Into the Wilderness

Difficult Question

When I was eight years old, I walked out into the backyard of our house in Putnam County, NY, where we had 10 Siberian Huskies roaming through a large, fenced-in area. As a child, I often spent lots of time admiring our dogs through the fence. For some reason, on that particular evening, I decided to let the Siberians come out and play.  As I reached up and lifted the latch, the gate burst open with a powerful flurry of black and white, frantic howling and yelping that fanned out across the yard. Within moments, the dogs were out of sight.

My next memory: mother, father, little brother, and I in the family van, driving up and down the streets of our neighborhood searching for the runaways. It was dark outside by the time we recovered everyone. I can still picture the last Siberian up ahead as the headlights illuminated her raised tail, her body arching forward powerfully.

Not long after this, my parents joined The Northern Breed Club, which held events for people with Siberian Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes, Samoyeds, and other breeds. At one event, I got into a dog sled. My mother drove, and three of our Siberians pulled us through the snow. At other events, I stood by myself on the runners. We never went very fast, but there was the same thrill as that night in the backyard. Except now it was under control.

Around this time, my mother brought one of our Siberians, and a dog sled, into my second-grade classroom. It made me proud when she called me to the front of the class to show the other kids how we connect the dogs to harnesses, stand on the runners, step on the brakes, and praise the team.

Then my teacher turned to me. "Matthew, can you tell us what it feels like when the dogs are pulling the sled?" she asked.

I have not been on a dog sled for many years, but I remember the bursting sensation of the dogs' muscles telegraphing along the line, right through the structure of the sled and into my hands and feet.

What does it feel like when dogs are pulling the sled?

Pure Sensations

Karen Ramstead has mushed extensively in Alberta, Canada, her home town. She has traveled to Alaska to compete in the best-known dog race, the 1,150-mile Iditarod, where she spends up to 20 mid-winter days with her dogs, sledding through ice and snow, over rivers and along mountainsides, with temperatures dropping to -30 degrees F and high winds creating snow drifts that camouflage the trail. Still, she admits, "It's very difficult to describe what it feels like!" But then, calling up her many adventures, she offers this: "It's as if the sled is alive with the spirit of the dogs. When the dogs are all motoring along the trail, it's like they are speaking to you through the gang line."

Ramstead has finished three Iditarods, but explains, "If you ask mushers about their greatest experiences, they won't say 'crossing the finish line.' They'll say it's the moonlight on the run, having a great wildlife experience with your dogs. That's what we carry with us."

For Ramstead, non-competitive sledding is as meaningful as the Iditarod. She describes this as a perfect sport for people who want well-trained dogs, and yet want their dogs to maintain a degree of independence. "If I insist on something, I expect it to be followed. However, I also take the dogs' input into consideration, and I let them express their opinions. You don't want to stifle their creativity."

Honed during non-competitive sledding, this creativity often surfaces in more serious situations. Ramstead describes a harrowing example from the 2006 Iditarod: "The wind was blowing harder than I've ever experienced before. We came to a spot where there was no trace of the trail, just this windblown landscape. I couldn't even fathom where the trail was. But I was totally in awe when my dog Snickers found the trail again." Snickers saved the team because she had long been encouraged to trust her own ideas about how to act under any conditions.

Ramstead says sledding offers humans entry into the natural world. "You could go storming into the woods on a snowmobile," she says. "But with a dog team, you're quiet, you're part of it all. You're slipping into the wilderness with them. You get to see a little piece of what they really are. You enter a world where they are the ones completely at home, and they have this knowledge built into their souls. They are just taking you along. But because you're on this shared venture, everything you already have with your dogs goes to a deeper level and strengthens your bond." She promises that anyone who engages in sledding will feel this at some level.

On the trail, Ramstead has seen owls, bald eagles, moose, and more. But most memorable are wolf encounters. "The dogs are definitely more curious about wolves, and the wolves are curious about dogs. It's very different from how they react to moose or squirrels."

One caution: sledding can be addictive. Just ask Donna and Doug Finner. Originally from Florida, they were vacationing in Alaska in 1999 when they saw a sled-dog demonstration. The Finners went for a short sled ride, and at the end, Ms. Finner says, "They put the puppies in your arms." She laughs. No need to explain what happens next.

