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What Makes DeeDee Run?

Alaska's 1,150-mile Iditarod is about more than cool courage and hardy sled dogs

by Grace Fox

Icy winds gnawed DeeDee Jonrowe's body, creeping their way deep into her bones. I can't believe this is happening, she thought. Please, God, get me out of here. She huddled closer to her huskies, drawing from their warmth.

A few hours earlier, she'd made her long-distance racing debut, lunging across the Kusko 300 starting line in Alaska with her team of 16 huskies. Now she was living a musher's nightmare—lost in a blizzard with temperatures falling to 50 degrees below zero. For 36 hours the blinding wind-driven snow concealed her from searching snowmobilers. I'll never do this again, she thought, fighting to stay awake.

That was 21 years ago. Obviously she changed her mind.

Today Jonrowe, 47, is a world-class athlete competing in Alaska's Iditarod dogsled race. She has participated in the Last Great Race on Earth™ 19 times, more than any other woman in history. Racing 1,150 miles across Alaska, her team pounds over barren tundra, splashes through slushy creekbeds, dodges tree stumps, bounces across bare rocks, and twists through narrow mountain trails and along rocky ridges.

Jonrowe competes annually with 50 to 80 men and women from other countries, including Canada, Japan, Norway, Australia, and Switzerland. She has placed second twice and finished among the top 10 in 12 races. She won the Humanitarian Award in 1991 and Most Inspirational Musher in 1997.

In many ways the Iditarod is more a test of a racer's knowledge of dogs than of technique on the trail. "The Iditarod might only take 10 days, but this is a commitment 365 days a year," says Jonrowe, who's a member of the veterinary committee for the Iditarod Trail Committee. "You can't park your dogs and walk away after a race. In summer I spend at least five hours daily with my animals. In winter it's 10 to 16 hours."

Not all of her 100 dogs are used for racing. Puppies are given early neuro-stimulation exercises. Yearlings run shorter races in preparation for the Iditarod. Older dogs set the example in training younger animals. Twenty retired dogs contribute to the kennel in other ways.

Felix, for example, suffers from seizures, but is used as a lead dog to train young teams. "He leads a functional life in spite of his handicap, but because stress triggers his seizures, I won't put him in a potentially dangerous situation by racing him," says Jonrowe.

Thirty-five huskies live behind Jonrowe's house. Sixty-five live in a clearing across the yard. Each dog is chained to its own house in the center of a 12-foot diameter circle covered with wood chips. At the edge of their circle they have the ability to interact with two or three other dogs.

"Their environment provides a social structure for them," she explains. "They're not isolated, but they have a space they don't have to compete for. That's their security blanket. When they're loose they often run and play, then return to their own house."

Puppies live in a fenced enclosure with a straw-strewn concrete floor. Bedding is changed regularly. The floor is sanitized to reduce the risk of transmitting disease.

A large shed houses veterinarian supplies. Victoria, a recently purchased orphaned puppy, is lethargic and has diarrhea. Jonrowe cradles her, hooks up an IV bag, and drips rehydration fluid into her. "She's just beginning to eat solids," Jonrowe explains. "I think she ate too much. She'll perk up soon."

Jonrowe loads four large plastic buckets on the front of her ATV. She fills them with dry dog food, adds vitamins and water, and rumbles across the yard. Excited barking and jangling chains shatter the silence.

"Hey, Trotter, how are you doing?" she asks her top lead dog, stroking his head. Another dog rolls over, kicking his legs in the air. "Micah—good boy!" she says, rubbing his belly. One after another she addresses them. Naomi, Esther, Jeremiah, Zaccheus—siblings with Bible names. Scooby-Doo, Elvira, Huckleberry—brothers and sisters named for famous cartoon dogs. Aurora, Malaspina, Columbia—the litter named for glaciers.

What does it cost to operate her kennel? "About $60,000 a year," says Jonrowe. The cost adds up quickly—veterinary care, two tons of dog food per month, maintenance of the dog truck and snow machines used to clear trails, wood for replacing doghouses, a $1,850 Iditarod entrance fee, $5,000 for preparing and shipping food to the race checkpoints, room and board for two handlers who help in winter, one full-time employee's salary, her airfare from Nome, and shipping the dogs home after the race. Sponsors such as Microsoft, Eddie Bauer, and Royal Canin help cover her expenses.

Prize money is awarded to the first 30 competitors crossing the finish line. The 2001 winner received $62,857 and a new truck. The 30th racer received $1,310.

"This isn't a sport you enter for the prize money," admits Jonrowe. "There's a lot more money to be earned in things that take a lot less work. You have to be in it for the passion."

