Mush ’Em All: Tracking the Toughest Dog Sled Race in the World

In the bitter cold and under the cover of darkness, legendary musher Lance Mackey and his young team of Alaskan huskies unceremoniously arrive at the historic gold rush town of Dawson City, deep in Canada's Yukon Territory.

"This is probably the smallest crowd that's ever welcomed me to Dawson," he says in a scratchy drawl. At 4 AM, the halfway mark of the toughest sled dog race in the world is desolate—a far cry from the gang of fans and media wandering around during the day. A handful of bleary-eyed race officials take note of Mackey's arrival.

I ask how his dogs are holding up after traversing a 726-kilometre polar hellscape.

"They're doing great for a bunch of babies," he says. "They're a very young team and I'm proud of them."

"And you?" I ask.

"I'm a little worse for wear," he says.

He takes off his gloves to reveal nine digits; his left index was amputated years ago because of complications from cancer. His fingernails are dirty and oil stained. His hands stiff, cold, and calloused. It appears that he's suffered mild frostbite. I wonder if it's safe that he continue in these brutal conditions, but if anyone's going to tell Lance Mackey to throw in the towel, it sure as shit isn't going to be me. He struggles to make a fist.

"That's just mushing," he says.

The Yukon Quest 1,000-Mile International Dog Sled Race runs annually between Whitehorse, Yukon and Fairbanks, Alaska. In mushing circles, The Quest is considered much tougher than the more widely known Iditarod. Mackey has won both races four times each. If there's a Wayne Gretzky equivalent in dogsled racing, it's him.

Quest mushers glide along the Yukon River overtop jagged jumble ice, between narrow alpines and up lung-sucking mountains—and most of the time, they do this in total darkness. Sunlight in this part of the world is limited to seven hours a day and this isn't exactly a nine-to-five gig. Stories of mushers having mild hallucinations of being chased by wolves or caribou are not uncommon after several nighttime runs.

But there are chances for reprieve along the trail. Mushers must stop at nine checkpoints to sleep a few hours, eat a hamburger, and use an actual toilet. It's here at the checkpoints where sleep-deprived volunteers and journalists hurry up and wait for dog teams to arrive. It looks like the morning after a college keg party: sleeping bodies are tangled and contorted on fart-saturated chairs; there's a duo parked in an idling Nissan Pathfinder having an epic make-out sesh; people are huddled over laptops which are surrounded by cheezies and beef jerky; someone is cursing the slow internet connection.

It's a crazy way to live for two weeks, but this is paradise compared to what the mushers endure on the trail. Most people would think running a dog team through such a formidable landscape at temperatures lower than -40 Celsius is batshit insane, but then again, mushers aren't like most people.

At the checkpoint in Pelly Crossing, Yukon, musher Brian Wilmshurst hums a tune by CCR and checks the quality of his dog's poop.

"Hmm, that looks a little runny sweetheart," he says to one. "We'll have to keep an eye on that." He carries on humming and feeding his pooches. The steam emanating from that rank dookie instantly freezes into a zillion icy pooticles that cling to my nose hairs.

In this case, a little diarrhea is no cause for concern. All dogs are monitored closely by a dedicated group of 11 veterinarians from four different countries who volunteer their vacation time to ensure the health and safety of all dogs throughout the race. And so far, there are no major injuries.

"We examine the dogs at checkpoints and give full body exams," says head Veterinarian Nina Hanson. "We look at their hydration, their mucus membranes, their skin and coat, we listen to their hearts and lungs, and we look at their feet—their feet are really important since they will be going 1,000 miles on them," she says.

Yes, dogs have died in past races and dogs will likely die in future ones. This is the one thing that animal rights activists smugly hang their hats on while tweeting from afar in their cozy jammy-jams. But for anyone who actually attends the race and watches closely, it's apparent that the care of the dogs is priority number one. At checkpoints, the mushers rest only after their teams are attended to. They massage the dogs' legs, lay down straw for bedding, feed them, cuddle them, and leave them with handlers who monitor the team while they rest. To mushers, these are not just dogs—they are family.

The pack of 26 dogsled teams that launched from the starting line in Whitehorse a few days earlier has thinned out substantially over the first four days. The frontrunners have a 36-hour lead on the teams in back. Only 17 mushers make it past Eagle, Alaska, the fifth checkpoint of the race. Nine mushers scratch from the race because of the bitter cold and the ruggedness of the trail. "I'm scratching for the safety of my dogs," is the quote given by just about every musher, and rightly so. Aside from one or two curmudgeonly purists whining about mushers who drop out, scratching is respected and applauded. Pulling the plug on a race is no easy decision for a musher, but when it's for the best interest of a dog team there's often no hesitation.

