A four-seat helicopter gives race fans a rare perspective on the proceedings.

The Iditarod has a split personality. It’s part party and part pain, part celebration and part long solitary slog. The 34-year-old dogsled race’s sunny side isaccessible and easy to find: just hang around Anchorage for the kickoff; Nome for the finish; or, for that matter, any of the checkpoints along the route where the teams converge to have their dogs examined and the mushers (occasionally) get some sleep.

The dark side of the race is a little more reticent, preferring to inhabit the unending stretches of trail that wend through icy forests and over blinding expanses of frozen sea. And while those foreboding habitats are off limits to all but a brave few, if you pay attention, you can catch glimpses of the Iditarod’s shadowy mean streak when the teams pull into camp. It’s written on the mushers’ faces and etched into their cracked, blackened hands as they numbly tug at some stubborn bit of harness while the team jumps and strains and aches to get back on the trail. The term “two-faced” indicates some kind of deception. Yet while the Iditarod has two faces, it wears both proudly and with a kind of honesty that is essential to the event’s success. The two sides of the Iditarod draw strength from one another. Were the race not so punishing, the celebrations surrounding it would not burn as brightly. Somehow, knowing what the racers are undertaking out on the trail makes fans hoist their beer glasses that much higher and crack their crabs legs with an extra measure of gusto. And on the flip side, there’s the frank fact that were the race comprised solely of frostbite, dog poop, and agony, no one would want to watch it.

Winterlake Lodge is an enclave of warmth and     comfort in an unforgiving land.

A SINGLE STEP
At the 2006 running of the Iditarod, I spent a week on the trail exploring the duality of the event. My journey began with a call to Entrée Alaska, a custom travel company that specializes in introducing tourists to the Iditarod and other outdoorsy pursuits generally requiring a parka.

My goal was to experience the race inside and out: I wanted to party (needless to say) with the bundled, cheering masses, but I also wanted to head into the bush to observe the race in its natural habitat. Entrée Alaska saw to my every need and prepared an enticing itinerary: I would attend the ceremonial start in Anchorage on day one, then puddlejump out to Winterlake Lodge, a mandatory race checkpoint, to dip my toe in the trail’s chilly deep end.

After a ridiculous and protracted shopping trip—San Diego is not exactly a one-stop shopping headquarters for winterwear— I layered up and headed for the frozen north.

The travel time from California was substantial, but not unmanageable. I actually found the journey pleasant because each time I sat down next to someone and they asked where I was going I got to say, “the Iditarod.”

I also had a chance to read up on the event’s history and culture . . .

The Iditarod finds its roots in the dire mail and supply delivery runs made by dogsled between coastal Alaskan cities and mining camps out in the bush. It begins on the first Saturday in March and grinds its way over 1,150 miles between Anchorage and Nome. The mushers urge their 16-dog teams over the hazardous Alaska Range, down into the basin of the Yukon River and across the frozen Norton Sound. Between checkpoints they have scarce company other than their dogs and the swirling, disorienting winds.

In a cruel twist, the final third of the race is the most difficult. Exhausted and snow blind, the teams must navigate a home stretch comprised of featureless and ever-shifting drifts. To conserve the dogs’ energy, many racers run behind their sleds rather than coasting on the runners. This, one veteran described to me, is like, “running a marathon every day for three days in waist deep snow.” I chalked that up to the “pain” part.

ANCHORAGE: THE PARTY
Arriving at Anchorage I was mildly disappointed by how modern the airport was. I suppose my dreams of some kind of hybrid igloo/hangar structure were a bit far-flung, but did these business-suited travelers really need to bustle around quite so openly sipping Starbucks and reading The Wall Street Journal? Couldn’t at least one person be equipped with some giant fur boots as a nod to new arrivals? (Alaska Tourism Board, take note!)

Unexpected modernity aside, Anchorage did have the unmistakable character of an out-of-the-way place in the throes of hosting a major event. You can always tell a small town’s population has swollen with tourists by the strange mixture of forced nonchalance and near-meltdown aggravation such events awaken in the local cab drivers. Mine, an Egyptian transplant, complained non-stop to me—a tourist—about all the tourists. I forgave him though, as not only did he have great information about where to watch the start (“Try the roof of the parking garage on Fourth Avenue, but get there early.”) he also navigated the skating rink streets nimbly despite wearing a pair of massive furry mittens. At last!

On ceremonial start day, the teams trot    through Anchorage waving to fans.

AN EARLY START
After an exciting day during which I explored Anchorage, toured the kennels of four-time Iditarod champion Martin Buser, and attended the mushers’ banquet, I got a good night’s sleep at my headquarters—the brusque-but-elegant Captain Cook Hotel.

I woke early the next day and trudged out to enjoy Ceremonial Start Day. Rising early is not optional on Ceremonial Start Day because at around 6 a.m., more than 100 dogsled teams flood into the streets of Anchorage. The yelping of thousands of dogs mingled with the churning of engines and the scrape of snowploughs quickly banishes all thought of sleep and summons race fans to the streets.

