I
joke about Jersey Girls. You know, the scary ones with big hair and “extra
Jerz” who talk tough and are always looking for a fight. I wouldn’t want to
meet up with one in a dark alley, but I would want one on my team for dodge
ball, or, say, if I were competing in the Iditarod, which I am not, nor will I
ever, and this is why.
I
met an Iditarod competitor recently at family resort weekend in the Poconos.
Besides ice-skating, laser tag and ping-pong, one could take a dog sled ride,
so we went, en masse, to meet the Dog Sled Lady. She had twelve dogs harnessed
next to a little shed on the edge of a field. She introduced herself as Kim,
and couldn’t have been friendlier. We said hello to the dogs—thinner than I
would have thought, turns out they’re bread with greyhounds for speed—then she
ushered us inside to tell us her story.
“My
dogs are my family,” Kim said and we all nodded in complete agreement. Growing
up in Blairstown, NJ, she bread dogs all her life and never gave away a litter.
She worked towards running the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race for ten years,
raising $50,000. The race began in 1974 originally to celebrate the famous
diphtheria serum run in 1925 that saved children’s lives and to bring awareness
to a dwindling sled dog culture, which was being replaced by the snowmobile.
Though more people have summated Mt. Everest than have competed in the
Iditarod, Kim qualified in 2009, becoming the first person from New Jersey to
do so. But not the first woman, there have been lots of those.
The
Iditarod—named for the river, ghost town and race checkpoint-- runs 1,100 miles
and takes at least 8 days to race from Anchorage to Nome, sometimes a lot
longer. Each dog sled team must begin with 16 dogs and finish with at least
six. If dogs become ill or injured they are retired by a team of vets waiting
to check the dogs at every checkpoint. Team leaders run the dogs 6 hours then
rest them 6 hours. While the dogs sleep at checkpoints, the team leaders pick
up the supply drops, spread out hay and blankets for the dogs, prepare their
meals, build a fire, set up their own tents, cook their food, eat their meals,
try to sleep for at least 2-4 hours, then pack up, clean up, harness the dogs,
put on all their booties, and continue on their way. In 20 - 40 degree below
zero weather—five layers of clothing on the bottom and nine on top. Or was it
the other way around? It didn’t matter. She lost me at 20 below.
I
was taking in all of this information—sort of—nodding my head along with my
son, nieces, and the rest of my family. My mother was silently and hilariously
aghast as Kim spoke. I could tell what she was thinking: “No siree. Not on your
life.” I had to agree. It all seemed to make sense in the same way that bungee
jumping makes sense to me—not my cup of tea, but I understood why it would be
to some. But still, wow. I raised my hand, “So how many people on each team?” I
asked. “One,” Kim answered. “Right,” I said, “Okay, one at a time on the sled,
got it. But how many people were on your team? You know, sleeping in shifts,
following along side in a snowmobile, waiting at checkpoints or whatever?”
“Just me,” she said. “It’s a single person race. In fact, if you accept even so
much as a hot cup of coffee from any non-official during the race you’re
disqualified.”
“Wait,
what?” I thought. You’re what? All alone? For a week and a half until however
long it takes to finish? (30 days for some last place finishers). The look on
my face gave her clear delight. “I lost 30 pounds in 10 days,” she said with an
impish grin. Woa. I realized that the wind seeping in the little cracks on my
cheeks between my goggles and facemask alone would have prevented me from even
getting out of New Jersey. I would have had to forego my own food to make room
for more toe warmers. Then there were the charging moose, avalanches and
blizzards to consider. Nope, not me.
Kim
finished up her story as we stood mesmerized. There was a blizzard and one of
her dogs caught hypothermia. Faced with the decision to continue the trail, or
travel with her dog by helicopter to the vet hospital, she dropped out of the
race. Her dog made it. Now she’s saving up again for her next race. We smiled
and thanked her, bought her children’s book based on her story, then she led us
outside to take us on our rides. The dogs barked as we approached, clearly
excited for the chance to run again. Taking turns sitting and standing on the
back of the sled, it was a smooth ride without bumps or potholes. Very calm,
completely relaxing. I enjoyed it immensely. Then I remembered the blizzards
and the 40 below, the standing for 6 hours at a stretch then 2 hours of sleep a
night for weeks. The terrifying solitude and concern for injured dogs. I
watched the dog’s shadows on the clean white snow ahead of me dance. I looked
at the sun through the trees and thought of the incredible sunsets and
breathtaking panorama.
The
dogs slowed as we pulled in. It was my mother’s turn for a ride. “Not me,” I
thought, “but I may have just met the bravest woman I am ever likely to meet
face to face: Kim Darst.” Certainly the bravest from New Jersey.
