by Diane Morgan
So why do Huskies look like wolves and Mexican Hairless don’t? Well, a couple of reasons have been suggested. One possibility is that northern dogs, after their evolution into domesticated animals, may have been crossed more or less frequently with the Gray (or Timber) wolf found in northern Asia and North America. Cross-breeding with these northern wolves could account for the appearance of Siberians and other northern dog breeds, which certainly look like wolves and share several wolf-like characteristics, such as pack behavior and howling.
Other people point to an environmentally driven reason for differences between Huskies and, say, Afghans. They maintain that the reason a Siberian Husky looks more like a wolf (Canis lupus) than does an Afghan Hound may be simply that the Siberian was domesticated in an area similar to the northern wolf’s native habitat. (Afghans were bred in the desert.) The Husky’s looks are an adaptation to a northern climate, just as the Gray wolf’s are. But wolves and Huskies, despite surface similarities, are very different creatures.
For instance, closer study reveals that the Siberian’s brain capacity, muzzle-length, and bite-power are less than that of wolves. And Huskies, like all dogs, come into heat twice a year, rather than only once (like wolves). Certainly a Husky’s temperament is that of the thoroughly domesticated dog. Plus, no wolf has blue eyes, a common characteristic in Siberians.
DNA testing has revealed that dogs should be regarded as a subspecies of wolves. Both belong to the same genus, Canis, but wolves are designated Canis lupus, and dogs, all dogs, are now called Canis lupus familiaris — the familiar wolf.
The Russians Are Coming!
The Chukchis were always a sharp thorn in the side of the Russians, even before the Communists took over. For one thing, they declined to surrender during the 1700s when the Russians had conquered every other Siberian people in their effort to control the fur trade. So the Russians kept fighting the Chukchis, and beating them every time, but the Chukchis still refused to give up and starve. They’d just pack up their things and move farther on, making the Russians chase them some more. Sometimes, the Chukchis moved their entire settlement onto an iceberg and floated away.
The Russians finally had enough, and in 1742 they declared an all-out war, vowing to destroy every man in Chukchi land. As for the women and children, the Russians threatened to redistribute them all over Siberia until every last Chukchi was either dead or assimilated. To do their dirty work, the Russians hired a bunch of Cossacks, who were always available for that kind of thing. Most of the time, however, the Cossacks just couldn’t manage to find any Chukchis. When they did run across some, they killed the men as ordered, but the Chukchi women ruined the Cossacks’ fun by killing their own dogs, their own children, and finally themselves, to avoid being taken captive.
Pavlutskiy plays Custer
Finally, a Russian general named Pavlutskiy decided he could handle the Chukchis. In an incredibly stupid move, Pavlutskiy plowed into a narrow ravine to finish them off. Of course, the Chukchis were just sitting there in ambush, not daring to hope that the Russian general could possibly be dumb enough to trap himself in this way. But he was. The surprised Chukchis then killed the Russians, including Pavlutskiy, and confiscated their guns. Although the Chukchis did not have a clue how to use their newfound weapons, they did have the foresight to capture some disaffected Russian serfs, who gladly passed along their firearms lore. The serfs didn’t like the Russian army or the Cossacks any better than the Chukchis did.
By this time, the Russians finally decided that it would be smarter all around just to leave the Chukchis alone. They “conquered” Chukchi land by merely proclaiming they had conquered it, and that was that. This was sufficient for their purposes, apparently, because no one bothered to check. For their part, the Chukchis didn’t care what the Russians proclaimed, especially because the 1837 treaty they negotiated stated that no Russians could enter the country and that the Chukchis were excused from paying any taxes.
The Communists versus the Huskies
During the height of the Stalinist era, in the 1930s, the Communists, not satisfied with nationalizing Russia’s industry, such as it was, decided to go after the dogs. They put forth a major effort to destroy every vestige of traditional, non-Soviet culture, including the native dog breeds. Although such policies seem counterproductive and shortsighted today, the early Communists probably thought they were doing everyone a good turn. They decided sled dogs were bourgeois and outdated creatures anyway, and that they all should be replaced by up-to-date motorized vehicles. At least that’s what they thought until they actually got to Chukchi land and found that all their up-to-date motorized vehicles got stuck in the snow.
