OFF PAGE ONE
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
East Oregonian
A7
Race: The 200-mile ultramarathon is a 48-hour endurance test
Continued from Page A1
marathons in a row.
The trail rises from the
ski area of Ferguson Ridge
— known locally as “Fer-
gie” — then it plunges into
the Wallowa Mountains. It
twists, drops, climbs again,
losing and regaining a net
total of almost 26,000 feet in
elevation.
“We are aptly named,” said
Eagle Cap Extreme president
and local veterinarian Randy
Greenshields. “We get a lot of
mushers who come here and
after they run the race they
are like, ‘Now we know why
you call it the extreme!’”
The 200-mile race is so
challenging that it is one of
the few qualifiers for Alaska’s
famous Iditarod.
OPB Photo/Ian McCluskey
Morgan Anderson and her sled dogs share a special bond.
From sidelines to
hometown hero
Scrappy and lovable
Alaskan huskies
The start of the Eagle
Cap Extreme is one of the
most anticipated field trips
of the year for elementary
school students from across
Wallowa County. Most hold
hand-drawn signs with the
names of their favorite mush-
ers. Several have the name
of hometown hero Morgan
Anderson.
It wasn’t that many years
ago that Anderson, now a col-
lege student, was one of the
local kids cheering her favor-
ite mushers from the sidelines.
Growing up in nearby Enter-
prise, her parents brought her
to the races. At the awards
banquet each year she asked
the mushers to sign a T-shirt.
When Anderson was
in eighth grade, one of the
mushers had an extra team
and suggested she race his
dogs. Anderson didn’t have
any experience at the time
and didn’t think she could
simply step onto a sled and
go, but a seed was planted.
“I don’t think I ever
thought I could race,” Ander-
son says. “It was something
that happened here, but I
didn’t think that this was
something I could ever do.”
The following year, a
musher who’d talked to
Anderson’s parents once mes-
saged her on Facebook and
offered to give her a sled dog
for free.
From there, with borrowed
dogs, and eventually her own,
Anderson built her team.
“We got a lot of books and
we’re like, ‘Well we don’t
know what it takes to own a
sled dog.’ But now I’m glad
this is what I do,” she says.
As Anderson hitches her
team of huskies, she talks
to each one, “There you go
Cy-Cy … there you go Gale.”
Mushers will often name
their sled team after a theme;
Anderson’s team is fierce
weather: Cyclone, Gale, Tor-
nado, Hurricane.
Her dogs are Alaskan hus-
kies. They do not look like
their cousins, the iconic Sibe-
rian huskies.
Siberians are what most
folks think of when they hear
the word “huskies.” Siberian
huskies are the charismatic
mega-models of the canine
world — grey, black and
white with glacier-blue eyes.
Elegant and wolf-like, they
could be on a wildlife maga-
zine cover or star in a Disney
movie.
Alaskans huskies, by
comparison, are scrappy and
skinny for the most part.
Some are long-legged and
sleek like a greyhound, some
are dark on their long muz-
zles and pointed ear tips like a
German shepherd, and some
are shaggy brown like a coy-
ote. Some look like a mix of
so many breeds you’d just call
them mutts.
Anderson’s dogs are
descendants of the mish-mash
brought to Alaska during the
Gold Rush. Those who could
survive the subzero tempera-
tures at night, eat the frozen
and often sparse food and
who could hold up to trotting
hundreds of miles across fro-
zen landscapes became what
we now call the Alaskan
husky.
The individual dogs that
could pull a sled longer and
faster were bred with dogs
of similar ability, generation
after generation, creating the
“ultra-marathoners” of the
canine world.
As the crowd of elemen-
tary students gather around
Anderson, one dog leaps up
onto a little boy. He squeals
with delight. “This one likes
me!”
Anderson’s lead dog, Gale,
stands on her hind legs, her
paws on the back of Ander-
son’s jacket. “This is why I
have no clean clothes,” she
joked.
Alaskan huskies have the
dedication of working dogs
but the disposition of pets.
Anderson’s first dog is no
longer on her competitive
team. “He prefers to stay on
the couch,” she said with a
chuckle, “and get loved on.”
Running with the
sled dogs
Competitive sled dog rac-
ing is categorized by distance
but not gender or age. Ander-
son, 20, often races beside
mushers the age of her parents
or grandparents. The older
mushers have welcomed her,
excited to see a new genera-
tion coming up in the sport.
Getting into competitive
mushing involves a steep
learning curve, as any sea-
soned musher will say, though
they’re quick to point out that
what matters most is the bond
between musher and dog.
“It’s not a human bond, not
like ‘sit in a coffeeshop and
talk,’” Anderson said, “But if
the going gets rough, they are
there for you and sometimes
cheer you up with a look like
‘you’re crazy!’”
When it comes to con-
trolling a sled you might think
mushers have reins like a
team of horses. But they don’t
actually have any control over
the dogs in their hands.
“It’s all voice,” Anderson
said. “The only thing that
keeps them turning is words,
and your brakes, and that’s
about it.”