The menagerie got her through a critical time as a teenager. Her father, Lt. Colonel Ken Stout (now retired), was transferred 22 times as part of the U.S. Army's military intelligence unit. "Because of frequent moves throughout my growing up years, I never felt as though I belonged," says Jonrowe.

She spent more time with her pets as feelings of isolation grew during high school. "I felt loved by them," she says. "They were always happy to be with me."

After high school, Jonrowe begrudgingly moved to Alaska. "I convinced myself that I would hate it. Instead, I fell in love with the untamed land and the people's adventuresome spirit." She earned her degree in biological sciences and renewable resources at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. Her education and love of the outdoors equipped her to work as a fisheries and game biologist, fishing fleet manager, commercial fisherman on Norton Sound, and sport fishing guide on the Talkeetna River.

"The team wouldn't listen to me," she recalls. "They knocked me off the sled runners, heading down a main street in Anchorage. I hung on, dragged face down until someone grabbed and stopped the lead dogs. Four miles from the starting line, I was forced to quit the race. My coat buttons were literally sanded off."

The experience only heightened her desire to master the art of mushing. She purchased 20 dogs and entered the Kusko 300 in January 1980. Even though the blizzard experience frightened her, two months later she raced her first Iditarod as one of eight women in a field of 61 competitors.

Haunted by memories of the Kusko 300 and afraid of being lost again, she parked her team directly on the trail when she stopped for a four-hour rest the first night. "Everyone had to go around me," she recalls. "They all had a few things to say!"

Several days later one of her dogs died. Jonrowe was devastated but finished the race with the encouragement of veteran mushers. An autopsy revealed that the animal had a heart defect. "Nowadays the dogs have an ECG before the Iditarod," says Jonrowe. "Back then we just paid the entrance fee and raced. An ECG would have eliminated him."

In the race of 2000, Jonrowe's sled crashed into a tree while crossing rock and glare ice on the nightmarish Farewell Burn stretch. One of the sled's runners broke, making it difficult to steer the 80-foot-long team. As a result, two dogs sprained their backs. To avoid further injury, she loaded them onto the sled.

The extra 100 pounds caused more sled damage. Regardless of the fact that she was recovering from back surgery, Jonrowe placed one foot on the good runner and pushed with the other foot until the next checkpoint—60 miles away.

About 30 minutes before reaching a checkpoint, Jonrowe stops the team and removes their protective booties. "The last half hour enables me to evaluate their movement," she says. "Removing the booties helps increase circulation and clean out their feet. If anyone looks sore, I'll have him orthopedically examined first."

At a checkpoint, Jonrowe signs in, spreads straw for the dogs, and settles them for their evaluation. She fills her cooker with snow, starts a fire with fuel, and hunts for her team's dry dog food, smoked salmon or frozen beef that was previously flown in. Because her bulky mitts make these chores difficult, she often wears only the liners or uses her bare hands, resulting in blisters or frostbite from handling cold metal.

After bedding the dogs down for an uninterrupted sleep, she heats her own meal, throws out trash, packs food for the next run, restocks booties and first aid supplies, and changes the sled runners if necessary.

"Then it's my turn to rest," she says. Dogs sleep 10 to 12 hours per day, but mushers typically function with two or three hours. "It's difficult to get a good sleep. People come and go. There might be 30 or 40 mushers sleeping in a tent or 10'x20' Quonset-type structure. The first few days I don't sleep at all—my adrenaline pumps too hard."

Strategy is everything. Her mind must think clearly, carefully planning every movement so time isn't wasted. "I have to think ahead," says Jonrowe. "When will the dogs need rest? Where will I be then? Can I stop there? Do I have enough supplies to sit long enough to rest them? What time of day will it be? If I don't plan ahead, I'll be caught."

She hopes to travel at least 100 miles each day, but variables determine her progress. All mushers are required to take one 24-hour stop and two 8-hour stops at separate checkpoints. Any additional rest stops are up to each racer. Sleep deprivation challenges the ability to make wise decisions. A trail more difficult to navigate than expected can put the team behind schedule. A tired dog may have to be loaded onto the sled, slowing progress with the extra weight.

Rounding a curve in a wooded valley, she could find the lead dog facing a startled moose who kicks in self-defense. Although Jonrowe has never encountered this threat on the Iditarod, other dog teams have been maimed or killed. Mushers carry revolvers to protect their dogs from an attack.

Weather changes suddenly. Along the Bering Sea coast, wind-chill temperatures sometimes reach 100 degrees below zero. Jonrowe wraps her dogs with blankets and puts their booties on. She's bundled with six layers of clothing. A face mask lined with wolverine fur leaves a slit for her eye goggles. Beaver fur mitts and custom-made mukluks with one-inch wool liners guard her hands and feet.