At that point, even the pet-phobic Communists were compelled to admit the dog’s economic, if not spiritual, usefulness. But instead of doing the sensible thing and leaving the Chukchis and other native peoples in peace to breed dogs most suitable to their lifestyles, the Soviets decided to reorganize the dozens of existing northern breeds under four artificial headings: sled dogs, reindeer herders, big game hunters, and small game hunters. This worked for a while, at least for the Russians. There’s no evidence that the Chukchis paid any attention to it.
In 1947, the Russians had yet another reorganization attack. The Soviet Congress, which apparently had nothing better to do, decided that the Workers’ Paradise really didn’t need any sled dogs or reindeer herding dogs after all, and they reclassified the hunting dogs into four new subdivisions, none of which corresponded to any real breed.
The dog we now call the Siberian Husky was left out of all these classifications; the Soviets, in their infinite wisdom, decided that they were too small to pull anything, even though they had been hauling sleds all over Siberia for the past few thousand years or so.
The Siberians were indeed much smaller than the other Arctic breeds, topping out at around 50 pounds, which is why the Russians sneered at them. But the Chukchis didn’t mind. They knew that nothing could surpass their native dogs for long-distance sledding. When the Chukchis needed more power, they simply hitched up more dogs. And because of the Siberian’s super-excellent temperament, as many as 18 or 20 dogs could be hitched to a single sled. And there was no fighting. This kind of cooperation was simply not possible with the other, more short-tempered Nordic breeds.
Besides, Siberian Huskies had other advantages, which made them unlike most of the other northern breeds. Because they had been raised in a family setting, and not left out to fend for themselves, they could be trusted with children, and they could run faster, longer, and on less food than any other breed in the world. All this is still true of the Husky today.
Olaf Swenson Saves the Day
Sadly, there may be no pure Siberian Huskies left in the land of their birth. They disappeared during the Stalinist purges (along with most of the Chukchis and a few million dissident Russians). Happily for us, however, some Huskies were exported to North America first; the last of them made the trip in 1929. These had been purchased by the Arctic explorer and fur trader Olaf Swenson, some at the then exorbitant price of $150. (Despite his Scandinavian name, Swenson was born in Manistee, Michigan.) Swenson had cultivated friendly relationships with the Chukchis for many years. Indeed, he was the only outsider ever willingly allowed into Chukchi territory.
Swenson admired both the friendly temperament of the Siberians and the gentle treatment the dogs received from their Chukchi families. He understood that the two factors were intimately related. Many of the other northern breeds received nothing but brutal treatment at the hands of their owners, and in time became brutal themselves.
There was one dog in particular Swenson coveted. In his fascinating 1940 memoir, Northwest of the World: Forty Years Trading and Hunting in Northern Siberia, he recounts how he spent two years trying to buy a certain Billkoff (Snowball). He was always rebuffed, no matter how much he offered. Finally, Swenson stopped bidding on the dog because he could see how deeply attached the Chukchi owner was to his animal, and wh
at a terrible internal conflict Swenson was instigating by his extravagant offers. Besides, Swenson admired the man greatly for his loyalty to the dog. A little later, Swenson says, he went out of his way perform a “small favor” for the Chukchi. Swenson did not see his friend for a year, but when he visited him again, his Chukchi friend seemed uncommonly glad to see him. Going over to Billkoff, he took the dog by the collar and led him over to Swenson. Then he placed his hand on the dog’s head. “Your dog,” he said solemnly. The man refused to take a penny for him.
Denial ain’t a river in Egypt
By 1971, the Soviets had gone completely around the bend and were claiming that the Siberian Husky, along with several other native, ancient, and extremely pure breeds, had never even existed. But Soviet proclamations did not change the truth. Altogether, at least seven aboriginal sled dog breeds continued to thrive in the lonely outreaches of the arctic, far from political machinations. Each breed was designed for somewhat different purposes, and lived in a different climate.