Describing what it feels like for her to be pulled by a team of dogs, Ms. Finner says, "It's very quiet, very peaceful. You hear the dogs' paws. You hear the runners sliding over the snow." Taking a few moments to consider some sledding scenes, Finner settles on her appreciation of the dogs. "When I'm sledding, I just love to stand back and watch them. They move so beautifully!"

Ms. Finner is a special-education teacher . Before leaving Alaska, she asked about educational materials, and received great ideas to bring back home. "When we're talking about dogs and the Iditarod, my students never miss a class and they never disrupt," she explains. "It amazes me how well the kids connect and respond."

While Donna Finner integrated lessons about dogs into her teaching, she and Doug began searching for their first Siberian Husky. It did not take long for them to go from one to two, then purchase their first sled. After getting a sled, Donna jokes, "I thought, 'you know, sleds go much faster with four dogs.'" And so there were four. Not too long after came the fifth, then the sixth. Why not one more? Their seventh (and supposedly the last) dog arrived in mid-November. The Finners also recently acquired a new sled, and they now live in New Hampshire.

In just five years, the Finners have learned a lot about training their dogs, but they have no intention of becoming Iditarod racers. Ms. Finner says, "We go for six-mile runs now. My goal is to get to 12 to 15 miles. But I know I can be extremely competitive, and that can take some of the fun out of it. I want to make sure that doesn't happen."

The Finners also want their dogs to remain pets, comfortable in and out of the wilderness. "They spend a few hours in the house," Ms. Finner says. "Some of them even sleep in the bed with us."

Taking his turn to describe the experience of sledding, Doug Finner says, "It's truly amazing when everything comes together. You yell 'haw,' the command to turn left, and they go left. You realize it's no accident! They did it on purpose." He says that there is a human-dog connection in all forms of training, but it goes deeper with sledding. "It's like walking into a room with 10 dogs and saying, 'sit,' and all 10 dogs sit at once. That's what it feels like with a dog team, except those dogs are all connected to each other and they're running."

Diane Johnson is the education director for the Iditarod. She helps teachers like Donna Finner develop sledding-related lessons. She is also an amateur musher, with a team of Alaskan Huskies. Familiar with the addictive nature of sledding, Johnson says, "There is something called Iditarod fever. People who go see a race, read a book about it, or just hear about it, all want to learn more." Everyone who loves to engage with their dogs is susceptible to Iditarod fever, whether you compete in 300-mile races or experiment with half-mile stints.

Johnson, like so many other mushers, says, "I'm not interested in racing. I'm in it for the quiet, peaceful experiences." Trying to describe that mysterious sensation of being on a dog sled, Johnson drifts into a particular night-time run near her home in South Dakota. "It was the end of winter. Just me and the dogs out on the trail. There were moments when I would look up and see the moon shining." Sledding through the dark really builds trust in your dogs, since you cannot see everything up ahead. "I was in charge and I knew some things they didn't know," she continues. "But there were things they knew that I was not aware of. There's balance." Her voice rises and she adds, "It's on the border of fright and ecstasy. There's this power, but it's an unknown power. You're in control of your team, but they're in control of you."

Between Karen Ramstead, who races in Iditarods, and the Finners and Diane Johnson, who do shorter events, there are people like Kim and Kelly Berg. They run mid-distance races of about 30 miles. But it all started with one dog.

"When we were 13 years old," Kelly Berg says, "we volunteered at the Humane Society. We got a Siberian/Shepherd cross as our first dog. Then we started working at a local kennel as helpers." At the kennel, the Berg sisters learned about sledding. In just a couple of years, they went from one dog to four. Their team grew over the next few years to 14 dogs.

Sharing her idea of what it is like behind a team of eager Siberians, Berg says, "It really gets your heart racing when the dogs start running, and as you go around corners and down hills." Not satisfied with that, she adds, "It feels like you're part of the dog. And yet, you're part of the team." Pausing, she admits, "It's definitely something, but it's kind of hard to describe."

Berg urges people with Siberian Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes, Samoyeds, or other breeds, to give sledding a try. "It's great when I hook up six-month-old puppies and they want to run, like they've always done this. It's just in them, and it's neat to watch."

