From Amazon
Twelve dogs, a sled, and your wits versus 1,023 miles of danger, snow, ice, and wilderness. The Yukon Quest is possibly the toughest race on earth. Held earlier, farther inland, and at a more northerly latitude than its famous cousin, the Iditarod, mushers on the Yukon Quest routinely experience temperatures dropping to 40 below zero, with 50 below not uncommon. Winning isn't everything; just finishing is an achievement in itself. John Balzar tells the story of the Quest, the dogs, and the mushers in Yukon Alone.
Balzar, a roving correspondent for The Los Angeles Times, volunteered to act as the press liaison for the 1998 Yukon Quest. As such, he traveled the length of the trail, sharing cabin floors with resting mushers, shivering as temperatures dropped to 50 below, and becoming somewhat delirious from sleep deprivation. Balzar does an excellent job of capturing the frozen feel of the race:
The visibility worsens and now Bruce cannot see his leaders in the swirling merger of snowpack and wind. He searches anxiously for a glimpse of a wooden stake that will tell him that his dogs have not wandered off the trail, perhaps to the edge of a cliff. Bruce is not conscious of time or of distance, but only of the wind in his face. The dogs appear to be moving forward, but there is no way to measure progress.
He also paints warm portraits of the mushers--men and women like Mike King, a 37-year-old biker with a Harley-Davidson patch on his sled bag and a tattoo of the Quest trail covering one third of his back; William Kleedehn, who finished seventh in the 1998 race despite his prosthetic leg; Aliy Zirkle, a rookie musher who recovered from losing a dog to finish the race.
Balzar describes the Quest as "a mixture of celebration and ordeal"; Yukon Alone will inspire a mixture of envy, admiration, and relief. Envy of the free-spirited mushers, admiration of their strength and dedication, and relief that they're the ones fighting their way up American Summit in a blizzard with a 70-below wind chill. A gripping read. Mush on! --Sunny Delaney
From Publishers Weekly
Enthusiastically communicating his love of Alaska's captivating landscape and his attachment to the rugged eccentrics who make it home, Balzar introduces readers to the rigors of the Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race. The Quest, as it's natively called, is colder and more dangerous than the more renowned Iditarod. Covering 1023 miles and taking more than two weeks to complete, the Quest offers Balzar a vehicle for exploring the varied richness of Alaskan culture. Along the way, as he profiles trappers, bush pilots and others who come to test their mettle in the race, he returns to the question of what makes these people mush. He hitches along not only for the adventure of a lifetime but for a taste of an earlier, primordial state of being. Between profiles of the racers and others associated with the Quest, Balzar muses on what it means to pursue a wild life at the end of the 20th century. "The trapper and the vegan," he writes in a passage about fur trapping, "both live in constant awareness of animals and their suffering. The rest of us worry about getting rain spots on our suede jackets and complain because the people who package hamburger meat these days are always trying to make you buy a little more than you need." Throughout, Balzar remains somewhat of a detached observer. He enjoys the company of the mushers he meets, but he is always somewhat apart from them, too much a part of the civilized world even as he celebrates the ways people can, at least briefly, separate themselves from civilization and follow their own demons wherever they may lead.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
An account of the 1,023-mile Yukon Quest dogsled race from, Whitehorse to Fairbanks, this is truly a detailed and fascinating epic. While the author himself did not participate in the race, he spent many months acquainting himself with the racers and their all-important dogs. One learns many facts about the care and feeding of the sled dogs as well as how their various talents are utilized. Balzar's descriptions of the cold and conditions the racers endured are particularly vivid. The maps that will be included in the finished copy will help readers follow the route. Highly recommended for libraries with avid readers of outdoor adventures.