As he had suspected, Billkoff proved to be the finest lead dog Swenson had ever owned. No matter what the conditions, Billkoff could cope. Even the most recalcitrant dogs on the team would follow his lead. This was a critical advantage.
From the team’s point of view, the lead dog may be even more important than the driver. After all, the driver has no reins to guide the team — they are following the lead dog.
Knowing that the unique Siberian Husky was in great danger of disappearing forever, Swenson had some of the finest Chukchi dogs shipped directly to America. Some went to Maine; others were shipped to Quebec. Still others were bred to the dogs of the legendary Leonhard Seppala. It is an interesting footnote to history that the two outsiders who knew the Siberian Huskies the best were the same two men who brought them to America, thus preserving for all time one of the truly great dog breeds of the world.
The All Alaska Sweepstakes Race
In 1909, the Russian fur trader William Goosak showed up in Nome with his nine Siberian Huskies to enter the All Alaska Sweepstakes Race. This famous race had been first run the year before in 1908 — a 408-mile dash from Nome to Candle. It was a vicious marathon that took in every hideous variety of weather and landscape that its architects could devise, including forests, tundra, narrow declivities, and a glacier or two.
The first prize for the All Alaska Sweepstakes Race was $10,000 dollars; that was a lot of money back in 1909, even if you did have to win a 408-mile race to get it.
Few people in Alaska had seen Siberians at that time, although there were plenty of other dogs around. The rugged Alaskans were not particularly impressed with the newcomers.
Most Alaskans scoffed at the idea that the slender, 50-pound Siberians could be a match for the heavy-boned bruisers competing against them. They seemed too refined — and too short legged. The Nomers cheerfully dubbed the Huskies “Siberian Rats.” Undeterred, Goosak hired a musher named Louis Thrustrup to pilot his team. Thrustrup then proceeded to come in third — at odds of 100 to 1. He probably would have won, had he not made a serious tactical blunder by not properly resting his dogs.
All sorts of nasty things were said about race-fixing and the like, but none of it was ever proved. Besides, if one were going to fix a race, it seems as if one would fix it to win. At any rate, it’s probably a good thing the Siberians didn’t win after all, for it was claimed that if they had, the Bank of Alaska would have gone broke, considering the number of bets laid against them. (The Bank of Alaska didn’t have all that much money in 1909.)
Watching the race (and suitably impressed with the Siberians’ performance) was Fox Maule Ramsay, a young Scottish businessman. He had come to Alaska interested in mining possibilities but became entranced with the Huskies instead — so much so, in fact, that he chartered a schooner to Siberia and bought 60 of the best racing stock he could find. By the time of the 1910 All Alaska, Ramsay entered the race with not one but three teams. Ramsay’s teams placed first and second, and suddenly everyone was talking about the little dogs with the big hearts — which is still true today
The Influence of Leonhard Seppala
The greatest name in Siberian history has to be that of the Norwegian Leonhard Seppala. Seppala, who had been born in the fishing village of Skyjaevoy, 250 miles inside the Arctic Circle, was no stranger to bitter weather. He kind of liked it, actually. When he emigrated to America in 1914, he naturally chose Alaska for his new home. He began by working in the goldfields and driving freight dogs, but soon he, too, got bitten by the racing bug.
To begin his new hobby, Seppala bought some young racing Huskies from a certain Jafet Lindeberg. Lindeberg had originally intended to sell the dogs to the famous Norwegian adventurer Roald Amundsen, for an attempt to reach the Pole, but Amundsen had had to abandon the try when World War I broke out. So, Seppala got to run his new team in the 1914 All Alaska Sweepstakes Race, but he was badly defeated. He got lost in a whiteout blizzard and came within a few feet of a 200 foot precipice. Only the immediate responsiveness of his native Siberian lead dog, Suggen, prevented complete tragedy. Undeterred by his scary experience, Seppala simply made plans to try again the following year.
Seppala went on to a brilliant racing career with his Huskies, winning the All-Alaska Sweepstakes in 1915, 1916, and 1917. (The races had to be halted when the United States entered World War I.) Seppala won races not just in Alaska, however, but also in New England and all over the east coast of the United States. Seppala proved the Husky’s ability to race at all distances — not just the marathons. Today, Huskies excel at so-called middle distance racing, 30 to 60 miles. Well, it’s middle distance for them, if not for us.