Johnson says sledding can reveal a dog's hidden personality. "I have a really shy dog," she says. "She wouldn't let anyone get close or pet her. But you put the harness on, and it's amazing. She becomes a different dog."

Getting Involved

Karen Ramstead remembers the day she bought her first Siberian Husky. "While I was there, they gave me a sled ride. It was the aha moment of my life. When I stepped onto that sled, I knew I found something big." Although she has followed her passion all the way to the Iditarod, she says, "The bulk of this sport is in recreational mushing."

To enjoy sledding, you do not have to live in arctic climates. You do not even need a sled. You can get similar experiences roller blading with your dogs, or having them pull wheeled vehicles on dry ground. "You still witness the same instincts," Ramstead says. "Even if you never race, you can still feel the excitement of being out there with your dogs."

In the early stages, people are often a bit over-eager. It is important to go slowly. If you have two or more dogs, they need to come together and get along as partners. You need to find that proper balance of being a commander while giving the dogs that measure of independence which is crucial for success and enjoyment. Mr. Finner cautions against thinking that you can just hitch up a team of dogs and take off through the snow. "If you go too quickly, it can be frustrating for you, and it can scare the dogs." Speaking from experience, he adds, "When we were first learning, we had a couple of situations where the dogs got all tangled up in the lines."

To avoid this, Berg says, "In the first year, just do very short runs, just to get out there and have fun. Develop trust with your dogs so they know you and you understand what they are doing."

Ms. Finner says to make contact with experienced mushers, then "Go out and simply watch them. You might think you're doing something wrong because your dogs aren't listening to you. Then you see experts run their dogs the same way, and you think, 'Wow, I'm not doing anything wrong—it's just that they are dogs!'"

There are many resources for people interested in sledding, including informational Web sites and a network of mushers throughout the country who are happy to show you their team, give you a ride on their sleds, and perhaps let you hold a puppy in your arms. Just watch out for Iditarod fever!

Arctic Winds, Blue Ribbons

At sunrise on a frigid day in early February, Karen Ramstead and her team of 16 Siberian Huskies practice on a snowy trail, puffs of misty breath emanating from the dogs, and the musher, as they eagerly propel the sled. The dogs' fur is glazed with ice. In a few weeks, Ramstead and her Siberians will enter the biggest sledding event of all, the Iditarod, an 1,150-mile race from Anchorage to Nome, Alaska. The race is grueling, and no amount of practice assures Ramstead's team will finish, much less win.

Five days later, Ramstead enters the show ring with one of those Siberians, brushed and cleaned up from sledding, trying to catch the judge's eye. The competition is fierce, and no amount of practice can assure that Ramstead and her dog will win.

There is an iconic image of an Iditarod musher – rugged outdoorsman, snow stuck to his grizzly beard. Asked about this, Ramstead laughs: "I'm a city girl through and through, raised in Toronto. I never even camped!"

How did this city girl end up racing the Iditarod? Unsure herself, Ramstead says it might have begun when she was a child in the 1970s. "My dad would tape the Iditarod on Wide World of Sports. That planted the seeds."

Ramstead knew nothing about sledding when she got her first dog, a Sheltie mix, in 1989. He had a great personality and did well in obedience. She wanted to compete in the show ring. Being a naive 19-year-old, Ramstead was shocked to learn this was impossible with a mixed-breed.

Ramstead decided she would find a pure-bred dog to compete with. "I liked northern breeds. This was in March, and I saw Iditarod scenes on television. Maybe it was subconscious, but I narrowed it down to Siberian Huskies or Malamutes."

She spent time reading about the two breeds. One day, she read a passage in a Siberian Husky book describing how they like sledding. Her mind became fixed on the idea.

The next chapter in Ramstead's life is a mix of determination and good fortune. She was spending a few days with a friend in British Columbia. One evening, her friend mentioned a Siberian Husky acquaintance. Ramstead recalls the scene. "I shouted, 'You're kidding! I'm looking for a Siberian.' We went to see these dogs."

It got better by the hour. The Siberians were sledders. A sled was available. There were snowy conditions. "The moment I stood on those runners, I knew this was going to be big. I had absolutely no plans to race the Iditarod. I just wanted to get behind a dog team."

