Chuck Schaeffer feeds his dogs at the ceremonial start of the Iditarod in Anchorage, Alaska. Photo by Ray Gaskin
Chuck Schaeffer, one of four Native Alaskans entered in the 2015 Iditarod, sipped a cup of what he called "cowboy coffee" at his kitchen table near Willow and patiently answered dozens of questions which most assuredly he had been asked many times before. He adjusted the brim of his flat cap, which he always wears, whether indoors or out. Outside the sun was shining and it was 35 degrees. Snow had been scarce lately and it had hampered training plans for many of the 78 mushers entered in the race. It had also forced changes in the route. "The earth's axis is shifting," he said in a soft-spoken voice. "That's why there's a change in weather patterns." Chuck, an Inupiaq Native Alaskan, was about to tackle the 1,000 mile sled marathon to Nome for the first time in 24 years. In his two previous tries he failed to finish. In 1985 he was knocked out on a technicality and in 1991 he scratched because of illness. He sold Herbie, a prized dog he bred and raised to Jeff King, who went on to win three Iditarods with him. Chuck said Herbie sired other dogs that helped Lance Mackey win multiple Iditarod crowns. In the intervening years he did a lot of commercial fishing and carpentry work, but never lost the desire to compete again in the "Great Race." Now he's 60. If he was ever going to complete the Iditarod he had to get moving. "This time I'm ready to finish this thing," he said in a calm but resolute manner. Chuck and his wife Tracey, an occupational therapist, have spent 10 years building a team of dogs capable of winning competitive races. They came south from Kotzebue, north of the Arctic Circle, to live and train their dog team near the road system. It was a matter of economics. In Kotzebue an item as simple as a bag of dog food can be three times as expensive. Chuck's fellow Native Alaskans in the 2015 race were John Baker, also of Inupiaq heritage, Richie Diehl, a Native Athabascan, and Pete Kaiser, of Yupik ancestry. Baker is the only Native Alaskan to ever win the Iditarod. "I've lost most of it," Chuck said of his Native Inupiaq language. "I was raised in the B.I.A. system and English was stressed." But he has continued to embrace many of the customs he learned as a child. "My mom put seal oil in our ears to cure ear problems," he said. "Old Eskimos used it for healing purposes. And it's also good for dogs. I put a teaspoon in each bucket of their food and mix it in. The Inupiat people have used it for generations. It helps keep a dog's fur soft and shiny." On the trail Chuck's diet consists of homemade bread, caribou meat, shrimp, Hershey bars, and the much-revered Eskimo ice cream, which consists of wild berries, sugar, caribou fat, and the ever-present seal oil. "It's high in fat and makes a great trail food." He took issue with detractors who claim that dog mushing is cruel and inhumane. "To be a musher you have to first love dogs," he said. "You eat with them, sleep with them, live with them, and you take care of them. They are a part of your family. Without the dogs you have nothing. Mushing is a lifestyle." Alaskans know how expensive the Iditarod experience can be. The entry fee alone is $3,000. A dog team can go through as many as 1,500 booties during the race. Visitors from the lower 48 are often surprised to learn that much of the Iditarod is run at night. "The daytime sun saps a dog's energy," Chuck said. "They like to run at night. They see things we can't see." Over time fatigue sets in and mushers fight sleep deprivation and hallucination. "People out there have sworn they've seen women on a beach," he said. "I once saw ducks fly by in the middle of a snow storm. I told my buddies about it and they just laughed." There are also cantankerous moose to contend with. On more than one occasion an angry moose in the middle of the trail has derailed a musher. Chuck's visitor asked if he could see his sled and learn more about his dogs. They stepped outside and Chuck lit a cigarette. "It's my one vice," he said. "I roll my own. They don't have the chemicals that are in cigarettes you buy at the store. I guess you could say they're healthier," he laughed, "and cheaper. We spend the first half of our lives trying to kill ourselves and the second half trying to stay alive." His dogs got excited and howled with glee at the sight of their skipper. They live in spartan houses made of discarded 55 gallon plastic barrels. Chuck cut the barrels in half and carved out doorways. The insides are covered with straw. "Do they always bark like that when you come outside?" the guest asked. "Sure, because they know something good is going to happen. They're either going for a run, or they're about to be fed," he replied. He showed off his lead dog, Split, who at age 8, is nearing the end of his racing days. "My dogs are amazing