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VOLUME 24
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For all of you who look forward to our little monthly stories, we apologize that we have slipped a month behind. We're going to make it up this month, so look out for another story before the end of July! Phew. What an explosive spring it has been! A slew of new clients who love us. Some speakers bureaus finally getting excited about The Mark of a Leader (how many ecstatic clients do we need to get the bureaus onside?)! Strong book sales! And some exciting new product announcements coming up. Thanks to all of you for your continued support! On to this month's story. I have known about this month's great leader for many years. I am overdue for this story, and intend to make this one of our live event presentations. Last winter I experienced the amazement of my first dogsled adventure. It was incredible being pulled by a team of dogs whose power was so extreme. It looks easy. It looks like the driver or musher stands on the back of the sled and gets pulled by the dogs. But it quickly became clear that those huskies went where and when they wished - the brakes were virtually useless if the dogs were intent on moving. This was not a ride - it was hard work; steering a 100+ pound sled up and down hills, through the trail ruts, the mush, ice and snow; pushing up the inclines, trying to prevent a spill down the other. By the end of the first mile I was soaked in sweat and breathing like I had just finished a workout. To be a professional musher takes hard work, stamina, and determination. All of those could be found in large quantities with the legendary Susan Butcher.
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FEATURE
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SUSAN BUTCHER - CHAMPION MUSHER
It must have been a lonely quiet night in Alaska in 1970 when Joe Redington, Sr. decided that a dogsled race across over 1150 miles of Alaskan wilderness from Anchorage to Nome would be an interesting way to wile away the dark winter days. Blinding snow; 100 mph skin-ripping winds; moose, wolves and occasional bears; all thrown in with temperatures reaching 70 degrees below zero. Sound like fun? The Iditarod is not fun. It is serious business. The best mushers from around the world come to Alaska every winter to battle the elements, spend one to two weeks with practically no sleep, and hopefully be first across the finish line. It is a sport dominated by serious outdoors people, and mostly, by men. Or at least it was. Into the solitude of the Alaskan wilderness in the mid 1970s came a 20 year old woman from Boston named Susan Butcher. Susan was a reluctant city dweller, who knew that she was meant to live in the wilderness. She had a strong pioneering streak, and a passion for animals, particularly dogs. While still living with her parents with her first dog, she announced a desire to get a second one. Her mother said "not in this house", so she moved out and got the second dog. The pattern of her priorities was set for life. There was not one single moment that told me I wanted to become a professional dog musher. It was more a thing that, throughout my life, I knew I would be working with animals. I knew I would be especially working with dogs, and I knew I would be living in the wilderness. I just chose a Siberian Husky as a pet dog. I went to pick it up from the people, and they said, "Oh, you know, the mother was an Alaskan sled dog, and she was actually a leader. Wouldn't it be fun if you taught your puppy how to pull a sled?" From there, I went on to being enthralled with it, and the first time I read about the Iditarod, which was the first year it happened, I just said "I'm going to go up there and run that race." 
She studied to be a veterinary technician, but knew she would not be happy working in a lab, and ultimately did follow her destiny to the Alaskan wilderness. It was a lonely life. A single woman with no obvious source of income, 40 miles from the nearest neighbour, with just her dogs. The dogs became a passion, and a fulltime job. She bred and trained them, and started competing in small races around Alaska. But it was a lonely life and lifestyle. The Iditarod was a breakthrough, because for the first time a dog sled race carried with it both recognition and significant prize money. And, as she said, it had been on her mind since before she even moved up north. She began disciplined training regimens to the standards of the best world class athletes. And then there were the dogs. To put together a winning team of, say, 20 dogs, she needed 30 in order to have reserves. Because she also sold them, she typically had closer to 100. And, of course, these were not ordinary dogs. They were athletes, requiring care and treatment, nutrition and medicine. All of which had to be delivered by this pioneering woman living with them out in the middle of nowhere. We work together as a team on a daily basis. I train 12 to 16 hours a day, usually 7 days a week. And only when I am away, perhaps thirty days a year, am I ever off that schedule. So I really am spending all of m time with these dogs. And I raise them all from puppies, so they are my family; they are very much like children. 
Susan's first Iditarod was in 1978. The men were not amused that a woman was entering their race. They played head games with her, were often verbally abusive, made her feel unwelcome, and even cheated - one year actually moving the trail signs to get her lost. But despite this, she finished respectably. By 1980, she was a contender, and for the next 5 years finished in the top five. In 1985, in one of the most dangerous moments of her career, a crazed moose charged her and her team in the middle of the night while she was in the lead, killing or wounding several of her dogs and knocking her out of the race. But she was a fearless competitor. The next three years, from 1986 to 1988, she won, and did it again in 1990. 
In case it is not clear what a 1150 mile race Alaska is like, and what this accomplishment means, here is her account of what a typical rest stop over the two weeks was like: When you come into a checkpoint, although there may be a wood stove to warm your feet by, you stay outside; you take care of your dogs, get them bedded down and fed. It may take 3 hours. Then you can go and have your 15 minutes inside, and then it's time to go and check your dogs, massage them down, and get ready to go again. I might get a catnap. Susan Butcher retired from competitive racing to have a family, marrying fellow musher David Monson with whom she had two children. Their Trailbreaker Kennels was the gold standard for raising and training sled dogs. Then, tragically, Susan developed a rare form of leukemia and began the toughest battle of her life. The powerful athlete who had so successfully defeated the wilderness and the fierce competition of the Iditarod succumbed to the disease in 2006 at age 51.
I think we all experience self-doubt. I am not going to tell you that I don't have insecurities or low self-esteem sometimes. But "Self-doubt" - what that word means to me - I really don't remember experiencing. I didn't have fears of what I was going forward to. I felt I knew what it was that I wanted, and I felt that what I wanted was worthy. |
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Please visit us at www.themarkofaleader.com. Copyright 2007 Mark of a Leader |
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