DOG DAYS OF WINTER

There are many stereotypes about Arizona, including the one about it having only one season: summer. The truth is, there's winter, too. There's even dog-sledding, and the state's premier race takes place this month in the White Mountains, where Siberian huskies, Alaskan huskies, malamutes and mushers will compete in Arizona's version of the Iditarod.

A MIST HAD SETTLED over Rogers Lake the morn-ing Frank Engelhardt ran his team of Siberian huskies along a trail of thick, packed snow just west of Flagstaff. Temperatures hovered around 20 below. Fog muffled all sound except the huh-huh-huh breathing of his dogs as they sprinted across the dry lakebed. Engelhardt stood on the runners of his sled and peered into the blanket of mist, the outline of his team barely visible. When he'd finished the run, his dogs were covered in frost from their snow-white muzzles to the tips of their bushy tails. Man and beast were spent. The peace and quiet of the moment and the communion with his dogs had left the man sighing with deep emotions.

"It was my best day of sledding," Engelhardt recalls. Sled-dog racing in Arizona is a surprisingly popular hobby among mushers who endure the cost, the hard work and an often-inhospitable climate. A Siberian husky, one of the most common sled dogs, begins to wilt at temperatures over 60. Wearing a double coat of fur, he thrives when the mercury plunges below zero. That makes Southern Arizona the place to train and North-ern Arizona the place to race. Come summer, dogs in both hemispheres become "couch potatoes," says one musher. But as soon as temperatures dip, Siberian and Alaskan huskies, malamutes and Samoyeds sniff the frosty air and rev their engines. These dogs were born to run.

"Arizona is the southernmost state with a significant sled-dog population," says champion musher Bruce Lee. Lee, who lives in Alaska and New Mexico, has run Alaska's Iditarod, the premier dog race, seven times. He's been a guest musher at Winterfest, the festival of sled-dog races held for the past 10 years at Sunrise Park ski resort on the White Mountain Apache Reservation.

Winterfest takes place every January and gives Arizona dogs a chance to test their mettle and defy geography. Mention sled-dog racing, and most people think of frigid climes. Dog-sledding in a state better known for sunshine and cactus?

When Flagstaff dog racer Gery Allan races his malamutes out of state, mushers gawk at his license plate, he says. "They're like, 'Arizona?'"

Allan, a professor of genetics and molecular biology at Northern Arizona University, has been racing for 10 years. He has 20 dogs, four of which are retired from the sport. While Arizona teams usually number three to six dogs, Allan has raced as many as 12, feeling the power of a dozen muscular malamutes carrying him on runs that can span 100 miles.

"It's just something that captivates you," he says. "It's inter-acting with another species," a species born not only to run but to pull things. Malamutes originally were bred as working dogs by the Mahlemut tribe of northern Alaska.

One of the events at Winterfest is, in fact, the weight pull, where dogs in different weight classes compete for most pounds pulled on a cart. The sport harks back to the days when dogs were used to haul freight. Allan once had a 6-year-old malamute that pulled 2,300 pounds.

"We were amazed," he says.

Dog-sledding in Arizona dates back four decades. Arizona mushing pioneer Van Odegaard came to Flagstaff in 1977 from Minnesota, where he raced Siberians. By then, races were active in Alpine and Greer. Odegaard resumed his hobby but found that his genial Siberians fell short of expectations for speed. He turned to the roguish Alaskan huskies.

Alaskans are not a breed of their own but a mix that can include Siberians, German shorthairs (known for their energy) and even a little bit of greyhound - those swift stars of the dog track. Alaskan huskies traditionally win such races as the Idi-tarod, pounding the trail with unmatched intensity.

"They're twice as fast as Siberians," says Odegaard. "They're built to race. Siberians have the heart but not the body."

Odegaard lives on 5 acres of land outside of Flagstaff and has a kennel housing 34 dogs that he shares with his son, Charlie, another top musher.

Denise Edwards is a mushing friend who has been racing in Arizona for 20 years. Like Odegaard, she swears by Alaskan hus-kies. Edwards keeps 13 at her Flagstaff home, where she works as a farrier. Twenty years ago, she started racing mutts, the first one rescued by a client who found the pup at a trash dump. After acquiring two more dogs, Edwards began racing.

As her skills and interest increased, Edwards got serious. "I started continually getting better dogs," she says. That meant Alaskans.