creatures," Chuck said. "They are tuned in to me and they communicate with each other. Sometimes it's with the touch of a nose. If I'm in a bad mood they know it. If we're having a bad run they know it. They're like leaches sucking the blood out of somebody, they feed off you." His team includes only two females. "They develop quicker but in races there are potential problems with a female in heat," he said. In his shop was the sled he built specifically for the Iditarod. It was light weight and had no frills. Chuck's only concern was the runners. "I'm trying something different," he said, "carbine fiber because it's lighter than aluminum and half the weight of plastic." "Are you having any trouble sleeping at night?" his visitor asked. "No, I don't let anything bother me except the dogs," he replied. The next day thousands of spectators lined 4th Avenue in Anchorage for the ceremonial start. Fan favorites like Jeff King and Aliy Zirkle drew flocks of media and autograph seekers. Some of the mushers arrived in sleek rigs emblazoned with sponsor logos that would have been right at home at a NASCAR race. Chuck, his wife Tracey, and daughter Bailey pulled up in a nondescript pickup, pulling a trailer that carried his dogs. Their noses poked through round holes in wooden boxes which Chuck had made to haul them in. Street crews had worked feverishly the previous night hauling in snow so the mushers could travel 11 miles from the ceremonial start to Campbell Airstrip. At 10 a.m. they went off with Chuck wearing bib No. 67, the starting position he had drawn at the musher's banquet earlier in the week. When they arrived at the airstrip Chuck said, "Now we'll go to Fairbanks and see what Mother Nature throws at us." At the Fairbanks re-start, Chuck left the gate with 14 dogs, two shy of the maximum allowable. He was one of the few in the race who started with less than 16. In the early stages, he moved up quickly, settling into a position in the mid-forties. By the halfway point troubles had set in. Several of his dogs were stricken with diarrhea, making them susceptible to dehydration. Chuck's lead dog Split had to be sent home. Two other dogs were dropped, leaving him with 11 and hundreds of miles to go. A caller asked Tracey if she had heard any news. "The dogs are struggling," she said. "It's miserably cold." Chuck was also fighting muscle cramps, an old nemesis. He camped beside the trail between checkpoints at Galena and Huslia. The temperature dipped to 50 below. When he continued, his speed slowed to less than four miles an hour. Another dog was dropped. He encountered a driverless dog team. By this time close to a dozen mushers had scratched. A severe storm gripped the trail as high winds and near zero visibility forced mushers to take refuge at the Shaktoolik and Unalakleet checkpoints. Chuck had dropped two more dogs and was down to 8, with over 200 miles remaining. He was in dire straits. Rules require that a musher finish the race with a team of at least 6 dogs. Back on the trail, he advanced cautiously, stopping often to rest the dogs. Others passed him but he resisted the temptation to speed up. Always in his head was that vow he'd made before the race began. "This time I'm ready to finish this thing." Tracey and Bailey flew to Nome and kept a vigil. Dallas Seavey finished on Wednesday, March 18, sealing his third Iditarod victory in four years. One by one, the finishers passed under the Burled Arch that mark's the trail's end. Thursday came and went, and Friday too. More mushers arrived in Nome. Tracey remained optimistic. "He's going to make it," she said with confidence when Chuck reached the White Mountain checkpoint. There were 77 miles remaining. He dropped another dog and was down to seven, one over the minimum. "That was scary," Chuck said later. The finish, through the last checkpoint at Safety, 22 miles from Nome, is often treacherous. Last year, Jeff King was leading when a blizzard knocked him out of the race near the final checkpoint. But this year, Mother Nature had a change of heart. The wind died down and the sun shined brightly as the crowd on Front Street in Nome prepared to greet the next finisher on Saturday, March 21. A group of Native Alaskan dancers and drummers broke into a welcoming chant. A sled pulled by seven Alaskan Huskies chugged toward the finish line. The driver was wearing a flat cap. Chuck Schaeffer arrived, exhausted and relieved to be at the trail's end. Tracey and Bailey gave him a hug. He was too tired to do much celebrating. Officially, he finished in 51st place. His journey took 12 days, 4 hours and 24 minutes. After three tries at the Iditarod, the third time was the charm. He could go home and enjoy a cup of cowboy coffee. Ray Gaskin is a freelance writer and journalism instructor at Southeastern Oklahoma State University.
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