-ARobert F. Greenfield, formerly with Baltimore Cty. P.L.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
-ARobert F. Greenfield, formerly with Baltimore Cty. P.L.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Kirkus Reviews
A fascinating look at the Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race, a lonely and often dangerous trek in freezing temperatures over 1,023 miles of daunting wildlands from Whitehorse, Canada, to Fairbanks, Alaska. Traditionalists created the Yukon Quest some 15 years ago as a counterpoint to the commercialized Iditarod, and as a way of celebrating mushing in its raw form. A roving correspondent for the Los Angeles Times, Balzar devoted more than half a year getting to know the male and female drivers of the 1998 race and following them along the racing trail. Here he presents a firsthand account of the race, addresses social issues such as the ongoing debate between animal-rights advocates and the partisans of the sport (he sides with the mushers), and offers historical facts about the Yukon Territoryin particular, the Gold Rush of the late 1800s. But Balzar is at his best when he focuses on the mushers, showing the details involved in devising a game plan (from selecting proper equipment to caring for and handling the dogs), and providing clues to the mindset needed to enter and endure such a race. Besides an adventurous spirit and a love for the wild country, mushers must also share a symbiotic relationship with their dog team. And while the drivers can't truly prepare for such life-threatening problems as losing a dog, succumbing to hallucinations, or becoming disoriented from the cold and exhaustion, they must be prepared to respond to any threat. A harrowing experience by the eventual winner near the end of the race illustrates just how perilous it can be for even the best- prepared. As a bonus, Balzar creates wondrous landscapes of the wild north country, depicting even more dramatically the cold, solitary ordeal of the courageous drivers and dogs who commit themselves to this demanding race. (Maps, not seen) -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Review
"The true measure of a book like this is how well the author holds up as a companion. As a guide to one of the most compelling competitions of our time, John Balzar is funny, profane, honest, and ever-curious - a writer seemingly possessed by the ghost of Jack London. Yukon Alone may be the best book written about the Far North since John McPhee tramped through these latitudes a generation ago." -- Timothy Egan, author of The Good Rain and Lasso the Wind
"To spend time with sled dogs, and the men and women who dedicate their lives to them, is to witness a relationship at once so primary and so ineffable the temptation is to reduce oneself to murmurs and tears. John Balzar fights this temptation and tells this story of the Far North gracefully, with all the humor, honor, and slack-jawed wonder it deserves." -- Pam Houston, author of Cowboys Are My Weakness
"Yukon Alone is an adventure story of the first order - a highly literary, eyewitness documentation of the world's longest, coldest, remotest, and most dangerous sled-dog race - a wholly true tale that's more suspenseful, riveting, and memorable than any fiction. And its score of Questing characters - from cabbie Dave Dalton to 'broad-shouldered' athletic beauty Aliy Zirkle - electrify these pages like the Northern Lights they are." -- David Petersen, author of Ghost Grizzlies and The Nearby Faraway
"To spend time with sled dogs, and the men and women who dedicate their lives to them, is to witness a relationship at once so primary and so ineffable the temptation is to reduce oneself to murmurs and tears. John Balzar fights this temptation and tells this story of the Far North gracefully, with all the humor, honor, and slack-jawed wonder it deserves." -- Pam Houston, author of Cowboys Are My Weakness
"Yukon Alone is an adventure story of the first order - a highly literary, eyewitness documentation of the world's longest, coldest, remotest, and most dangerous sled-dog race - a wholly true tale that's more suspenseful, riveting, and memorable than any fiction. And its score of Questing characters - from cabbie Dave Dalton to 'broad-shouldered' athletic beauty Aliy Zirkle - electrify these pages like the Northern Lights they are." -- David Petersen, author of Ghost Grizzlies and The Nearby Faraway
Book Description
In the tradition of Into the Wild, a story of daring and determination in one of nature's harshest, loneliest, and most beautiful places.
The Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race is among the most challenging and dangerous of all the organized sporting events in the world. Every February, a handful of hardy souls sps over two weeks racing sleds pulled by fourteen dogs over 1,023 miles of frozen rivers, icy mountain passes, and spruce forests as big as entire states. It's not unusual for the temperature to drop to 40-below or for the night to be seventeen hours long.
Why would anyone want to run this race? To find out, John Balzar moved to Alaska months before The Quest began and he spent time in the homes of many of the mushers. Balzar then spent many days and nights on the trail, and the result is a book that not only treats us to a vivid day-by-day account of the grueling race itself but also offers an insightful look at the men and women who have moved to this rugged and beautiful place, often leaving behind comfortable houses and jobs in the lower forty-eight states for the sense of exhilaration they find in their new lives. Readers will also be fascinated by Balzar's account of what goes into the training and care of the majestic dogs who pull the sleds and whose courage, strength, and devotion make them the true heroes of this story. For anyone captivated by the wild north country, this riveting tale of courage and adventure will inspire and entertain.
The Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race is among the most challenging and dangerous of all the organized sporting events in the world. Every February, a handful of hardy souls sps over two weeks racing sleds pulled by fourteen dogs over 1,023 miles of frozen rivers, icy mountain passes, and spruce forests as big as entire states. It's not unusual for the temperature to drop to 40-below or for the night to be seventeen hours long.