Ramstead got her first Siberian from that kennel, a two-year-old female named Libby. In her mid-twenties, with her first pure-bred dog, full of excitement about racing, Ramstead hit the trails. It all seemed so natural. "In 1994, a friend told me about a 64-mile race in British Columbia. I tried it and won. The next year, there was a 120-mile race. Well, 64 was fun, so I figured 120 must be even better."

Soon, Ramstead had a kennel, North Wapiti, and a racing team. In 1996, she pushed her dogs to the next level. "We entered the 300-mile 'Race To the Sky' in Montana. We finished 4th. That was so much fun, I looked for a 500-mile race."

That year Ramstead also took her first best-in-show, with her Siberian Breezy. In the years that followed, Ramstead handled Breezy for numerous best-in-shows, and 30 group placements, all while training for big races.

After a banner year on the trail, and in the show ring, Ramstead had her first negative experience during a 500-mile race. "We were doing a marathon in Minnesota. My dogs were scratched after just 120 miles. It was so discouraging. But on that ride home, I decided I wanted to race the Iditarod. My husband turned to me and said, 'The level you want to get to requires a lot more dedication.'"

Starting in spring 1997, Ramstead became a full-time sledding trainer. In 1999, not quite ready for the Iditarod, she had another lucky opportunity. "A friend of mine knew someone racing the Iditarod. She had a plane and asked me to come along for a view from above, 'so I could see what I'm getting myself into.' I saw the trail, and how mushers worked with each other."

Everything Ramstead saw increased her excitement.

The next year, in 2000, Ramstead stood in a previously unimaginable position: on the runners of a sled at the starting gate of the Iditarod. Unfortunately, that first year, her sled cracked and her inexperience showed. After 900 miles, her team gave up. "My dogs lost faith in me. Still, 900 miles was quite an achievement. Since then, I've learned how to show my dogs that I'll look after them. They think, 'this seems crazy, but mom says it's OK, so let's keep going.' They trust there's a goal in site." Ramstead says this same kind of trust has helped her win in the show ring.

From 2000 to the present (except 2002), Ramstead and her Siberians have finished every Iditarod. She has also impressed a growing number of judges, owner handling her way to a long list of best in shows with the same dogs who finished Iditarods. In 2007, Ramstead went to the US Nationals and won the open-dog class with Crunchie, a three-time Iditarod finisher.

Fully committed to the dual worlds of the show ring and race trail, Ramstead unites the two as closely as possible. "I won't walk into the ring with dogs that haven't finished at least a 200-mile race. I've had dogs finish championships a few weeks after an Iditarod. It's nice bringing them into the ring with that muscle tone on! I've never believed in divisions between showing and racing. Being in the show ring with a great dog is teamwork, a thrill, the same bond as sledding."

Ramstead's current lead dog, Kara, has competed in the ring with her muscle tone on, and done quite well. "She's the first female Siberian to be a show champion and an Iditarod finisher."

Now that Ramstead has completed several Iditarods, she has another lofty goal, one for more climate-controlled conditions. "I believe in this style of dog and want more people to know Siberians' attitude and drive. Next, I'd dearly love to bring an Iditarod finisher to Westminster."

Icy, Passionate Pioneer

Ask Siberian Husky or Alaskan Malamute fanciers who they feel is the most influential historical figure in their breed. It will not take long before you hear the name Eva Seeley. Among her numerous achievements, Ms. Seeley forever changed the look of Siberian Huskies, and she was directly responsible for AKC acceptance of the Alaskan Malamute. She owned the first champions in both these breeds, and she founded both national breed clubs. For decades, Seeley was an unofficial gatekeeper of the Siberian Husky and Alaskan Malamute, and her approval was essential for any breeder who wanted to be taken seriously.

Born in 1891 in Worcester, Massachusetts, Eva Seeley grew up in an era filled with influential people and events. Although Seeley lived in Massachusetts at this time, her imagination would have been drawn north, to Alaska, where each winter amazing stories were told about dogs and sledders. From October through May, when all the rivers were frozen and the air swirled with dangerous ice storms, traveling by boat and plane in Alaska was not possible. Dogsleds were the answer, and during Seeley's youth they had become a common sight. From a young age, Seeley also loved sports. In 1908, then Eva Brunell, she enrolled at Sargent College, in Boston, as a physical education major. It was at Sargent that Seeley, under five feet tall, acquired her life-long nickname, "Short." Seeley was far ahead of her time, living in an age when it was uncommon for women even to attend college. It was even more unusual for a woman to study physical education.

