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Mark Nordman: Race Marshal

"It's More Than a Job"

by June Price

12/27/2004

"It's more than a job," says Iditarod Race Marshal Mark Nordman. "I want each and every musher that starts the race to get to Nome."

Nordman, who came to Alaska in 1976, first became interested in sled dog racing in Minnesota. He stumbled across a race in Duluth, Minnesota and then, the next year, was back as a volunteer. His job was far simpler than his current one. It was simply to watch the organizers public address system. That involved sleeping outside, however.

"I'd bought a brand new sleeping bag," he laughs, "and was sleeping on a picnic table near an old, long retired mail truck. The next morning, its back door rolled up and Tim White, who was sleeping inside with ten dogs, emerged. That was the beginning of my career in mushing." It was also the beginning of a long relationship. As it turned out, White, one of the sport's most well known names, had signed up to run the Knik 200 in Alaska the next year, and needed a handler. Nordman made the journey with him, crossing the Northwest Territories and rolling into Alaska for the first time. He was 23 years old.

Asked to characterize White, Nordman pauses to think. "Sled dog sports are his life," he begins slowly. He explains that as being someone whose every thought and action is somehow connected to the dogs. "Tim White is the 'ultimate dog man,'" concludes Nordman.

It should be noted here that although best known today in mushing circles as a race marshal, Nordman has had his share of success on the runners. He's run the Iditarod, yes, many times, but he's run races in such diverse places as Canada and Argentina as well as Alaska and Minnesota, winning Montana's Race to the Sky in 1987. He's also had to scratch from the Iditarod (1994), giving him the benefit of understanding both ends of the spectrum of racing.

"I've always loved the winter," he says by way of explaining his early fascination with the sport of sled dog racing. The John Beargrease, which originated in 1984, the year after Nordman's first Iditarod run, then became one of the best known sled dog races in the world, drew Nordman early on. "I was involved there from Day One," he noted, "and even helped put the trail in." He's also always loved being with dogs and mushing has always been a popular sport in Minnesota, he notes, drawing such legends as Alaska's George Attla in the late ‘70s to compete against Minnesota's best.

"I've been there," Nordman states firmly when asked his strength as a Race Marshal. He knows what it takes to get one team to Nome and that knowledge helps him in all his tasks as Race Marshal. Just as winning the Race to the Sky gave him a taste of what it means to win, having to scratch from the Iditarod taught him what it means for an entire year's work to come to nothing.

"I think I did well my first year as an Iditarod judge," he ponders, trying to explain what the Iditarod Trail Committee saw in him that led them to tap him as Race Marshal. He became Race Marshal the very next year. "I've always been one to critique myself. Being a dog musher, I know what they go through and that's important on the trail." He's comfortable with all aspects of the race, from what the mushers should have in their drop bags to what the dogs should look like on the trail and what the musher should be doing to make progress down the trail.

"I love the race," he finally says simply. "I want every musher to finish. It's an emotional roller coaster, however. You have to figure out, as Paul Fleming (a past Race Marshal for many of the premiere Mid-West sled dog races) told me, 'Who owns the problem?' If we screwed up, we have to make it right. If the problem is, say, the result of bad training or the wrong food or supplies being sent out by the musher, however, that's your problem as a musher."

How deeply ingrained is the Iditarod in his life?

"It used to be that I couldn't do anything, go anywhere, without looking at it through the eyes of how it worked for the dogs." In other words, he'd walk into a multi-purpose store, see a snap or cable on display and immediately think of how he could use it for the dogs. Hmm, reminds me of his own description of another dog man, Tim White. Now, while he admits the Iditarod is a part of him, he isn't quite that bad. Although no longer racing dogs, however, Nordman hasn't retired from the runners. He does have a team but although he admits to some occasional thoughts of returning to competition, he notes it's most helpful right now in helping him stay on top of the various advances in care and equipment.

As a result, when Nordman stands up in front of the rookies assembled at the mandatory rookies meeting in December, he knows just what they're thinking. He also knows what they need to know. The rookie meeting, once a brief, one day session, has expanded under his guidance and now takes in several days.

"It used to be in the meeting room at Iditarod Headquarters," he recalls, "the Wednesday before the race."

Why did it change?

"You can't teach much at that point. By that time, too many things have to be in place, such as your drop bags and all of your planning and training is complete. You can't expect a musher to make many real changes that late in the game. Nowadays, if a rookie takes good notes, they can save themselves money because they know what to buy and not buy by the time they leave the meetings."

Four time champion Martin Buser hosts a hands on session at his kennel, for instance, giving rookies an opportunity to see how one of the most successful mushers ever does things as well as giving race officials a chance to get to know the rookies in a bit less formal atmosphere. It helps, as Nordman notes, to know the inter-relationships between mushers, too.