Why would anyone want to run this race? To find out, John Balzar moved to Alaska months before The Quest began and he spent time in the homes of many of the mushers. Balzar then spent many days and nights on the trail, and the result is a book that not only treats us to a vivid day-by-day account of the grueling race itself but also offers an insightful look at the men and women who have moved to this rugged and beautiful place, often leaving behind comfortable houses and jobs in the lower forty-eight states for the sense of exhilaration they find in their new lives. Readers will also be fascinated by Balzar's account of what goes into the training and care of the majestic dogs who pull the sleds and whose courage, strength, and devotion make them the true heroes of this story. For anyone captivated by the wild north country, this riveting tale of courage and adventure will inspire and entertain.
About the Author
John Balzar is a roving correspondent for the Los Angeles Times and was awarded the Scripps Howard Foundation prize for human interest writing. Balzar has worked as a river boatman in Alaska's Brooks Range Mountains and sailed across the Pacific. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Yukon Alone
1
"Mush-on" ... is the dog-drivers' rendering of the French-Canadian driver's command of "marche on"--to go--hence, also the Alaskan verb "to mush," meaning to travel, in dog driving.
--James Wickersham, Old Yukon, 1938
Yukon Territory, Canada: latitude 61 degrees north--so far north that only a tiny skullcap of the planet exists above us. It is February and dark. The temperature has not risen above freezing in four months.
Dog mushers and their extended families--spouses, children, dog handlers, and dogs--now converge on the capital of the Yukon Territory. Crammed into wrinkled, coughing pickups, each with an electric cord from an oil-pan heater dangling out of the grille and each carrying a miniature plywood apartment building on the pickup bed, called a dog "box," with spaces for perhaps sixteen to twenty dogs, these teams crunch their way over the ice-covered roadways of Alaska and northern Canada. Destination: Whitehorse.
For observers, things are about to start in the world of long-distance dog mushing. For participants in the Yukon Quest, this is the culmination. All those hours, all that training, all this money. How much? So much there is nothing else.
Even by motor vehicle, travel is eerily lonely this time of year. There are only seven all-year highways in all of this part of North America, and they penetrate only a fraction of the gross topography. In summer, true enough, the Alaska-Canada Highway and its tributaries are the scene of great migrations of steel and pressed aluminum, the vacation herds. In winter you drive these same roadways for ten hours and arrive in the little truck stop village of Tok, Alaska, where the bartender asks, "See any cars out there?" Matter of fact saw four, plus one wolf and twenty-five moose. "Oh? What color wolf?" he asks.
Myself, I'm taking the easy way to the starting line. Already this year, I've covered the distance back and forth six times by car and bush plane, and during summer by canoe. Now I'm riding a charter bus with some Quest officials, a few reporters, and the veterinarians. It's a dark, fourteen-hour road trip, Fairbanks to Whitehorse, with three bottles of champagne, a tin of caviar, and a slab of smoked salmon in my satchel. Windows frost up inside the bus, the road is bouncy, the seats hard, the scene inside raucous. Among those on the bus is Stephane Deruaz, a thirty-eight-year-old veterinarian from the Jura Mountains of France. June Ryan, a specialist in the U.S. Army and a volunteer vet tech, is teaching Stephane to swear like a soldier in English. He looks proud of himself as he blurts out obscenities, the meaning of which he does not comprehend. The worse they get, the more June beams her approval, the harder we laugh, the prouder Stephane appears--like a thirdgrader spelling words without knowing their meaning. We're all acting like thirdgraders. The champagne bottle takes another round. And another. Nervous anticipation is one of the glories of any worthwhile journey.
We stop for coffee at a roadhouse just across the Canadian border, and we're yanked back to reality. The instant we step off the bus an icy wind bites any exposed flesh. There is no exhilarating brace to cold like this, just a flash burn. My thoughts go quickly to the realization that we will be without heated shelter soon. The giddy light-headed feeling of expectation collides with sober foreboding about the wilderness we're soon to enter. A sign says the temperature once fell to 83 below at this roadhouse.
In the end, all of us bus riders will be tired, stiff, and hungover on arrival, de rigueur it seems. What fun would it be to begin this thing in tip-top shape, anyway? Bring on the agonies.
The Quest is the toughest race in the world, according to its slogan. Few would dispute this claim, although from time to time nervous organizers worry among themselves whether to tone down their language for fear of scaring people off. But in this era of easy hype, if you can honestly make an unqualified statement like "the toughest in the world," could you possibly resist? Surely, any musher who ever completed the thousand-mile epic wouldn't relinquish the title. Are you kidding? The toughest race in the world! Just getting to the finish line without succumbing to fatigue, frostbite, or self-doubt; completing the trek without getting whipped by your own mistakes or knocked down by bad luck or being kicked in the teeth by nature; advancing around the clock for two weeks against extremes of weather and terrain without fouling that rare bond of trust you have cultivated with your animals--that's the essential goal of most who attempt the Quest. When you sign up for the journey, you flaunt your daring. You proclaim your own physical toughness and mental durability, you assert mastery of bush craft. But mushing is unique: you also must acknowledge reciprocal dependence between yourself and these dogs for survival down the lonely storm-swept trail. Neither of you will make it alone.