The same year Seeley entered Sargent College, the All Alaska Sweepstakes began, a 408-mile recreational race between Nome and Candle. As the New York Times reported in April 1909, "hundreds of thousands of dollars were wagered" in bets on which dog team would be victorious. For having the fastest time, the winner took home "a purse of $11,000 in gold and will hold for a year the handsome Suter Trophy," The New York Times reported.

Seeley graduated from Sargent in 1912 and taught physical education in Massachusetts schools over the next 10 years. She would have heard all about the Alaska Gold Rush, which was in full swing at that time. Dogsledders trekked into forbidding regions, often hauling out as much as a ton or more of gold using teams of Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes. Arthur Walden, a racer and breeder of a dog called Chinooks, was one of the first adventurers to head into Circle City, Alaska, to seek fortune. In his book, A Dog Puncher on the Yukon, Walden describes how forbidding Alaska was at that time: "Here was a town of some three or four hundred inhabitants which had no taxes, court house, or jail; no post office, church, schools, hotels or dog pound; no rules, regulations, or written law; no sheriff, dentist, doctor." Heading out into frozen lands to locate gold, Walden writes, sledders did not even have thermometers, except for one which he describes as "a set of vials, one containing quicksilver, one the best whiskey in the country, one kerosene, and one Perry Davis's Pain Killer." Walden humorously writes that a traveler could determine the severity of the temperature by seeing which of these liquids had frozen and became unusable. In this inhospitable region, Walden and others relied on their dogs for survival.

In 1924, Eva and her new husband, Milton, went to New Hampshire for their honeymoon. They fell in love with this region and moved to Wonalancet. A short time later, Eva and Milton visited Arthur Walden's Wonalancet Kennel. The Seeleys adopted one of Walden's Chinook puppies as a pet.

A year after Milton and Eva moved to New Hampshire, the most riveting story in sled dog history was about to be told. In January 1925, Seeley, along with hundreds of thousands of others, tuned in to radio reports of the Great Serum Run, a race that made dogsledders, and their dogs, into saviors. In Nome, Alaska, the native population was on the brink of a diphtheria outbreak that was sure to decimate their community. Weather conditions made it impossible to use planes or boats to transport the serum to Nome. Quickly, a relay circuit of 20 dogsledders and 200 dogs was organized, each covering a section of the journey. Like others around the world, Seeley would have been awed by the sheer impossibility of this feat: dog teams had to sled almost 700 miles in temperatures plunging as low as -62° F, fighting through frigid, blizzard-strength winds and three-foot-high snow drifts. Two of the most acclaimed characters from the Great Serum Run were Leonhard Seppala, and Togo, his 12-year-old Siberian Husky. With Togo as lead dog, Seppala raced his sled team over a particularly treacherous 340-mile stretch of icy terrain.

On February 2, in the semi-darkness of the Alaskan winter, Gunnar Kaasen and his dog Balto slid into Nome, delivering 300,000 units of serum to halt the diphtheria epidemic. Interviewed for a February 3, 1925, New York Times article, Kaasen described how a blizzard made it impossible for him to see either the trail or his dogs. "A gale was blowing from the northwest. I gave Balto, my lead dog, his head and trusted him. He never once faltered. Balto knew the way we were going." The circuit of racers and dogs completed their historic run in just five days. Normally, this distance took three weeks for sleds carrying mail or supplies into Alaskan mining towns. On February 6, 1925, Senator Clarence Dill of Washington State led the United States Senate in entering the extraordinary facts of the Serum Run into the Congressional record. In his speech, Dill contrasted the Serum run with all previous races, stating, "Men had thought that the limit of speed and endurance had been reached, but a race for sport and money proved to have far less stimulus than this contest in which humanity was the urge and life was the prize."