Competing at Winterfest 2012, her team lounged around her truck, waiting for its race to begin. Cheddar, a gold-colored Alaskan, curled into a ball on a bed of straw that Edwards had put down over the snow. He dozed. But when called to the starting gate, dogs explode in a mass of energy, yelping and straining at their harnesses, pawing the air, tongues lolling, eager to break into a fury of galloping dogflesh.

In the 1980s, Arizona Mountain Mushers was formed. Edwards is now president of AMM, which has about 30 members from around the state.

Debra Carson is one of several regular mushers from Southern Arizona. She lives with eight Siberian huskies on 5 acres south of Green Valley - “on a cattle trail in the middle of nowhere.” Carson’s interest in Siberians began in childhood. While other girls played with dolls, she dreamed of huskies. Her dogs are athletes, pets, friends and family. She calls herself the “octomom” of Siberians and usually races five at a time. In 2013, Carson plans to race a seven-dog team in Idaho and Colorado.

During much of the year, Phoenix and Tucson mushers train with “dryland” techniques. Dogs pull a cart, scooter or ATV on grass. A popular sport in California, dryland mushing is ideal for Southern Arizona.

When it’s time to race for real, Carson packs up her dogs and heads north, where she and her team feel the exhilaration of sprinting across fresh snow. Her magic moment is rounding the last bend on the trail, sighting the finish line: “I think, It can’t get any better.” Alina Ramsey Wright is a fellow Tucson musher. When Wright’s mother died, Wright acquired her kennel of Samoyeds, elegant but strong bundles of snow-white fur. These are no puffballs, though. Samoyeds are among the oldest dog breeds, bred in Siberia to herd reindeer and pull sleds.

Wright has been racing in the desert for two years. “People say to me, ‘You’re in the wrong state.” Like Carson, she trains her dogs on wheels and grass before switching to runners and snow. Wright has a house in Pinetop where she gives her Sammies a chance to run in cooler climes.

Once, competition in Arizona almost died out when races in Alpine and Greer were discontinued. Then Anne Groebner created Winterfest. While studying at Vermilion Community College in Ely, Minnesota, Groebner had made sled dogs her work-study program. In 1996, Groebner moved to Arizona and eventually got a job as the marketing director for Hon-Dah Resort-Casino, which is operated by the White Mountain Apache Tribe. She began look-ing for a spot to host a winter festival. Ten years ago, Winterfest began with two days of races and now it has a top prize of $1,000.

“It’s cool for tourism,” Groebner says.

To the spectator, sled-dog racing looks like a joyride. But it’s not for the fainthearted. Humans are not just along for the ride and must be as fit as their dogs. Climbing hills, the musher hops off the sled and helps push.

“I ain’t no Santa Claus,” Carson says with a laugh, wearing sturdy boots and thick overalls for her five-dog Winterfest race.

Even living with Siberians is a challenge. Though the dogs aren’t large, averaging 35 to 60 pounds, they have keen minds always seeking activity. That can mean mischief digging, chewing - and shedding mounds of fur, called “blowing.” “They’re high-energy dogs,” says Mary Uhlir, a Tucson musher who has 13 Siberians.

Even old age doesn’t quell their energy. Allan’s malamutes have raced at 8 years old. Siberians can run and win races when they’re 10, even 14 years old. Think of a human athlete competing at 98.

While sled-dog racing in Arizona still sparks passion, the economy has taken its toll. Asked to estimate the cost of keeping sled dogs, Engelhardt cites the price of feed, a truck outfitted with kennels, gasoline, sleds ($500 to $1,200 each), harnesses and lines that connect the dogs, veterinary bills and vaccines. Incalculable.

It’s expensive enough to keep one dog or a small team. The Engelhardts have 24 Siberians. For committed mushers, “It’s a way of life, not a hobby,” says Frank’s wife, Cheryl.

With the price of dog food and fuel rising, Charlie Odegaard sees mushers cutting back. Traditional prize money has dropped from $3,000 and $4,000 to $1,000. Even the Iditarod has cut its purse in recent years due to loss of sponsors.

In addition to rising prices, Arizona’s ongoing drought has diminished not only rain, but also snow, Odegaard notes, leaving dog teams high and dry. “A lot of people have sleds in their attics,” he says.

Four decades ago, dog-racing enjoyed a renaissance as snowmobiles began to replace sled dogs in the Arctic and mushers worked to preserve tradition. Now, the sport needs another rebirth, Odegaard says. If the economy improves and the drought lessens, “it would come back.” AH