The Coolest Race on Earth: The Iditarod, as Experienced by a Volunteer Vet from Stone Harbor
Dr. Danika “Dee” Sorensen with one of the dogs she took care of in Alaska.
Walking barefoot on the sunny, soft sand of our New Jersey beach, it’s hard to conjure the reality of another American state where it is so cold that planes take off and land on frozen lakes. A place where a popular endurance race is not a hot run through a city, but a 900-mile trek on a sled pulled by a pack of 14 dogs.
But that reality does exist in Alaska, and Stone Harbor native Dr. Danika “Dee” Sorensen, VMD, recently got to experience it firsthand as a volunteer veterinarian for the famous Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race.
Known as “The Last Great Race,” the Iditarod began in 1973 and features teams of sled drivers, known as “mushers,” and their dogs who pull the sled on a course that traverses the state of Alaska from Anchorage to Nome. The race, which lasts at least eight days for the winners, tests the endurance and strength of the mushers, the dogs, and the volunteers who help ensure the health and safety of the participants.
While Sorensen went into her Iditarod adventure feeling more than a little unsure of what to expect, she emerged from it with a love for Alaska, respect for the Iditarod and its racers, and a renewed appreciation for the amazing, varied, wild planet we live on.
It all began with a text from a friend. “Last June, my friend texted me and said, ‘You should come do the Iditarod next year.’ I was thinking ... I’ve never really been camping, I’ve never even slept outside on purpose, I didn’t know if it was for me,” says Sorensen, who was raised in Stone Harbor and now works as an emergency and family veterinarian in Kennett Square, Pa. “But I applied anyway, and I got accepted in October. It was kind of shocking at the time.”
Shock gave way to determination as she spent the next few months preparing to work in the icy wilderness as part of a team of veterinarians caring for the athletic dogs who power the Iditarod. When she ultimately landed in Anchorage in March, she carried with her plenty of cold-weather gear, a healthy dose of apprehension, and a spirit for adventure.
Sorensen spent her first five days in a hotel in Anchorage quarantining, receiving specialized training, and getting acclimated to the new terrain.
“There was a lake behind the hotel and it was totally frozen. People parked their planes on it the way we would think people in Stone Harbor would park their boats in a marina,” she recalls. “And they would take off and land on the ice; that’s how thick the ice was, that it could withstand these planes. That was really cool, I’d never seen anything like that.”
After completing her quarantine, Sorensen left the warmth and security of the hotel in Anchorage for Rohn, the remote trail checkpoint where she and her team of six vets would be stationed for 10 days to provide health checks and medical care for the sled dogs as they came through. She flew to Rohn on a plane so tiny that it could only fit three small people and landed on a snow-covered airstrip “in the middle of nowhere,” surrounded by evergreens on either side.
“Rohn is known as the most beautiful checkpoint on the trail,” she shares. “And I think it’s true. It’s nestled in the forest, there’s nothing there but woods and a little safety cabin. On one end there’s a big frozen lake and the dogs and sleds would run across it – which I couldn’t believe.”
While Rohn was undoubtedly beautiful, the accommodations there were quite spartan.
“When I Googled Rohn, I saw a cabin and I thought, ‘Oh nice, that’s probably where we’re sleeping.’ But, no. We were sleeping in tents, directly on the ground,” Sorensen says. “We slept in something called an Arctic Oven tent that has a propane stove with a chimney. We were reasonably warm, but my water bottle still froze in there.”
Outside, the weather was frigid, with temperatures regularly reaching 20 degrees below zero.
“Breathing in, you could feel your nose hairs freezing, it kind of burned a little bit,” Sorensen recalls. “I wore a gaiter over my face most of the time. But eyelashes and any hair that’s exposed would freeze. You just had to make sure everything was covered. If you took your glove off to take a picture or something, you would want to put it back on quickly.”
While the elements may have been a challenge, the dogs were a joyful revelation.