"Real fur is the only thing that doesn't freeze up," she says. "Synthetic fabrics turn into an iceblock that moves aggressively over my face.

"Your flesh can't be exposed even for a few seconds," Jonrowe says. "Dehydration is a problem because you can't come out from under your clothes to eat or drink."

"I believe God has a purpose for my being a musher," Jonrowe says. "My desire is to be used by him in this arena. If I'm noted for something, I want it to be that I took good care of my dogs, kept the faith, and my integrity never wavered.

"There was a time when I got carried away with the sport and didn't give God or my husband Mike their rightful places," she says. "I told myself it was for the sake of the dogs' well-being, but in reality it was all about my ego. It was about winning, succeeding. It was about my reputation which was tied up in them.

"Finally I came to understand that God loves me whether I win or lose. Now I wake in the morning knowing that he's watching over me and has a plan for my life. That's a daily promise, which stands true regardless of how I feel."

Jonrowe and Mike are active members of the Big Lake Baptist Church where she teaches the children's story time on Sunday mornings and Mike, a commercial fisherman, serves as a trustee.

The congregation supports her racing in many ways. They cook and package her trail meals—lasagna, chicken or moose strips, spaghetti. Friends answer fan mail and record music for her to enjoy while on the trail.

Jonrowe doesn't carry a Bible with her on the Iditarod—exposure to the sun and snow make it impossible for her eyes to focus on small print. To encourage her with Scripture, church members type Bible verses on bookmark-sized cards and put them in the food parcels that are shipped to checkpoints. "They use a large font so I can read them," she says. "When I leave the checkpoint, the verses are left behind for others to read."

A week before the race, Jonrowe and Mike are called to the front during Sunday's worship service. "The congregation holds hands, forming a circle around them," says Pastor Jerry Pinkerton. "We ask for her safety and for God to help her do her best, for good judgment on the trail, protection for the dogs, and that her sled will stay strong."

During the race, folks fasten newspaper clippings about her to a map of the race route posted on the church's back wall. "By the time the race is over, we've got quite a collection," he says. After the Iditarod, the church celebrates her safe return. "We try to use it as an outreach for the community, inviting others to hear her speak," says Pinkerton. "We haven't given up on a winning celebration yet!"

Perhaps someday Jonrowe will add a first-place trophy to her bookshelf. That's not her focus. "I consider myself the caretaker of God's kennel," she says. "It's not about the place I finish in; it's about the integrity with which I do my job 365 days a year when no one's watching. Do I still scoop and water? Do I pay attention to the quality of work I do when no one's around?"

She pauses, then adds, "I've been in races where I knew I was there for reasons other than the competition—a person I was supposed to encourage, an incident I was supposed to experience. The finish position is secondary to the integrity with which I perform the sport."

What is the Iditarod?

The Iditarod commemorates a life-saving dogsled run in 1925. When a diphtheria outbreak threatened to kill Nome's children, the closest serum was in Anchorage. The quickest way to transport it was via 20 dogsled teams running relay-style. Two lead dogs on separate teams showed unprecedented courage—Togo and Balto (pictured).

Besides remembering the serum run, today's race celebrates the partnership between man and dogs facing the challenges of pioneer Alaska.

For more information about the Iditarod, check out www.iditarod.com; for Balto's story, www.cmnh.org, website of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.

Iditarod Fast Facts

* The annual race begins the first Saturday of March in downtown Anchorage.

* Competitors enter the race with 16 dogs. If a dog is dropped for any reason, it cannot be replaced with another.

* Mushers control their dogs with voice commands only.

* Mushers are required to carry certain pieces of equipment, including an ax, snowshoes, booties for each dog, vet book, cook stove, dishes for dog food, a headlamp, sleeping bag, heavy parka, and their own food.

* Mushers are not allowed any form of two-way communication while on the trail.

* Mushers are required to sign in at each checkpoint, where each dog is given a quick exam.

* Mushers must take one mandatory 24-hour stop during the race, at the time most beneficial to the dogs. In addition, mushers must take one 8-hour stop on the Yukon and one 8-hour stop at White Mountain. None of the mandatory stops may be combined.

* The race requires between 1,600 and 1,900 volunteers. Ten volunteers work year-long.

* Thirty-five veterinarians from across the U.S. and Europe donate their time to check the animals. Three to five vets work at each checkpoint.

* Privately owned bush planes flown by volunteers shuttle supplies and staff to each checkpoint. Dropped dogs are flown to major pick-up destinations.

* The race alternates yearly between a north and south route, splitting at Ophir and meeting again in Unalakleet.

* The last competitor crossing the finish line receives the Red Lantern Award—a symbol of stick-to-itiveness in the mushing world.

Check www.iditarod.com for more information.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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