the gold petered out and the rush was over, as a trail it died.

Rod Perry: That no road was ever built over the route and that

the country it traverses remained largely raw wilderness

would preserve its primitive character and its colorful, romantic

gold-rush luster through the decades of abandonment as if the

trail had an appointment with destiny.

To the trail’s romantic allure may be attributed one of the

main reasons the Iditarod would one day live again. A half

century after heavy trail use died out, in a man-and-team-

against-the-wilderness setting, the old path would experience

a glorious rebirth. From its long slumber it would awake once

more to hear the barely audible hiss of runners and the

creaking of sled joints, it would feel the staccato footfall and

listen to the panting of trotting huskies. The world’s longest,

most grueling sled dog race, termed “The Last Great Race on

Earth” would be held over its spectacular course, capturing

international imagination.

But I forget myself at times and stray, as this is all so alive

to me. Back to the Iditarod Trail’s founding . . . .

strike gold on Christmas Day!” One last time the clarion cry rings forth, this time echoing out of the remote, unknown upper Iditarod River country.  The last great gold rush on the North American Continent is on!  Briefly, Iditarod becomes Alaska’s biggest city!  

To serve the great human influx and the mining industry, vast numbers of men, and amounts of mail, supplies, building materials and equipment must be brought in.  Most come by water during the usual four or five ice-free months.  Once the inland rivers and the Bering Seacoast becomes ice locked, however, the only means of moving people, mail and freight in and out is over winter trails, mostly by dog team…

Old Ben Atwater: “The prize for the most bizarre load had to go to the enterprising opportunist who brought in a scow load of cats.  Just how on earth did the man cage, feed, care for and relay that many panthers from saltwater over the mountains to Yukon headwaters? Nobody knows. But think about it; his logistics must have been something to behold!

Now, when he got to the summit of the pass and checked in to clear customs, he really set those Canadian officials to scratching their heads. They’d never seen such an import. They had no written guidelines on what to assess the man.  What they finally charged was their usual duty to trappers: $1 each on the fur.

When the load reached Dawson the cargo sold as fast as the townspeople could slap down an ounce of gold per kitty.  Al, you shoulda seen those new arrivals tear into the town’s booming mouse population. Man, they were going through the vermin like a dose of salts through the hired hand! Their pace of mouse extermination was only exceeded by the speed the cats themselves were cleaned out by Dawson’s loose huskies!”    

Volume I

Hi Trailmate!

I invite you to don your parka, pull on your mukluks and jump on my sled and journey with me along the trail of this north land blog. Along the way we’ll give you some short excerpts from TRAILBREAKERS. Hold tight to the sled.

-Rod