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.
[Illustration:
_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.
[Illustration:
_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.
[Illustration:
_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.
[Illustration:
_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.
[Illustration:
_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.