“When the mushers are getting ready to take off in the race, the dogs are jumping up and down and howling – they can’t wait to take off. I get emotional talking about it because you’re seeing dogs do what they are meant to do,” Sorensen says. “I think there’s a general misconception about this race. And I hope that by sharing my story that I’m representing mushing and the sled-dog lifestyle in a positive way because, to see a dog have a job and love it and do what they’re meant to do – there’s nothing better.”
For all their power, the sled dogs are surprisingly small, weighing only 35 to 50 pounds. And while most people envision the Siberian husky as the prototypical sled dog, the actual dogs are, in fact, mixed breeds.
“The Alaskan sled dog is a mix of a bunch of different dogs,” Sorensen notes. “Husky mixed with border collie, mixed with German Shorthaired Pointer, mixed with German shepherd. They want to make them winter tough, but fast. You could race Siberian huskies, but you wouldn’t win because they’re not fast enough.”
Examining the dogs as they came through the checkpoint, Sorensen and the other vets were focused on the health and well-being of each animal.
“We used the acronym, HAWL, which stands for Heart and Hydration, Attitude and Appetite, Weight, and Lungs,” she explains. “We listened to them, felt them, watched them eat, and talked to the musher. If there was any problem with lameness or limping, we did an orthopedic exam as well.”
Evaluating highly trained, exceedingly athletic dogs required a perspective shift for Sorensen.
“Working with dogs that are this athletic, and this unique, and this cool, is not something that you get to do every day,” she says. “After the first set of dogs came through, I realized that I had to change my mindset. It’s like if a doctor was used to seeing the average American all the time and then began only examining marathon runners. You have to change what your concept of normal is. A lot of times the dogs were tired when they first showed up, but then they would eat right away and they’d just plump back up, almost like a flower that just needed a little water.”
She was also impressed and inspired by the relationship between the mushers and their dogs.
“I think I was so worried about advocating for the dogs before I got out there. But I quickly realized I didn’t have to worry,” she says. “These dogs are extremely well taken care of and the mushers love them so much. It’s not like they’re machines. The mushers addressed every dog by name and cuddled all of them. And to observe the dogs watching the musher ... you see 14 dogs watching every move the musher makes and just waiting to see what he or she is going to tell them to do next. It was incredible to see.”
When she wasn’t with the dogs, Sorensen bonded with her Rohn teammates as they set up supply bags for the mushers, retrieved water from the river, chopped wood, and continuously prepared for the next set of sleds to come through.
“There were 13 of us in total and we had to get along and work together. I realized that everyone brings something to the team, and even if you feel you don’t, you do too,” she asserts. “Even if you feel like you’re the smallest person, that doesn’t mean you can’t lug water up from the river. Just because you’ve never swung an ax before doesn’t mean you can’t chop wood. I came back with a big sense of pride that I pushed myself outside of my comfort zone and did really well.”
Along with pride, Sorensen brought home indelible memories, and a whole new perspective on our planet.
“The first night in Rohn, we went out to the frozen lake and stood there, and we just looked up. I’ve never seen so many stars in my life,” she shares. “I remember being at the Franklin Institute as a kid and looking up at the planetarium, and that’s what it felt like. There were tons of shooting stars. Every couple minutes, we’d see a shooting star and we saw the Milky Way and all the constellations. And I just thought, ‘How beautiful is our earth?’ And most of the time we don’t even appreciate it. It was awe-inspiring. Many nights, we just went out to the airstrip and laid flat on the runway, looking up at the stars. It just made me really appreciate the earth and the planet we live on and think about how many silly things we worry about when we have so much to be grateful for, and we should get out and experience it.”
While the arctic Alaskan wild couldn’t be farther from the sun-swept vistas of her Stone Harbor roots, Sorensen’s experience has made her a passionate advocate for the Iditarod and redefined her boundaries of “home.”
“I want people to view the Iditarod positively, from an animal-welfare standpoint, as an athletic event, and an Alaskan and therefore American tradition,” she says. “I felt so at home in Alaska that being a ‘normal person’ now just feels like it’s not enough! There is truly no place like Rohn, and Rohn will forever be a piece of home for me.”