Along with the mushers, a traveling road show of volunteer race officials will be hopscotching from checkpoint to checkpoint, spreading out down the length of the trail: a race marshal, three judges, eleven veterinarians, an assortment of vet techs, a timer, a handful of logistics facilitators, and me--all of us sharing the ordeal of perpetual motion, cold, the sleepless thousand-yard stare, the rank smell of the trail, the stomach adrift from too much coffee and boiled moose meat. I know people who, thirty years later, can recall with clarity the agony of pulling all-nighters in college. The Quest will provide serious postgraduate work on the subject.
My happy-go-lucky plan to enlist once again as a vet assistant and shovel the dog yards, stick thermometers up dog butts, and otherwise try to make myself marginally useful has been dashed. I've beendemoted. Down to the bottom of the volunteer ladder. I am now the Yukon Quest press liaison. The flack. Mouthpiece. Enforcer. My primary responsibility will be to manage the large contingent of reporters and photographers arriving from Germany, all expenses paid by a new race sponsor, the Frankfurt tire company Fulda. The press corps will now number more than fifty, when it used to be just a half dozen or so locals. All the old-timers up here are worried silly about the impact of this kind of press on the traditions of the race. They look to me for answers. I tell them I'm worried silly too.
Remember, don't ask what they can do for you but what you can do for them ... .
Fateful advice.
I am issued a huge overparka, bright yellow--the color of a daffodil, the size of a grain elevator. This, so people can spot me easily. They can. They chortle and call me Big Bird to my face. God knows what they call me behind my back.
"I'm getting ready to get nervous now," says Aliy Zirkle, a brawny, handsome twenty-eight-year-old former college track-and-field hammer thrower and a sometime wilderness biologist. She is one of four women running the Quest this year, all rookies. Aliy lives and trains in the outskirts of Fairbanks, in the mushing community of Two Rivers--the densest concentration of mushers, sled dogs, winter trails, and expertise in the world. She is known for her oversize smile and for her swagger, the kind that strong, sexy women develop after a few years in the bush, where they are outnumbered ten to one by men who forgot what their mothers taught them about manners or combing their hair before dinner.
Parked in downtown Whitehorse amid a lineup of other pickups, Aliy is pulling restless, squirming dogs out of her dog box, hugging and encouraging them one by one, chaining them to the one-ton flatbed truck she shares with another Two Rivers musher, Jerry Louden, a shy but accomplished woodsman who, when not driving dogs, wheels a road grader and snowplow for the Alaska Department of Transportation. Aliy is striking and chatty, Jerry lumbering and mutelyreserved. Between them is an age difference of eighteen years, a shared devotion to the remote outdoors, and a jointly managed kennel. When they travel together, salacious gossip is whispered behind them. I don't ask; I am fond of them both. And right now, they are facing serious matters, not gossip: which dogs to take and which to leave behind? Aliy and Jerry have spent months training and conditioning dogs. They have traveled more than one thousand miles behind their teams since summer. But only at this last moment are they making the final decisions about the last two dogs in the kennel: which of them goes in whose team? It is morning on race day.
Race day. The sun peekaboos through rolling hilltop clouds; temperature: zero. Everyone bundles up as if it's colder because of a cheekreddening wind out of the north. Yukoners still calibrate and discuss that combination of temperature and breeze called windchill, as do Americans in the Lower 48. By that measure, it's something like 25 below. The local radio describes conditions as "potentially dangerous." As a rule, Alaskans do not calculate windchill, feeling no need to overdramatize matters. If there is a breeze, zip up your parka. Meanwhile, clouds trundle low and leaden across half the sky, but distant hills up the trail are lit bright with the canted rays of a sun that never reaches high above the horizon. It seems almost inviting out there.
Am I losing my mind to say such a thing?
In a few days, I will break free from the crew of officials and mush a dog team myself along some of the loneliest miles of the Quest trail. We'll see how inviting it is. Perhaps the fascination I feel for the sunlicked hills in the distance is the same the rabbit has for headlights. Whatever it is, I cannot explain it.
In town, sawhorses and survey tape block off...