The mushers stand at the
back of the sled, balanced on
two narrow runners. “If you
fall off, you better hope you’re
getting your team back,”
explained Spencer Brugge-
man, last year’s 200-mile
winner. “They don’t know the
musher fell off, they just think
the sled got lighter.”
By the time the first mush-
ers reach the Ollokot check-
point it is pitch black — a
darkness that can only be
found when you are more
than 50 miles from any town,
deep into the mountains. The
air is crisp. People’s breath
scatters as they talk and the
backs of the dogs steam.
All night racers appear
from the darkness. A team
of volunteers checks them in,
making sure the mushers are
carrying the mandatory gear
— essentials, such as a sleep-
ing bag and camp stove — to
survive a night in the snow, if
needed.
During the mandatory six-
hour layover the racers feed
and water their dogs and bed
them in the hay. Some even
curl up next to their favor-
ite lead dogs, while a cho-
rus of yipping and yapping
announces dogs coming and
leaving, all night. A few of the
wall tents are dark for sleep-
ing — one for the vets and one
for the mushers — but one
glows. Above the door, a ban-
ner reads, “Ollokot Hilton.”
Inside, a wood stove crack-
les. Mushers pack in, dishing
up stew and slices of sour-
dough. Mushing is a solitary
sport but for this moment,
they gather together. Many
haven’t seen each other since
the last Eagle Cap Extreme. It
is a small tribe, in the middle
of the forest, in the middle of
doing what they love most.
No sleep at the outpost
A sisterhood formed
with sled dogs
The Eagle Cap Extreme is
a competitive sporting event
but it has a unique down-
home feel. It’s a nonprofit
supported by more than 200
volunteers.
The complexity and spirit
of the event can be seen at
a remote checkpoint called
Ollokot, 50 miles from the
starting line.
A small outpost of can-
vas wall tents has sprung
up, reminiscent (fittingly) of
a mining camp during the
Gold Rush. There is a bus-
tle of activity and a buzz of
energy. Folks with snowmo-
biles shuttle supplies. Ama-
teur radio operators send dis-
patches over a network of
satellite uplinks. Chefs cook
all day and night, ladling up
a nonstop supply of steaming
soup and chili. And an exten-
sive team of veterinarians
donate their skills, inspect-
ing the dogs through the day
and night to ensure each one
is healthy and fit to compete.
Last year, Anderson found
a mentor in accomplished
long-distance musher Gabe
Dunham. Dunham, origi-
nally from Alaska, now lives
in Darby, Montana. Ander-
son spends her school year
in Bozeman attending Mon-
tana State University. On the
winter weekends, Anderson
heads to Dunham’s house.
Dunham lent her dogs
from her kennel to train and
has been teaching her dis-
tance techniques.
Dunham, 35, competed
last year in the Eagle Cap
Extreme 200-mile race, earn-
ing fourth place. From there,
she raced in the 300-mile
long “Idaho Sled Dog Chal-
lenge.” Then she took second
in Montana’s 300-mile “Race
to the Sky.” She was the only
woman to finish all three
races, known in the mushing
world as the “triple crown.”
The triple-crown events
are all sanctioned Iditarod
qualifiers. Not just anyone can
enter Alaska’s famous race;
they must to prove they have
the skills and commitment to
handle the 1,100 miles. Grow-
ing up in Alaska and getting
her start in mushing at age
18, Dunham has dreamed of
running the most famous dog
sled race in the world.
As Dunham prepares
to take on that life goal,
she has enough dogs cur-
rently in training to make up
two teams. She encouraged
Anderson to borrow her dogs
and enter the 200-mile Eagle
Cap Extreme race this year.
“Why not?” Anderson
says casually — though this
will be her greatest chal-
lenge yet, by several mea-
sures. Anderson has raced at
Eagle Cap the past two years
in the 31-mile, two-day race.
Compared to the ultramar-
athon 200-mile option, the
31-mile races are sprints. The
race time for the 31-mile race
is usually three to four hours
each day, and the mushers
get to sleep in warm beds
in town. The 200-miler can
often be a 48-hour test of
endurance with a restless few
hours of sleep on the snow at
Ollokot.
Anderson and Dunham
train together in Montana
during the school year, mak-
ing short runs of 15-30 miles,
then working up to 60 miles.
“As miles go up, so does
the dog care,” Anderson says.
She loves getting out with
her dogs. On the longer runs,
she loves the silence. The only
sounds are the clinking of the
harness, the patter of the dog’s
feet and the sled’s runners
skidding over snow.
“It’s great,” she said, “You
take in the scenery with eight
(to) 12 of your best friends.”
She’s been training so
much that over Christmas
break Anderson estimates
that she’s spent more time
with dogs than humans.
“When you put on that
many miles you form special
bonds,” she said.
Now she feels ready for
the biggest challenge of her
young mushing career: the
Eagle Cap Extreme.
“And it’s cool because I
grew up watching this race
and now I get to compete in
it,” she said.
