Running with the dogs

Two northeastern Washington men aren’t leaving the Iditarod Trail to the dogs.

The so-called “last great race” route for sled dogs is also one of the last best snowmobile tours, said Bob Jones, 66, of Kettle Falls. Jones is scheduled to be in Alaska today riding his snowmobile for the 34th annual Iditarod and his eighth tour of the 1,049-mile trail from the Anchorage area to Nome.

Joining him is his partner for most of those trips, Jim Knight, 62, of Deer Park.

“There’s nothing like it for a snowmobiler,” Jones said. “You can go days without seeing anyone, and when you go through a village people come out smiling and happy to see you.”

The trip has become an annual ritual for Jones. One year he was joined by his son, Dick Jones, and his grandson Ryan, who was 10 years old at the time “and possibly the youngest snowmobiler to drive the route,” he said.

Last year, however, neither Knight nor family members could go to Alaska, so Jones went solo.

“I hesitate to take a break from adventurous things because as you get older it’s too easy to quit.

“I thought it was a good idea until people started telling me that nobody rides the Iditarod alone,” he said.

The round trip from the Anchorage area to Nome and back requires more than 20 days of negotiating mountain ranges, frozen rivers, dense forests, desolate tundra and windswept coastline often in sub-zero temperatures and blinding winds.

“I rented a satellite phone in case of emergency, but I didn’t get a GPS. You have to leave room for old-fashioned adventure.”

The trip has two legs of different complexions: The 1,049-mile ride to Nome while the sled dogs are racing, and the post-race return trip with virtually nobody on the trail.

“We see mushers every day on the way to Nome,” he said. “The dog teams travel faster than we do on snowmobiles. They go day and night, four hours on, four hours off to rest the dogs, but the mushers don’t get much sleep until the race is over. They have to feed and care for the dogs, so at best they just collapse in their sleds for short breaks.”

Meanwhile, Jones takes a relatively leisurely approach, pitching a center-pole wall tent and firing up a wood stove every night for a comfy camp. “It’s way more comfortable than a motel,” he said. “If you’ve been to Alaska bush motels, you know what I mean. Besides, when you need a drink, you just scoop snow off the floor and put it in the pot on the stove. Simple as that.”

Even though his snowmobile is capable of going more than 60 mph, much of the trail is slow going. “It’s rugged out there, and sometimes we’re crawling at 5 mph over frozen creek beds, through snow drifts all kinds of obstacles. We ride about eight hours a day, but by six we’re looking for a place to camp.”

Here’s more of what it would take to keep up with the Joneses on the Iditarod Trail.

Navigation: “The mushers agree it’s easiest to navigate on a clear night, because you can use the stars, and the trail markers reflect in your headlamp. During daytime, you can’t always see trail markers and you can go in circles during ground blizzards, even when the sky is clear. With cloud cover, I’ve had to rely on keeping the wind on one side of my face to maintain direction.”

Costs: “We don’t live high on the hog on this trip, and it’s still a ton of fun. We ship our snowmobiles by barge to Anchorage and fly up there. We have a cheeseburger and Budweiser at the Kanik Bar where the race actually starts and we’re off. We camp the rest of the way to Nome. Our total cost last time was $2,250 apiece for 22 days.”

Partying isn’t a major expense: “Most of the route is dry,” he said.

Fuel economy: We carry only 15 gallons of gas for emergencies because we have 15-gallon tanks and our four-strokes get 15 mgp. There’s only two points on the trail where you have to go up to 200 miles to get gas.” Stove fuel can cost up to $17 a gallon in remote villages. Near Rainy Pass, one of the most remote points on the Iditarod Trail, gas runs about $8.50 a gallon. “If you find yourself needing gas way out there, you’ll think that’s a great deal.

Fanfare: The most notable crowd during the race is at 100 Mile, “where they build a bonfire as big as a house out in the bush and have a big party. A bunch of reprobates collect money and hand it to the first musher that comes by.”

Sled prep: “Without synthetic oil I never would have been able to start my snowmobile when it was 40 below. You need carbide spikes in your tracks to keep from sliding off ice ledges. Other than that, go light. We pull a sled that probably weighs 300 pounds and we tip over a snowmobile about once a day.”

Slow going: In addition to negotiating rugged terrain and dangerous frozen creeks in iffy weather, Jones has other issues that keep him from making fast time on the Iditarod Trail. Among them:

• Gift for gab — “The people in the villages and the helpers at the check stations are fun to talk to. I took 250 Sacajawea dollars the year they came out and gave one to every person I met in the villages. Every one of those people remembers me for that. I’ll bet most of them still have those coins.”

• Sign keeping — “There’s hardly any signs on the trail, so I made one for Rainy Pass, 3,400 feet, the highest point on the trail. But up there, it’s the only vertical thing in a horizontal world. During summer, every bear in the area has to come by and take a chomp out of it. I have to fix it and put it back up every year.”

Scariest spot: At top of Happy River, where the stream freezes, making ice dams that cause water to overflow and freeze in notoriously weak layers.

Worst riding conditions: “In 2001 there wasn’t enough snow. We had 64 miles of bare-ground riding. And one year we rode 75 miles in snow that was the consistency of dry oatmeal.”

Toughest characters: “Other than mushers, we don’t see many people out on the trail, but twice I’ve seen a 76-year-old guy, Dick Griffith of Anchorage, who does the route on skis.” Jones showed a photo of Griffith revealing that he does the trip on wood skis fitted with leather strap bindings that allow him to wear mukluks instead of boots.

Going alone: “Being solo last year, I thought I’d have more time, but it was just the opposite. I was so concerned about the trail, I went slower and didn’t stop much. You can look around and do more when somebody’s riding ahead of you.

“Two years ago I picked up 3,000 dog booties off the trail. Last year, when I was alone, I only got 2,000 booties.”

Biggest bash: “They really put on the dog after the race for the musher banquet in Nome.”

Wildlife: Aside from the musher bash at None, there’s isn’t much wildlife on the trail during winter. “In seven trips we saw only one moose, no wolves or wild sheep, but lots of caribou on the coast.”

Finishing touch: After the last Iditarod finisher comes in at Nome and blows out the Red Lantern before the 20-day limit, Jones will point his snowmobile back to Anchorage. “It’s a totally different experience heading the other direction,” he said. “You hardly see anyone outside the villages. All those fun veterinarians and helpers at the checkpoints have gone back home. It can be downright solitary.

“This is no cake walk. Bring a come-along and lots of time. Expect to work your ass off, but it will be your most memorable snowmobile trip.”