A dog's life in Juneau

I am wrapped in a cloud and my first view of Alaska is muted like a Japanese sumi-e painting. Mountains move in an out of soft focus while the fog swirls around the moving ship. I lean against the wet deck railing and listen to the sound of rushing water. I catch a glimpse of a waterfall tumbling down the side of a mist wreathed mountain.

My bare feet are cold and I shiver. I decide that I will need my winter gear today. I plan to spend the day hiking on remote mountain trails and mushing. If it's cold at sea level it will be even colder at elevation. As I ponder the need for a hat and gloves the fog evaporates. It startles me to realize that the gray cloud has completely ceased to exist. The dim mountain shadows are replaced with a brilliant green. Snow fields and glaciers glitter along the mountain tops and the thunder of the waterfalls, born from the summer snow melt, delight me. Every where I turn I can see water dropping into the sea. I move inside and get ready to go ashore as Juneau's first houses and cars come into view.

The tramway lifts out of the station and begins a dizzying ascent up Mt. Roberts. It sways as the passengers jostle each other for a place by the windows. The operator begins her talk about how far up we are going (very far up!), how many bears roam around on Mt. Roberts (too many bears!), and when the last tram of the day departs. If you miss it you have to hike back down past all those bears and a beast called the hoary marmot. Since I try to avoid anything that's remotely whorey, I make note of the need to leave before the last tram descends.

The trails on Mt. Roberts are well marked but steep. I pass several of my shipmates taking breaks on trail side benches and viewing areas. When I need to rest I pretend that I am stopping to take a picture, smell the abundant wildflowers, or look through my binoculars. Climb, climb, click, click. Climb, climb, sniff, sniff. Climb, climb, look, look. Eventually I get to the top of the world. The view is spectacular and what do you know! There's cell phone reception up here! I call the First Runner Up to tell him about the bald eagle that has been circling over my head for the past hour.

The First Runner Up is an outdoorsman. He hunts. He fishes. He camps in the rain. He would appreciate that I am willing to fend off bears and hoary things in order to have the opportunity to say, "I'm on vacation and you're NOT. Na na na na boo boo!" Not that I actually plan on saying that. I will think it, he will know I am thinking it, but we will talk about eagles. Drats! The First Runner up is sly. He lets my call roll into voicemail. I am forced to leave an oral postcard. "An eagle is watching me play in the snow on the top of the world. Wish you were here! Miss you. Bye." Nice, but not nearly as satisfying as "Na na na na boo boo." I glance at the time as I tuck my cellphone back in my pocket. I need to go back down the mountain. Sled dogs are waiting for me on Douglas Island.

The dogs that pull sleds in Alaska are called Alaskan Huskies. What they really should be called is Alaskan Muttlies. Most of them descend from the dogs who arrived in Alaska during the gold rush 100 years ago. They are a ratty looking bunch that don't come close to resembling the Disney dogs you see in the movies. But what they lack in looks they more than make up for in intelligence. You can see that when you look in their eyes, if, that is, they bother to let you look. Alaskan huskies know tourists when they see them. They also know that we are inconsequential. Their attention is on their musher, the other dogs, and the trail. They are all world class athletes in training. Most of them are veterans of the Iditerod. The exception are the young ones who are being trained by the older ones. The young ones have yet to learn that a tourist isn't worth their time or energy. They wag their tails when I approach. The veterans remain aloof.

The barking is deafening as the dogs strain in their harnesses. I am in front of the musher in the last seat of an 800 lb wheeled cart. This is where you want to be when you are behind a team of 16 dogs. The farther back you are from the dogs' hind ends the better the view and the smell. The folks in the front of the cart are about to learn this.

The musher is a mud splattered French man named Pierre. He has competed in the Iditerod for the last three years. The money that tourists pay to ride with the dogs during summer camp supports him and his team for the rest of the year. Well known mushers of winning teams have corporate sponsorship from dog food companies or people like Bill Gates. The average competitor, though, is someone who just eeks by. Feeding and housing the dogs is expensive. Equipment is expensive. This is more than a hobby. It is a way of life. "Is this your dream job?" I ask Pierre. He nods and his expression, which has been stern since we met, softens. "It is the only thing I want to do, " he tells me. "I do not want to do anything else." I look around at the affluent people who sit with me in the cart. How many of them can say they do not want to do anything else but what they do? Pierre is a rich man. It's the others who are eeking by.