In 1929, Arthur Walden, like Leonhard Seppala, had a shot at high-profile adventure, although it was on the other side of the globe. Walden accompanied Admiral Byrd to Antarctica, taking his original Chinook dog with him. For the two years he was away, Walden left Eva and Milton Seeley in charge of Wonalancet Kennel. Meanwhile, not far away, Leonhard Seppala was showing success breeding his Siberian Huskies with dogs hailing directly from Siberia, a program that eventually gained AKC acceptance in 1930.

When Walden returned from Antarctica in 1931, he sold Wonalancet Kennel to the Seeleys. The Seeleys renamed the kennel, calling it Chinook. Eva Seeley had an idea right from the start about what she wanted her dogs to look like, and she was determined to make it happen. Her first step was to cease breeding Chinooks, even though she now controlled the kennel made famous by these dogs. Instead, she obtained a dog from Leonhard Seppala, a Siberian Husky named Toto, daughter of Togo, Seppala's famous lead dog from the Great Serum Run. Toto helped form the foundation of Seeley's Siberian Husky line. In the early 1930s, Seeley traveled several times to Alaska to view the purest Alaskan Malamutes. She brought some of these dogs back to New Hampshire and bred them at Chinook Kennel, establishing the Kotzebue, one of three dominant Alaskan Malamute lines seen in the breed to this day. In 1935, Seeley's efforts were rewarded when the AKC officially recognized the Alaskan Malamute.

In the early 1930s, Alaskan dog sledding was in decline, but it was on the rise in New England. Eva Seeley was the heart of this growing sport. While continuing to breed Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes at Chinook Kennel, Seeley also began working with Leonhard Seppala to form a set of racing rules for The New England Sled Dog Club, based on those once used in Alaska. Seeley organized races between serious dogsledders, raced her dogs to raise money for charities in the Boston area, and she brought her dogs to public gatherings, carnivals, sports competitions, and other events throughout the Northeast. On December 28, 1933, Eva Seeley and her dogs showed that sledding was more than just sport. In the deep woods of Mount Chocorua, a remote region of New Hampshire, Mrs. Milton Ames was about to give birth. A snow storm had blocked all access roads, and Mrs. Milton's nurse had no way to reach her. Eva Seeley and a team of 11 dogs quickly came to the rescue. Seeley transported the nurse, Beatrice Coots, through the snow to check in on Mrs. Ames. Interviewed for the Boston Traveler newspaper, Coots said, "The woman was nervous up there alone with no one to aid or counsel her." But seeing the dogs arrive instilled confidence. "She is satisfied now that everything is going to be all right," Coots said. As promised, Seeley returned with the nurse a few days later to deliver the baby.

Beginning in 1941, Seeley found a new way to combine her love of sports and dogs, and also to further her mission of bringing the image of Siberian Huskies into the popular realm. That year, students at Northeastern University were looking for an attractive, friendly animal to represent them at their sports matches. There was no doubt who they would contact. Seeley and the Northeastern University administration struck an agreement, and Chinook Kennel provided Queen Husky I as the school's mascot. She was a huge hit. At Northeastern's games, Queen Husky I brought rousing cheers by the student body. Eva Seeley herself was photographed numerous times at these events, smiling broadly as she holds her Siberian Husky for the cameras. After Queen Husky I retired, Seeley maintained a relationship with Northeastern that included seven more mascots. The relationship ended 20 years later, when the university decided to end its program of using live mascots in 1961.

While Seeley was associated with Northeastern University, she began working with the United States military to provide dogs for search-and-rescue missions. During World War II, she ran a school for US soldiers who were getting ready for overseas duty, teaching them how to work as a team with her dogs. Most notably, Seeley provided dogs during the Battle of the Bulge in the winter of 1944-45. By this time, Seeley was a widow, losing Milton to diabetes in 1944. Seeley thrust herself with even greater force into her efforts at Chinook Kennel, continuing her breeding programs for Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes. Her success was starting to gain the attention of a growing number of breeders around the country who began going to Wonalancet to meet with Seeley.

