We had finally arrived at the village of Teller, Alaska, by dog team. Even though our 18 huskies were tired, they lunged forward in their harnesses and barked with anticipation. We’d been on the trail for five days, dog mushing from Nome. It should have taken us three, but the travel was slow. There was hardly any snow for the overland route, so we wound our way along the coast. We snaked through the large pieces of aufeis, which are sheets of ice formed by layers of flowing water. We were there to find a Dog Man by the name of Joe Garnier, one of the legends of the dog mushing world.
I allowed my dogs to decide the route through the village, and they crested a small hill to arrive at a few cabins, a traditional wood sauna, and a dog yard with a dozen barking sled dogs welcoming us. Joe was standing in front of his dog yard. He wore his wolf-and-wolverine-fur ruff masking his face from the wind. I pulled my dogs up next to him and set the brake. At the time, Joe didn’t know my name. I hadn’t told him when we were leaving or what our travel plan had been. As I was pulling off my own ruff to introduce myself he said, “You’re three days late. Better park your dogs. There’s a storm coming.”
As he turned away to go inside, I looked up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. This is the typical shit I hear from Dog Men. I never know whether they’re being serious or cracking their own sort of quizzical joke.
Dog Men always seem to have one eye on the horizon, one on their team, and a combined gaze that is distant but warm. They rarely reveal their secrets, and you need to spend long periods of time with them to come to know what they know and understand how they have learned it. They are the culture bearers, and the ones who hold the knowledge necessary to disappear into the country. But they also know the bond needed with their dogs to travel long distances without a trail—a skillset that is disappearing as quickly as the permafrost is thawing and the salmon are declining in the North.
The use of sled dogs can be traced back thousands of years and is woven into anthropologic history. There is geologic evidence that sled dogs and humans co-evolved together: Indigenous peoples in North America, Siberia, and Greenland relied heavily on these canine companions for hunting, transportation, and survival in everyday life. In Alaska, “sled dog racing” occurred in the spring, when teams would gather in the villages to trade furs and participate in end-of-the-winter sprint races. These were casual, friendly competitions—not the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. The necessity of the sled dog continued through the 20th century, becoming an integral part of the Alaskan identity.
The advent of snowmobiles, ATVs, and other motorized forms of transportation significantly reduced the practical need of dog teams. These machines offered faster and more efficient means of travel, making them more appealing, especially for younger generations growing up in remote communities.
The 1970s and 80s marked a rekindling of interest in mushing history and heritage. The sport, which had been a cornerstone of life in the Arctic for centuries, experienced a renaissance as people sought to reconnect with their cultural roots. Distance races with large sums of money, like the Iditarod, were entirely unheard of until this time period. They were established to preserve the sled dog culture and to keep freight trails open between villages. Purse money in both forms of racing—sprint and distance—started growing in popularity across the country. Professional dog mushing was born.
I was lucky enough to grow up among a residual cast of legends, Dog Men, and races where the prize money was thick and the cost of travel relatively low. My childhood was spent on the road, chasing purse winnings and accolades with my family. My mother claimed the most International Sled Dog Racing Association world-champion circuit titles in history, the equivalent of being an all-time great in the dog mushing Olympics. Some of my first memories were of watching the dogs run from the sled basket, learning the movements and language of Alaskan huskies. I grew up directly alongside 35 sled dogs. They were my best friends, and the older ones were my most respected mentors.
“I longed for slower, sensory travel and simplicity. I wanted to suck bone marrow out of caribou legs, drink seal oil, wake up in the morning and dust myself off like the dogs, curse at the wind direction, melt snow for my water, and continue on with the day.”
Over time, sled dog breeding programs started to shift. Europeans introduced racing hounds into North America, which created a faster dog but at a cost of shorter hair and weaker feet. They needed dog jackets and dog booties to travel, and had to wear almost as many layers as people did. Packed trails became fundamental for racing, which meant a snow machine had to be out in front of the dogs at all times.
