The freezing wind gently nipped at my cheeks and nose as it grazed across the small fraction of my face that I was unable to protect. The only sounds I could hear were the soft, shushing sound of the sled runners, the light clinking of harnesses, the rustle of the breeze finding its way through the forest trees, and the pitter-patter of forty small feet trotting in front of me as we glided smoothly across the snow covered trails. I had been shifting back and forth from sled runner to sled runner trying to keep the blood flowing through my legs. I would have guessed the temperature was about 25 degrees below zero, but I tried not to think about that. I was focusing on the other things: the peacefulness and beauty of the Alaskan country, the energy of the dogs, and, of course, the trail markers. This was only my second sled dog race ever, but it was the first time I had been so secluded from everyone else with just my dogs. It was the first time I realized how amazing it actually was to be out there with my canine friends, all of us doing what we love to do.

It was the last Saturday in February, 2003, that the Junior Iditarod, a 170-mile dogsled race, began. At that point, I had hardly been on an overnight dog-mushing trip, so the butterflies in my stomach were racing. I was about to embark on a 24-hour dog-mushing journey, competing against 21 other teenage mushers. Most of the spectators and competitors would have been surprised to hear that I was so nervous; I have been dog mushing from our home in the heart of Alaska since before I could walk. It has been a huge part of my life and most people know that. My father, Jeff King, is a three-time Iditarod Champion so we have had over 70 Alaskan huskies in our front yard for as long as I can remember. My involvement in the sport has risen and fallen many times throughout my life, but this was the first time I decided I wanted to actually compete in the Junior Iditarod.

I was confident that my dogs were more than capable of making the run of just over 80 miles before taking the mandatory 8-hour layover. If I was worried about anything, it was me. My paranoia of losing the trail was increasing as the starting time grew nearer. I was trying my hardest to concentrate on what my father had told me. The endless advice was making circles in my head as I tried to remember the most critical tactics. Finally my team and I were positioned at the start line. It was all a blur, but once I was finally far enough away from the packs of shivering friends and family, I took a deep breath and let myself relax. The butterflies disappeared, and my stomach was then left empty, since I was unable to eat that morning. All my fears and worries were melting away temporarily. This is what I had been training for.

For the last six months I had been striving to find time between my academics and sports to train both physical and mentally for the race. Every chance I got I was picking my Dad¹s brain, repeatedly asking questions about the trail, the dogs, and winter camping. By the day of the race, I had set two major goals for myself; goals I knew that were tough, but possible. I was hoping, and planning, to finish the race with ten healthy, happy, Alaskan huskies. It is quite a job to care for the dogs and that is what was most important to me. I wanted to have fun, and I knew that was only possible if my dogs were enjoying themselves as well. Along with that goal, I was shooting for a top five finish. The dogs I had been training for this race were all great sled dogs, and I was confident that finishing in the top five was not too much to ask of the fine athletes I had on my team.

With these goals in mind I trained, on the weekends, after basketball practice, and at the kitchen table talking with my Dad. I had to step up and take on a strong leadership role as the months leading into my race approached. As an avid basketball player and determined to maintain a 4.0 grade point average, I had my work cut out for me. Those months taught me a more about time management and self-motivation. Most of my classmates did not even know what my plans were. Therefore, I embarked on the journey nearly unsupported by my peers who were busy with their own lives, which did not include dog mushing.

It was a new experience for me to be on my own pursuing one of my interests. This was all a learning experience for me, and I think it was great for me to motivate myself to work toward following through with my plans. I knew that there would be challenges along the way, and that excited me. By the end of the first 85-mile run, I was leading the race. I had no one to follow but my lead dogs, whom were depending on me for directions. Only a few days prior to the race I started to get a little tickle in my throat and by the time I reached the Sourdough Lodge camp area for the mandatory layover, that tickle had turned into a miserable cold. The cold temperatures did not help as I worked at blowing my nose every five minutes and dealt with waves of horrid, raspy coughing. I had to choose to not worry too much about myself and tend to the dogs. Massages were given, mouths were fed, and straw beds were made as I kept moving to stay warm. I had almost no experience with winter camping while caring for a of team canines. The other mushers in the race and I were not allowed to go inside at any time, so my layers of high tech, winter gear never came off. As I laid in my sleeping bag, still dressed, curled up with a couple of huskies, I looked up at the beautiful clear sky scattered with stars and knew the temperature was creeping colder then 20 degrees below zero. Unable to get any sleep, I passed my time visiting with the furry, world-class athletes that were traveling with me. Before I knew it, it was my turn to leave the lodge, and I was met with another 85-mile run full of new trials. With a strong determination and good common sense, I was able to work my way through the challenges I was faced with, focusing on the goals I had set for myself.

This race placed me in a new situation. It was the first time I felt so totally responsible for my own safety and well-being. Self-reliance took on a whole new meaning. Meeting challenges with only my own resources helped me discover my hidden strengths. I learned so much about myself and gained a new respect for my abilities. My family was impacted similarly. I was the second girl in the family to run and complete the Junior Iditarod, yet they made me feel as if I was the first. They learned more about the person I am and the courage I have inside. They still talk sometimes about how proud of me they are, and every time they mention it I cannot help but smile.

After the race my friends heard about it and started asking questions. Lots of them began talking to me about the possibilities of them doing something similar. They began to realize that just because they are not adults, does not mean that they cannot do something they are interested in. I was able to inspire some of my peers to take on new and unknown challenges after they saw that it was possible. Living in a small community as I do, I feel like I have a big extended family. My "community" family took my accomplishments just as my "real" family did. They were proud and very curious. Many of them had read about the race in the newspaper, and that sparked a lot of conversations. They were all excited for me, as a family usually is for one of its members. Once it was over I wanted to run the race again after receiving a taste of true, community support. I walked away from the race with a 4th place finish, and the Humanitarian Award, which is a recognition by the head veterinarian for exemplary dog care throughout the race, and a very runny nose. I also took away with me something even more meaningful. I walked away with a strong feeling of newly found self-reliance and self-confidence that will remain with me for a lifetime.