Seeley provided Admiral Richard E. Byrd with several dogs to serve as part of the 1955-1956 expedition team during "Operation Deep Freeze," whose goal was to build a United States outpost near the South Pole. Unfortunately, at the end of the mission, Byrd's expedition ran into trouble and they were not able to bring the dogs home. Instead, Byrd made the decision to destroy an entire group of Seeley's dogs. Seeley was devastated. Losing these dogs was a setback for her entire Alaskan Malamute effort—Byrd had taken with him crucial members of the breed stock. Negative feelings about the way dogs were treated by the US military was shown in 1958, when a group of young girls petitioned the Navy to buy four Siberian Huskies that were being auctioned off as "surplus government property." The girls were led in their efforts by Eva Seeley.

Starting in the early 1960s, Seeley opened Chinook Kennel to children and adults, introducing Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes to a wider audience. At public gatherings throughout New England, Seeley organized one- and two-dog sled teams for children, to demonstrate the thrill of dog sled racing. During this period, Seeley's reputation among breeders and judges was spreading rapidly, especially in the Northeast where she took on an almost mythical image. By the late 1960s, anyone breeding Siberian Huskies or Alaskan Malamutes not only knew about "Short" Seeley, but also consulted with her whenever possible. Jean Fournier, a judge, says that her meetings with Seeley inspired a lifelong interest in Siberian Huskies. "The reason I'm a judge today," Fournier explains, "is because Seeley said I have a good eye for these dogs." Wendy Willhauck, a breeder of Alaskan Malamutes, says that those gatherings with Seeley were like watching supplicants seek wisdom from a sage. "It was almost like a cult," Willhauck says, laughing, trying to describe the atmosphere of these meetings. "There was just something magical about the whole thing."

Soon, the meetings became more formalized. Groups of breeders and judges wanted to hear their heroine speak. Jean Fournier says, "We would all sit around and just listen to her." Wendy Willhauck describes how Seeley would also ask breeders to get up in front of their peers and comment on the traits of a specific dog. "We all wanted to see what Seeley wanted us to see," Willhauck says. If the breeders did not name the trait Seeley saw, they could be embarrassed when Seeley pointed it out for them. But if they named flaws in the dog, it could create bad feelings with a friend. "I was in my 20s," Willhauck explains, "and I was mortified. But those are the same methods we use now in judging."

Seeley also expressed her disapproval to any show judge who allowed what she considered a faulty Siberian Husky or Alaskan Malamute to win in the ring. Vincent Buoniello, who knew Seeley for many years, tells the story of how he came to Chinook Kennel after he had judged Siberian Huskies at a dog show. Seeley immediately demanded that he explain why he chose a certain dog to win. After he gave his reasons, Seeley let him off the hook. Other judges did not always get away as easily. Seeley's comments and challenges came from her iron-clad belief in the need to maintain the look and character she had developed in the Siberian Husky and Alaskan Malamute. Seeley knew that breeders and judges were the ones who had the greatest potential to affect her ideals for these dogs, and so she was most demanding of them.

More than just an entourage, this following of breeders and judges helped Seeley maintain her famous Chinook Kennel. Each year, this group gathered faithfully in Wonalancet to work on the grounds and the buildings. But throughout the late 1970s, this effort was becoming more difficult. The money required to keep the kennel running was too great, and Seeley, whose primary love was dogs and not business, was unprepared to deal with the monetary problems. Around this time, Seeley also became a show ring judge. It was an honor, and a nerve-racking challenge, to bring a Siberian Husky or Alaskan Malamute into a ring judged by this iconic figure. While she continued to be a striking influence on the breed, both at dog shows and in her meetings with breeders and judges, Seeley finally had to give up control of Chinook Kennel. Soon after, the facility fell into total disrepair. According to people who knew Seeley, this was a tragedy she never recovered from.

In the early 1980's, perhaps because of the loss of the kennel, Seeley's personality seemed to become more challenging. Those who knew her continued to spread the word about Seeley's vital role in the Siberian Husky and Alaskan Malamute world, and explained that what many saw as negative personality traits were expressions of how deeply she cared about the health and future of her favorite breeds.

Eva Seeley came of age in a day when Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes existed in relative obscurity, and she was one of the few who believed that these dogs could excel not only at sledding matches but also at dog shows and in people's homes. Through absolute love and tireless dedication, Seeley saw Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes become recognized and loved throughout the country. Attending any dog show today, you can see living proof of Seeley's accomplishments.