Seppala won so often than he was accused of being a “Superman,” and of “hypnotizing” his opponents. Yet never, in all his years of racing, did Seppala ever strike his team. Only once did he even crack his whip — and that was in order to get the dogs up quickly after a short rest. Today, it is against the rules for mushers to even carry whips in sanctioned sled dog races.
The Great Serum Run: Mission of Mercy
Leonhard Seppala’s greatest feat had nothing to do with the sport of dog racing. It was January 1925. A raging diphtheria epidemic had overtaken Nome, and two Eskimo children had already died. The fear was that the native population, who had had little exposure to the disease, could be wiped out entirely if help did not arrive at once.
The city’s small cache of 6-year-old serum had been used up, and the nearest supply was in Anchorage — almost 1,000 miles away. The Alaska Railroad could take it as far as Nenana, but Nenana was still 658 miles from ice-shrouded Nome. There were only three airplanes in all of Alaska — and the three people who knew how to fly them were very sensibly spending the winter elsewhere. Furthermore, the planes were in Fairbanks, out of commission. Although three unqualified pilots gamely volunteered to fly the rickety planes to Anchorage and thence to Nome, the 80 mph winds and raging blizzards made the authorities wisely decide to attempt a more traditional transport. (They worried about a plane crash. They didn’t care so much about the pilots dying; the fear was that the precious serum would be lost, too.)
Only Huskies could save the day. A 20-pound package of diphtheria serum, a supply of 300,000 units, was relayed from Nenana to Nome. Under the able leadership of Leonhard Seppala, 20 expert drivers and over 100 dogs were recruited for the grueling trip. The drivers included men with names like Wild Bill Shannon, Tommy Patsy, Myles Gonangnan, and Jack Screw.
To make things even more difficult, the mushers had to stop periodically in order to warm the serum, because nobody knew if it would still work if frozen. (Reindeer skin, quilt, and canvas were used for insulating the serum containers.)
Almost beyond belief, the dogs ran 658 miles in five and half days, sometimes through blizzards and snowdrifts that were waist high. It was snowing so hard that the drivers literally could not see the dogs in front of them. At times, the temperature plunged to 62 degrees below zero. Two dogs actually froze to
death in harness; their musher, Charlie Evans, took their place and, along with the surviving dogs, pulled the sled himself the remaining miles of his run.
Leonhard Seppala himself drove 340 of those miles. Seppala’s 12-year-old lead dog was the great Togo, a dog bred by Seppala himself; in fact, he was the son of the resourceful Suggen. Togo was therefore a first generation American. At first, Togo seemed an unpromising specimen; he ran away from home, bit the other dogs, and allowed no one but Constance Seppala (Leonhard’s wife) to handle him. Gradually, however, he came around, and to everyone’s surprise, became one of the greatest racing dogs in history.
Togo was a little dog (weighing only 48 pounds) and not much to look at by today’s standards, but he could lead a team like no other dog. Altogether, Seppala estimated that Togo had run over 5,000 miles during his distinguished career. Fittingly, the great Serum Run was his last appearance. Aging and injured on the trip, the old hero was permanently retired afterward. He died in Poland Spring, Maine, in 1929, at the age of 14 or 15.
Strangely enough, Togo’s stuffed remains took on a peripatetic life of their own. For a while they were stored at Harvard’s Peabody Museum in Cambridge, Massachusetts; then they were sent to the Shelbourne Museum in Vermont; finally they were transferred to the Iditarod Headquarters in Wasilla, Alaska, where you may go look at them yourself, if you want to.
The final leg of the serum relay, however, was run not by Seppala and Togo, but by Gunnar Kasaan, who reached Nome on Groundhog Day. Kasaan was driving Seppala’s second string of dogs, using a dog named Balto as the lead dog. In Seppala’s considered opinion, Balto was a second-rate dog. For once, Seppala was wrong.