By the time I reach the checkpoint in Central, Alaska, 35-year-old Brent Sass has a commanding lead of the race. Sass is a loveable and happy-go-lucky type with a huge desire to win The Quest. Last year, Sass had the race in the bag until he fell asleep at the sled, fell and hit his head on a tree, knocking him unconscious for several hours. He was rescued from the trail. This year, he wears a chipped yellow skateboard helmet. His closest competitor, Allen Moore, the defending two-time Yukon Quest champion, is ten hours behind but gaining on him steadily.

A group of officials, vets, and race organizers sit inside a smoke-filled roadhouse waiting for Sass' arrival while listening to Bob Seger. A stunning portrait of John Wayne gives a constant reminder that we are in God's Country, and that God will shoot you dead if you come looking for trouble.

And it seems that out on the trail trouble is brewing: Sass' GPS indicates that he isn't moving. A few hours pass and Allen Moore gains three, then four, then five hours on Sass. Still no movement. Race officials whisper to each other in the corner of the roadhouse, wondering if he had another accident. Two hours more pass, and finally someone pipes up, "He's on the move!" Sass' GPS tracker begins to inch toward Central and there is a collective sigh of relief in the room.

When Sass reaches the checkpoint, we finally hear what happened back out on the trail.

"I stopped for a quick nap but when I slipped into my warm sleeping bag, I dozed off and woke up ten hours later," he says. Moore glides into the checkpoint as Sass finishes his story. Nobody says it aloud but the words, "Holy hell, we have a race on our hands!" is exclaimed in the eyes of the crowd at Central.

At the final checkpoint before the finish line in Fairbanks, Sass and Moore prep their teams. The previous night, Moore managed to overtake Sass and is the new leader by just two minutes. This is one of the closest races in mushing history. Moore, the elder statesman, is methodical and strategic.

"This is my home turf and I've been training all winter on this stretch of trail," he says. "My plan is to get a good start, pull back when I need to, and finish with a sprint."

Sass, representing the next generation of musher, is more heart than method.

"Gosh, these dogs," tears well up in his eyes. "They're just the best and I'm so lucky to have this amazing team," he says.

It's a fascinating contrast between the two mushers. Both are well-liked and genuinely sweet men. Moore, however, is much more respected while Sass is much more popular. Both are fierce competitors.

At 1:34 PM, Allen Moore leaves the checkpoint and exactly two minutes later, Sass follows him. Five hours into the homestretch, Sass gains on Moore and overtakes him. It seems that Sass' ten-hour nap on the trail outside of Central has paid off. His dogs run for nine hours at speeds of seven and eight miles per hour. Moore's team drifts further back. He just can't keep pace. At 11 PM, the Fairbanks finish line is packed with cheering fans. Sass rounds a corner and crosses the line, runs to the front of his team, drops to his knees and hugs his lead dogs, Basin and Sound. Cameras flash around him. Overwhelmed with emotion, he's finally named the 2015 Yukon Quest champion over the PA system. Heart has won over strategy this time around.

Several checkpoints back, the race is still on. Vancouver rookie, Damon Tedford, has made his way into fourth place, passing former champion, Hugh Neff. Further back of them, veteran Mike Ellis collapses with exhaustion after reaching Eagle Summit, one of the mountain crossings along the trail. He's fine, he just needs a breather.

Lance Mackey, meanwhile, has slid way back of the pack and only two other mushers are behind him. He's been travelling alongside rookie, Kristin Knight-Pace, for a few days now. At checkpoints they share stories and laughs with volunteers. On the trail, they encourage each other to keep pushing through the icy landscape. It's not so much that Mackey, the world's greatest musher, is helping a rookie finish a race so much as it's the rookie, Knight-Pace, helping an old fart continue moving forward. The two unlikely mushers form a unique friendship.

At the finish banquet a night after Mackey and Knight-Pace complete the race, Mackey is awarded the Sportsmanship Award and the Challenge of the North Award, which is given to the musher who most exemplifies the spirit of the Yukon Quest.

"I love this sport, I love this race, and I love the people in it," he says at the podium, choking back tears. It's a special shoutout to his new buddy.

"More importantly, I love the lifestyle."