HERBIE NAYOKPUK "THE SHISHMAREF CANNONBALL"

Kenai my dog and I took another of our famous walks down the inside of Ediz Hook, the spit that cuts out into the Strait of Juan De Fuca. We had the beach all to ourselves except for the seals and some sea lions (the arrival of the sea lions is a sure sign that fall is coming). Not far down the beach, Kenai spotted a huge Malemute, husky and made immediate friends with the big dog. His name was "Kodiak" the son of an Iditarod sled dog. Kenai was completely smitten with the blue-eyed monster and they played on the beach until exhausted and covered with sand, salt.

What has this got to do with Herbie Nayokpuk? As I spoke to Kodiak's owners, I attempted to explain just why I loved seeing Kodiak play with Kenai on the beach. I explained 4th Avenue, the smell of dog shit mixed with fresh snow, the sound of 100 dogs howling to be let loose and the excitement at the start of the last great race on earth.

I explained that one night, while visiting Tom Begich in Juneau, Alaska, I had to sleep on the floor, because the comfy couch in the living room was the exclusive domain of Kazak. Kazak was a retired lead dog and the pet of the home owners for whom Tom was housesitting. Kazak did not approve of my attempt to take the couch from him. I told Kodiak's owners that I missed the dogs and the individuals who ran them through the toughest winter landscapes imaginable, places like Teller, Rampart, Rainy Pass, White Mountain and Half-Way house. Kodiak's owners listened to my "old man" stories with polite, glossed-over eyes. They adored Kodiak, and adored the fact that Kenai and I liked their dog, but they just didn't get the Iditarod thing.

After Kenai and I continued our walk, I kept thinking about the Iditarod, about the Channel 2 news reports along the trail. I thought about frozen salmon, frosty beards, steaming pots of stew, mittons, Susan Bucher, Martin Buser, Libby Riddles and that unscrutably evil Rick Swensen. I thought about the half-way prize of thousands of silver dollars and a full, professionally cooked meal in a warm cabin. I thought about the winning musher, crossing the finish line in Nome and posing with their calm, happy lead dog, a wreath of flowers around the fuzzy dog's neck.

Lastly, I thought of Herbie Nayokpuk, not the most successful Iditarod Musher, but probably the most loved. His time in the sun (now nearly gone), coincided with my first memories of the Iditarod, and I remember Herbie, storming up the coast to Nome, on his way to victory (Never first but always near the top). Where hard work, fortitude, tradition and sportsmanship are concerned, Herbie set the bar unimaginably high. He also rightfully holds the title of "Guy with the greatest nickname of all time". So here is to the "Shishmaref Cannonball", may he slide all the way to heaven on iced runners towed by 100 huskies (He's not dead yet, I'm just being poetic!). The Iditarod wouldn't be "The Iditarod" without Herbie Nayokpuk.