Let's go back to those early days, when you first started to compete. What you did have to overcome, not just to win the race, but to win acceptance?
Well, my first year, I came in "in the money". I was the first woman to do so, and so attention, media attention, of course, turned to me quite rapidly. And everybody kind of turned to take note. I didn't do that well, but it was
allowable. "Here's a freak, look at her, she did this."
The next year, I advanced rapidly and was in the top ten. And immediately, hackles started coming up in the back of the neck. I started getting a very different reception, but they weren't discounting me yet. That didn't happen until the next year, when I was in the top five. And then, immediately, many of my fellow mushers were saying, "She was lucky. It was an easy year." There was always some sort of excuse for the reason that I was doing well. In addition, I ran into all sorts of really harsh criticism -- verbally, to my face. Sometimes even physical acts that made it twice as difficult for me to continue down the trail.
The next year, when I continued to do as well, and the following years, many
of the male mushers formed a group against me, and worked as a group
against me, planning their strategies to ruin my strategy for the race. And it
was somewhere in there that I saw -- in order for me to win the race, I had to be much better than they were. I didn't have to be just a little bit better than the best male. He could win being just a little bit better. And they just weren't
going to let me win, being that much better. So it was then that I said, "Well,
then I take that challenge, and I will become that much better, and I can
become that much better, and I think I know how." And I started working on
it. And it did come true because I had to do that, and I had to work so hard on
it. It wasn't something that was going to happen easily.
It wasn't until my eighth race that I won. And yes, perhaps I was starting to have an inkling of self-doubt. But I knew I could win. And I had great faith, or, of course, I never could have finally pulled it all together. But when the papers would say, and my fellow mushers would say, "She will never be able to win because of such and such," you know, this does work on you mentally. You combat it, you say it's not true, but you constantly hear it. It's very difficult. The other thing is, all these men that, jointly, went against me, were individually my good friends. So that was very painful; to have good friends be fine the rest of the year, and treat you as a friend, and yet, when they would get into a racing situation, and get in this buddy system, I was out. I wasn't even welcome to share the campfires with them. So it was tough. There was a real loneliness in it for me.
Can you think back to what you felt like that moment, after the first victory, when you crossed the finish line and you were the winner?
You know, when I first won the race, I think I was almost in shock. I don't think I could enjoy what had happened until almost twenty-four hours later. I had worked so hard for it. And, of course, at this point in the race you are also so exhausted. There was certainly just a glow and a contentment in me. But to actually finally sit back and say "I am the champion of the Iditarod!" This was something that had just been so high and just close enough to almost touch, but never touch, and all of a sudden I was there. It was amazing to me that I had actually reached a goal. And then, I think as anybody who reaches a goal knows, there is a depression that goes with that. I had experienced this with every finish of every Iditarod because that in itself is a goal -- just to be able to finish. So I knew a little bit about it. But there was definitely a depression that happened after that. I worked quickly to combat it. Probably a week or two after the finish, I just said, "Well, it's time to get ready for next year's race, and I am going to win that one," and I learned that was the way to battle that problem. In fact, the next year, what I did, after winning again was, as I was standing at the finish line and the media wanted to interview me about that race -- the '87 race -- and ask me how it went, I said, "I don't want to talk about this year's race. It's over. I've won it. Let's talk about next year's race. I'm coming back to win it again." The instant I was done with that goal, I went on to my next. And I never went through the depression.
Did things change among your fellow competitors?
I think by the time I had won my first race, there was no doubt in anybody's
mind of my ability or my dogs' ability. And I think I do have the respect. I
really don't blame anyone for the problems. We all have to grow. I
had to make the move into becoming a woman very dominant in the sport,
and it was a long growing process for me. It was also a growing process that all
the men had to go through, too. So I have never found fault with any
individual for the problems that they had dealing with me entering the sport. The respect came, and they really do have great respect for my abilities. The
media has made a big thing of it, and that is difficult for them. It's difficult
for me. And that is the only ongoing conflict at this point.
What is it like out there on the trail, under those circumstances? Can you try to describe it for us?
For the musher, the most difficult aspect is the lack of sleep. And it is an
ongoing and constant thing that you are aware of. We are getting between one
and two hours of sleep a day for perhaps an 11 to 13, 14-day
race. It turns out a little bit more than that.
In a 12-day race I'll get about 20 hours of sleep. Most people think that fact in itself would make this an extremely grueling, totally uncomfortable race. Then you add to it the cold. We are often as cold as 50 below. You have the wind storms; you have the snow storms; you also might have forty above zero. You have a lot of elements that are causing what most people view as discomfort. But again, the thing to remember is that we live in that all year round. And, although, yes, I am very, very cold at fifty below, and even as good as I have learned to dress in those temperatures, I am not going to say I am completely comfortable. Yet, I know how to deal with them, and I am not miserable. Although sometimes you are! But I am often not miserable. So the thing that I think is important for me to say is that the country we are going through is so magnificent and beautiful. Even though I've gone through this same country many, many, many times, it is never anything less than spectacular. And it is always changing. Every 20, 30, or 40 miles, you come into a totally new terrain. Maybe you are in some really tall mountains, the Alaska range, or one of the other ranges we go over. You could be on the Yukon River, which is, at some points, a mile across. Just magnificent. Or the frozen tundra, which is not beautiful in the same sense as the mountains, but awesome in it's expanse. So there is always something beautiful to look at. If it's the night, you may not be able to see anything except for the stars, and more often, the Northern Lights. So we are always out in the spectacular nature and the wilderness, and no matter how tired you are, no matter how cold you are, you are able to appreciate that.
Most important is that you are out there with your 12, 16, 20 best friends -- the dogs. I have raised each one of them. I have trained them. I know each little personality. I know what they are thinking as they are going down the trail, each individually. They are all thinking different thoughts. I know how much they're enjoying it. And I can see the work that we have accumulatively put together to make this team perform the way it is obviously performing for me -- if I am being able to win -- is so satisfying and fantastic. To me, today, there is nothing that brings me more joy than to see a 16-dog team trotting down the trail with just as much power as you could muster. It's just a beautiful scene to me.