it just becomes The Quest and, along with that, the race and its traveling circus of support staff encounters a journey separate from the adventure and challenge mushers expe- rience. With a course that travels across the border between the United States and Canada, celebrating the historic mining routes of the 1870s Forty Mile Gold Rush, the Quest has a distinct international flair. Volunteers regularly come from far-flung areas. This year, the Circle checkpoint, 241 miles into the race, was perhaps the most diverse. German rivaled English as the language of choice for race officials. Among the volunteers at Circle was a vacationing Australian woman who was given the job of signing mushers in and out of the checkpoint, and a pack of three Spanish graduate students—wholly out of their element—parking dog teams. In the fire hall, the women cooking hamburgers, pancakes and a delectable Portuguese sausage soup were a wine-drinking mix of crusty Cape Codders and north-of-the-Arctic-Circle Norwegians. None of these volunteers were dog mushers, and it was fun to discuss the ways they found about, and got involved with, the Quest.

As we got into the gut of the race, swollen-faced, exhausted mushers moved around checkpoints in zombie-like trances—their sole focus on the dogs that pull them across windswept moun- tain passes and along icy river highways.

It was shocking to see my brother—a person I look up to as an invincible, un- shakable man—trail-worn and weary as he went through the highs and lows of this grueling 1,000-mile race. Watching Zack push himself to the limit easily answered my question about the level of sibling commitment I was willing to make—a lock of hair is not too much of a sacrifice to be a part of his Quest.

Rachel Steer is a lifelong Alaskan, Olympic biathlete and former assistant editor of Alaska magazine.

 

"IF YOU DO CUT YOUR HAIR THIS WEEK, will you save some for me so I can use it to tie flies for fishing Ion the Kenai?" the driver asked.
I fingered a lock of my straggly, unwashed red hair and won- dered if there was a limit to my level of sibling commitment. Riding shotgun in a fellow dog handler’s truck on a desolate stretch of the Richardson Highway, I was bumming a lift to the next Yukon Quest checkpoint to help my brother, Zack, as he mushed the 1,000-mile race from Fairbanks to Whitehorse, Yukon. The dog truck I was driving had broken down in Circle, at the end of the Steese Highway, early in the race.
As we rumbled over the Gerstle River bridge, watching for fender-crushing bison that roam the area, I pensively ran my fingers through my hair, imagining schools of hungry red salmon and rain- bow trout worked up to a frenzy over a tangle of my matted hair. My fellow dog handler’s request had taken me by surprise. After all, it was the first time a relative stranger had asked for a lock of my hair. And that was just one of many things I was unprepared for that week.
Frankly, if I were truly committed to being a world-class dog handler I would have done my own Quest training camp before this race even started. But who really has time for drills in raking straw, scooping poop, sorting through piles of dog-doo-covered booties and drinking copious amounts of whatever alcohol is offered? Quest-handler preparation also involves driving a jam-packed dog truck along unpaved winter roads in the dark with one hand, while rearranging the Snickers wrappers and Capri Sun pack- ets strewn on your dashboard so that your defroster can clear a head-size hole on the windshield. Ancillary training would include running back and forth from the Chena River starting line in Fairbanks to the nearest Kinko’s on a Saturday morning, trying to persuade the employees to open 10 minutes early so you can Xerox a bunch of rabies records that your musher needs to carry in his sled across the Canadian border. If I had done this training beforehand, I would have learned why you don’t see people hurrying in Fairbanks—excess move- ment with that much clothing on is just a bad idea.
After the frenzy of the race start, Anjanette, Zack’s wife, and I leisurely drove down the Chena Highway to- ward Twin Bears, the first checkpoint, 45 miles into the race. Zack told us to be ready for him to arrive between 4and5p.m., soat3wewentfora short ski. We quickly learned handler lesson No. 1: Be there when your musher arrives. A few minutes after stepping on our skis, we popped out of the woods to see Zack at the checkpoint, signing in. I am sure we were the first dog-handling team to wear ski boots while helping their musher park.
Handler lesson No. 2: Get to know your fellow road warriors as soon as possible. I met Alex Olesen, one of Brent Sass’ handlers, at the second check- point—a motley collection of buildings and tailing piles that serves as a summer mining operation at Mile 101 on the Steese Highway. Alex, with hair longer and redder than mine, has a long family history of being involved with the Quest—he has traveled along the race- course for at least 10 years. We discussed the trail ahead and behind and then I sat back, absorbing the scene while Alex and the rest of the checkpoint’s long-time volunteers reminisced about mushers and races of the past.
ow-y: hidden;">Ivory Jack’s, the most notorious drink- ing establishment in the Goldstream Val- ley north of Fairbanks, sponsored the Mile 101 checkpoint. Fittingly, Ivory Jacks provided an endless supply of Wild Turkey 101 Bourbon for the checkpoint volunteers and handlers, and I soon dis- covered that 101 goes well with Tang, coffee, Coke, t ea, bacon, eggs and even moose goulash.
Handler lesson No. 3: Sleep when and wherever you can. Did you know that the top of a fire truck is a great place to rack out? The community of Circle opens up its fire hall each year as the of- ficial checkpoint, figuring if an inferno occurs while the mushers are passing through, there will be plenty of hands to man the antique fire truck.
Handler lesson No. 4: Your truck is never as good as you think it is. After scoffing at some of the ragtag dog trucks at the Fairbanks start, Anjanette and I were fairly confident that our 2002 Chevy Silverado 3⁄4-ton, with its classy new dog box perched on the flatbed, was up for the road and weather challenges ahead. Our third morning, in Circle, the truck would not start and we quickly fig- ured out it wasn’t a simple dead battery. After hours of deliberation and input from our fellow handlers, we decided to call a tow truck from Fairbanks and find a new way to get to the next checkpoint.
After a while you stop calling this race the Yukon Quest—it just becomes The Quest and, along with that, the race and its traveling circus of support staff encounters a journey separate from the adventure and challenge mushers expe- rience. With a course that travels across the border between the United States and Canada, celebrating the historic mining routes of the 1870s Forty Mile Gold Rush, the Quest has a distinct international flair. Volunteers regularly come from far-flung areas. This year, the Circle checkpoint, 241 miles into the race, was perhaps the most diverse. German rivaled English as the language of choice for race officials. Among the volunteers at Circle was a vacationing Australian woman who was given the job of signing mushers in and out of the checkpoint, and a pack of three Spanish graduate students—wholly out of their element—parking dog teams. In the fire hall, the women cooking hamburgers, pancakes and a delectable Portuguese sausage soup were a wine-drinking mix of crusty Cape Codders and north-of-the-Arctic-Circle Norwegians. None of these volunteers were dog mushers, and it was fun to discuss the ways they found about, and got involved with, the Quest.
As we got into the gut of the race, swollen-faced, exhausted mushers moved around checkpoints in zombie- like trances—their sole focus on the dogs that pull them across windswept moun- tain passes and along icy river highways.
It was shocking to see my brother—a person I look up to as an invincible, un- shakable man—trail-worn and weary as he went through the highs and lows of this grueling 1,000-mile race. Watching Zack push himself to the limit easily answered my question about the level of sibling commitment I was willing to make—a lock of hair is not too much of a sacrifice to be a part of his Quest.
Rachel steer is a lifelong Alaskan, Olympic biathlete and former assistant editor of Alaska mag