If she completes the 200-
mile race, it will also be her
first Iditarod qualifier.
“I’m not planning on enter-
ing the Iditarod,” she said
with a chuckle. “But this will
be my first step along the way
if decide to become crazier.”
First responders: Fire and ambulance agencies hoping to merge
Continued from Page A1
for the Helix fire district,
acknowledges the increase
is a bit more of a leap for
taxpayers in the city of less
than 200. They pay about
40 cents per $1,000 assessed
value for fire services now,
and 1$ for ambulance ser-
vices since 2017. Those
within the East Umatilla fire
district already pay $1 for
fire services.
“I hope they’ll be recep-
tive, because as a larger unit
we’ll be able to provide a
better service,” Case said.
Case also sits on the
intergovernmental agency
board for the four smaller
districts.
“With the amount of
money that we have, it’s
hard to provide the equip-
ment and the turnouts,” he
said. “It’s also hard for a
part-time chief to make the
time commitment needed to
make sure the district runs
smoothly.”
Baty said that the move
wouldn’t affect any of the
agencies’ ability to pro-
vide mutual aid in Umatilla,
Morrow and Gilliam coun-
ties as part of a tri-county
agreement.
“We get some really good
leadership from that,” he
said.
He added that because
Milton-Freewater’s emer-
gency services are private,
they aren’t eligible to forge
formal mutual agreements
with the public agencies
in east Umatilla County or
become a part of the poten-
tial district. Milton-Free-
water voted to re-apportion
their ambulance tax district
in November.
“They’re a private, for-
profit agency. It’s illegal
for us to have a mutual aid
agreement with them,” he
said. “When they need help,
which the last couple of
weeks they have, we will go
out. We are firefighters and
responders helping firefight-
ers and responders.”
Baty hopes a merged tax
district could pave the way
to a renovated Weston fire
station, which is the largest
in its area. The current sta-
tion, the site of a former city
jail, lacks a kitchen, crew
quarters and formal stor-
age to help protect firefight-
ing gear against carcinogens
caused by the engines.
“We have some plans
to go to the state and ask
for some help. But that’s
about six or seven dominoes
away,” he said. “This is the
first domino.”
The organizations hope
to compile a list of frequently
asked questions through the
process of 10 different town
halls between Tuesday eve-
ning and May 11.
“We don’t have nearly as
much as we think we need
and we’re doing well with
what we have,” he said.
“That’s what we want to
show folks. If you give us
a dollar, not only will we
stretch it into three dollars,
we’ll make it three smart
dollars.”
Staff photo by Ben Lonergan
Chief Dave Baty, who oversees Helix and East Umatilla rural fire protection districts, demon-
strates a set of makeshift lockers that have been assembled to keep carcinogens from the
diesel brush trucks from spewing onto turnout gear stored at the East Umatilla County Rural
Fire Protection District station in Weston on Tuesday morning.
Robbery: ‘The element of surprise was on our side at that point’
Continued from Page A1
their investigation and keep-
ing their minds open to other
suspects.
Boedhigheimer addressed
members of the public who
were concerned about the
recent crime at a Jan. 13
city council meeting in
Milton-Freewater, and the
Walla Walla Union-Bulle-
tin reported that chief said
evidence was beginning to
support the theory that the
robberies are connected and
people were working together
to commit them.
However, Boedigheimer
didn’t mention that a sus-
pect in one of the robberies
had been arrested, which he
said was to allow the sher-
iff’s office to finish the last
steps linking Metcalfe to the
crime without him or others
knowing.
“To his knowledge, he
was arrested on a proba-
tion violation warrant,” Mil-
ton-Freewater Police Chief
Doug Boedigheimer wrote
in an email. “The element of
surprise was on our side at
that point.”
Boedigheimer confirmed
he was aware that Metcalfe
was connected and in cus-
tody, but said mentioning it
at the council meeting would
have put the investigation
at risk as the sheriff’s office
tried to tilt the scale from
“reasonable suspicion” to
“probable cause.”
“Had I talked about Met-
calfe at the council meeting,
and had the media printed
that or a citizen posted the
information to Facebook,
then there would have been
a probability that Metcalfe
would have found he was
being looked at for the rob-
bery,” Boedigheimer wrote
in an email. “He is allowed
phone calls in jail, and many
of the criminal element fol-
low Facebook or read news
articles dealing with what
they or their friends do in the
criminal realm.”
As it was, the sheriff’s
office finished linking Met-
calfe to the robbery just days
after the council meeting and
now have one suspect for-
mally charged and in custody.
“We’ve still got some
additional work we have to
do,” Rowan said. “Hopefully,
we can continue to collabo-
rate and work effectively like
we have.”
Metcalfe is being held at
the Umatilla County Jail with
a bail of $300,000.
As Measure 11 crimes,
first-degree robbery carries
a mandatory minimum sen-
tence of seven years and six
months, while second-degree
kidnapping carries a sentence
of five years and 10 months.