Shivering in the cold night, I stood with a dozen others as we awaited the arrival.  It was a bit less than an hour before sunrise on a cold January morning in northern Minnesota.  I was bundled in my heavy parka, hat pulled low, and was drinking hot tea from a thermos, but the stress of a night spent driving instead of sleeping was catching up to me, making me cold.

Still, the excitement around me was contagious.  Many of those present had camped there along the Sawbill Trail near Tofte, MN since the previous day.  They were the enthusiasts, the ones who were passionate about their chosen sport: dogsled racing.  We were all there awaiting the mushers of the 2011 John Beargrease Sled Dog Race.

The ancient art of running dogs was once critical to life in the northern environment, but it was virtually eliminated in the early 20th century by the arrival of the snow machine and the airplane.  Its last popular hurrah was the 1925 serum run to Nome, Alaska to deliver diphtheria antitoxin.

Then, in the 1970s, the Iditarod race in Alaska was started, and by the 1980s dogsledding had once again entered the public imagination.  Rugged, athletic, and indomitable, the mushers were viewed as true Americans — never mind that many hailed from Canada.  The Beargrease race follows the same tradition as the Iditarod, albeit over a slightly shorter and considerably warmer 370 miles versus 1161 miles.

We made idle small talk in the night as our noses grew numb and our breath hung in the air.  The temperature according to my car was -5 degrees Fahrenheit, though if I’m honest, the lack of wind made it feel more like a balmy 10 above.  We waited.

Then, out of the darkness, a light.

“Team!” went the cry, and our group shuddered with anticipation.  A musher and his dogs were coming towards us on the trail.  His powerful headlamp — literally on his head — backlit the dogs into otherworldly silhouettes.  Closer and closer; first 200 yards; then 100; then they had arrived.  A handler stepped out to control the lead dog as the musher halted his team.  The race officials noted his name and status before sending him to a spot in the snowy woods for a few hours of mandatory rest.

In from the night

Other teams arrived.  Dawn broke, and soon most of the 17 teams were enjoying their temporary convalescence at the remote checkpoint, so far removed from civilization that all communication was by ham radio and satellite phone.  The dogs slept in the woods while the humans worked like dogs, replacing sled runners, cooking food, and fighting off fatigue.

Sleeping dogs

Before the final team had arrived, the first team had left again.  The next checkpoint was 51 miles away, just shy of the Canadian border, a distance that would take about 6 hours to cover.

To see the dogs at the restart from the checkpoint was to bathe in the ether of enthusiasm.  Big grins, big jumps, and big effort abounded.  The mushers, though more subdued, were also happy to get moving again as the they sped off into the wilderness.

Rounding the bend

Gradually, team by team, the snowy checkpoint in the forest grew quiet again, and the revelers settled in for long-delayed rest.