Walking up and down among the assembled teams that morning I was amazed by how accessible, even welcoming, everyone was. For a sport so rooted in toughness, dogsled racers are a personable bunch. Go to the Super Bowl or the World Series and you’ll have little chance of meeting the players; at the Iditarod, the athletes are not only glad to meet you, they’ll actually sniff your crotch!

Despite the dire nature of what these teams were about to undertake, there was no trace of standoffishness among the mushers. From rising stars to multiple-time winners to trembling rookies, every racer I encountered was happy to shake my hand, pose for a picture, and even talk strategy. Perhaps, I thought, they were storing up a measure of human contact to last them through the long journey ahead.

At least as personable, and twice as colorful as the mushers themselves, were my fellow race fans. Their blinding, full-body snowsuits were festooned with badges and patches commemorating other dogsled races they had attended or, in many cases, contested. After a few hours of interaction with the teams, non-racers were restricted to the sidewalks and the race began. Well, sort of . . .

Ceremonial Start Day is rooted firmly in the party side of the Iditarod. It’s a chance for fans to see the teams running, but there’s no actual racing going on. Each team is announced individually and they fly up Fourth Avenue, single file, to a mixture of hearty applause and people who are merely clapping to keep their hands warm. The teams travel only 20 miles on day one to Eagle River where they make final preparations for the in-earnest start the following day.

After watching the last team bound off down the avenue, I sucked down a hot cup of coffee and boarded a tiny plane bound for the Alaskan wilderness. It was time to hit the trail.

AN ENCLAVE IN THE WILD
Winterlake Lodge is a small, elegant wilderness resort in the heart of the Alaskan bush. It has, for years, served as a race checkpoint and would act as headquarters for my up-close-and-personal encounters with life on the trail.

While precious little aid is provided for the human participants of the Iditarod, the dogs are exceedingly well looked after. Scores of veterinarians, handlers, and other volunteers are on site to ensure the animals are in good health. At Winterlake, each team is required stop so the dogs can be medically cleared. If any animals are ailing, they are left in the vets’ care and reclaimed after the race.

Although some intrepid souls pause at Winterlake only long enough to get the veterinary greenlight, many mushers spend a few hours resting on the frozen lake. Guests of the lodge are therefore able to stroll around talking to the mushers, taking pictures and getting a very unique perspective on the proceedings. Unlike the mushers, though, when it gets a little too cold, the guests are able to return to lodge’s crackling fireplaces and world-class comforts.

A creative canine improvises some extra legroom.

While husband-and-wife proprietors Carl and Kirsten Dixon open Winterlake’s shores to the Iditarod a few days a year, they spend the rest of their time providing an impossibly luxurious experience for visitors to an inhospitable land.

Kirsten, a Cordon Bleu-educated chef and author of two cookbooks, presides over the lodge’s kitchen while her husband, a lean outdoorsman, oversees the recreational operations. Skiing, snowmobiling, dog sledding, and other activities are available during the winter, and fishing, hiking, and mountain biking take prominence during the summer. At all times Kristen and the carefully-selected kitchen staff (including her daughter) turn out stunning plates worthy of the best big city restaurants.

While the Iditarod is “in town,” Winterlake bristles with activity. Mushers wander up from the lake to warm themselves in the kitchen (although they’re not allowed in the lodge proper) and they talk with guests who gobble up every morsel of insider information. Meanwhile, out on Finger Lake, other guests mill around playing with the animals or marveling at the mushers curled up on the ice among their dogs.

I spoke at length to several mushers and collected dozens of wild tales from the trail. I even got Martin Buser to tell me the story of running the race with a severed finger: famously, only four days before the 2005 Iditarod, 22-time competitor Buser severed the middle finger of his left hand with a band saw. Undaunted, he decided not to drop out of “The World’s Toughest Race” and, after having the exposed nerves trimmed off by a veterinarian, finished 12th despite running the first half dozen days with one arm strapped to his chest.

I put another check in the “pain” column for that one.

Four-time Iditarod champion Martin Buser beds down    with his dogs on frozen Finger Lake.

A BIRD'S EYE VIEW
The clearest and most intoxicating perspective I gained on the race’s duality came on day two when Carl and Kristen hired a four-seat helicopter to take Winterlake guests up and out over the course. It was a squeaky cold, clear morning and as we rose over the jagged white landscape, the bitterness and beauty of the trail came into sharp relief.

From above, the bright orange trail markers were easy to make out. They marched through the forest off into a landscape as enchanting as it was menacing. High above the craggy peaks of the Alaska Range, the two sides of the Iditarod were laid bare. I could sense the allure of the still, pristine terrain and how its beauty belied the magnitude of the challenge it represented. In an instant, I understood the blend of pleasure and pain that summons these intrepid mushers into the breathtaking expanses of the Alaskan wilderness. But even as I understood the impulse that sends men and dogs plunging into that icy horizon, a tiny voice in my head reminded me that Kristen was plank smoking a fresh-caught salmon for lunch. And I didn’t want to miss that.

DETAILS
The 2007 Iditarod began Saturday, March 3, in Anchorage, Alaska.
For more information, visit www.iditarod.com.