Media attention on dog sled racing escalated, as did the race entry fees. Meanwhile, the rising costs of dog food, veterinary care, and equipment—coupled with the economic challenges faced by many remote Alaskan villages—made it increasingly difficult for non-wealthy families to sustain a sled dog team. The populations of salmon, which had been a staple of dogs’ diets, were decreasing, while the cost of commercial dog food tripled.
As the ubiquity of sled dogs started to decrease across Alaska, so did local races and purse money. The sport became more gentrified, a pursuit only for the elite and white. I longed for slower, sensory travel and simplicity. I wanted to suck bone marrow out of caribou legs, drink seal oil, wake up in the morning and dust myself off like the dogs, curse at the wind direction, melt snow for my water, and continue on with the day. I wanted what anyone does in their youth: to break my own trail.
I, too, competed in track and field and dog sled races for a time. But I retired from the race circuit with a final national championship at the age of 25, and reverted to mushing a breed of sled dog that could read the mountains and sea ice. I started hauling freight for Denali National Park through four million acres of wilderness, the Alaska Range and up to McGonagall Pass on Denali. I later ran polar expeditions for filmmaking and photography, traveling deep into trailless areas and along the coastline.
I started to pursue the elder dog mushers’ deeper ways of knowing as well. I mushed teams into villages to find the Dog Men, seeking their riddles that would shape me into more of a successful traveler and navigator. The skills were becoming vestiges of the past, and they wouldn’t be found in the racing circuit anymore—but maybe they still existed out in the country. I mushed along the coast of Alaska, deep into the interior, and throughout the northernmost mountains of the Brooks Range. I went to Greenland several times and learned to build sledges and understand different terrains and dog breeds.
“Adaptability stands as the linchpin in preserving the cherished legacy of dog mushing culture, bridging the gap between the past and the future. An enduring strength lies within the hearts of dog mushers dedicated enough to continue forward without a known future or coordinates ahead.”
The Arctic’s largest contributing factor to dog mushing decline is climate change. Reduced snow cover, thinning sea and glacier ice, as well as extreme and unpredictable weather events have melted away traditional hunting and traveling routes. On one winter expedition, aiming to sled from Greenland to Canada, we were 500 miles from the North Pole and couldn’t find enough steadfast ice to attempt a crossing. This crossing was a traveling and trading corridor for the Inupiat peoples, marked with an inukshuk—a type of stone landmark where people have been leaving objects for thousands of years to bless their travel across the ice.
The sadness of our expedition being brought to an abrupt halt was overshadowed by the pain and existential dread I felt for the people and all other species depending on sea ice for protection and migration, now becoming landlocked. All of our fates were becoming irrevocably braided right before my eyes.
It reminds us that adaptability stands as the linchpin in preserving the cherished legacy of dog mushing culture, bridging the gap between the past and the future. An enduring strength lies within the hearts of dog mushers dedicated enough to continue forward without a known future or coordinates ahead. This type of faith is something dog mushers have held for hundreds of years.
The storm Joe Garnier alluded to when I arrived at his house lasted one week. As the winds raged outside, he shared his food, wood stove, home, stories, and laughter with us. We learned how to find fresh water miles out on the sea ice, so the dogs wouldn’t become dehydrated. He taught us about the best parts of a seal to feed to the dogs, the winds that indicated immediate danger, and those that signaled smaller storms that could be traveled through.
“The stuff you see out there—it’s going to be better than any acid trip you’ve ever been on.”
The Dog Man is content, because he is living and existing in these moments with his dogs. Some would describe it as a meditation. Knowing that this form of travel might not always be able to persist makes me enjoy the moment that much more.
A week later, the skies cleared. When it was time to leave, Joe broke trail for us for a few miles, leading us out of the village and into the mountains.
“I’d go with you, but my body is older, and my back hurts,” he said. Reluctantly, he gave a smile, a nod, and turned back to the village. “Oh, hey Dittmar. The stuff you see out there—it’s going to be better than any acid trip you’ve ever been on.”
This is the shit Dog Men say. As we traveled up the coast, we experienced horizons that blended together, conversations with wild animals, and snowfall that was more illuminating than you could possibly imagine. He wasn’t wrong.
Words + Photos by Jayme Dittmar