One thing rookies will find that has changed little over the years is the list of mandatory gear items. It's a pretty stable list, says Nordman, laughing saying that Joe May has often said a shovel would make more sense then snow shoes at times. Nowadays, too, where mushers used to have to stop and cook, it's really just heating up water and tossing in pre-prepared foods, often specially designed for such use. Clothing and gear is high tech and light weight but remains the same in name as it did back when the race began for the most part.

If Nordman could magically change one thing about qualifying for the race, he'd like to see a better job being done by mushers and officials to prepare them to race. His goal isn't to keep anyone out, instead it's to keep them in but make it a better experience for both musher and dogs. Things have changed so drastically in dog care since the early days of the race that the musher must be a virtual fountain of knowledge on a variety of topics, ranging from high tech gear to animal husbandry (nutrition), to proper gear selections, genetics of dogs, even human and animal muscle tone and development.

Nordman practices what he preaches and works just as hard to make sure smaller races are successful as he does to help the individual mushers. Nor has he limited the exchange of knowledge and ideas to America. He's been to Europe and South America and while in South America even competed with his own dogs. Its actions such as these that have resulted in the popularity of the sport growing internationally as well as spreading the importance of better and better dog care around the world. Thus, while we might visualize Nordman hard at work only during race time, his job description as Iditarod Race Marshal only begins to touch the tip of the iceberg.

Oddly enough, when asked to define the term Race Marshal, Nordman went the other way. He wants to avoid being seen as a traffic cop, so to speak, which he knows some view him as. An affable, friendly man, he tries to make sure he is in a race hub, such as McGrath, every night of the race for better communication overall.

In addition to being chairman of the Rules Committee, he's also 'Village Relations Coordinator.' As we talk, it's obvious this is a job he both enjoys and takes seriously. He tries to spend time outside of the race with village elders and leaders, who, in his opinion, are often the forgotten cogs that make the race a success. They don't ask for a great deal, he notes, but do like to have their efforts recognized. 'Without their involvement,' he firmly declares, 'we wouldn't have an Iditarod.' Jeff Shultz, the Iditarod's official photographer, is helping with this effort, providing what Nordman dubbed 'appreciation photos' or posters for the villages after each race.

Speaking of being recognized, it's a running joke among the Iditarod loyal that Nordman and Race Manager Jack Niggemyer are almost interchangeable.

Not true, laughs Nordman, although they work together well. Asked to distinguish their jobs in simple terms, something that proves elusively difficult to do, he notes that Niggemyer is primarily involved in pre-race logistics, the things that make the race happen, the things that will get the dog teams up the trail to Nome. Nordman, on the other hand, is involved with the competitive aspects of the race itself and in constant, often intense interaction with the mushers. That's where his experience as a musher himself comes into play. Yet, while accepting that as Race Marshal he is the one who bears the final responsibility for decisions, he emphasizes that he depends heavily upon his eight judges. The Iditarod, no matter on what level, is about teamwork.

While most see Nordman as calm, a laid back personality, one that rarely loses his cool, he admits he gets emotionally involved.

"I worry," he admits. "I take it to heart."

For Nordman, it's more than a job, especially when he has to deal with mushers after one of the worst things that can happen to a musher has happened, the death of a dog.

Kjetil Backen's loss of Tok last year, for instance, took place at the worst possible time. Backen was just about to enter Unalakleet. He was the first musher to arrive. That musher is presented with an award. Nordman, however, was notified just before Backen's arrival, asking him to meet Backen just outside of the checkpoint. He knew immediately that there was a problem. Distraught, with an expired dog that had given no signs of problems prior to collapsing, Backen was ready to scratch from the race. Fully understanding the depth of Backen's despair, it was up to Nordman to counsel with him and urge the best action. Even now, Nordman's eyes get a faraway look in them as he remembers that moment, the pain he felt for Backen and how difficult a decision it was for both of them.

"It's more than a job," he declares again firmly.

Nordman's scariest memory, at least one of them, involved a musher, however, not a dog. He was in Anvik in 1989 when he got a call saying musher Mike Madden had been found lying alongside the trail. He'd been found by fellow musher Jamie Nelson, who was soon joined by a group of mushers that included Mitch Brazin, Linwood Fiedler, Kathy Halverson and Jerry Austin. Madden was sick and delirious. While Austin and Fiedler mushed ahead to the closest checkpoint, Iditarod, to recruit help, the others stayed with Madden, administering fluids and trying to keep him comfortable and warm. Much to the relief of those there, Race Manager Jack Niggemyer was able to get a National Guard helicopter out to where they were camped. While Austin mushed Madden's team into the Iditarod checkpoint, the helicopter flew Madden to the hospital in Anchorage. According to the doctors, had another two hours passed, Madden would have most likely died.

Nordman also remembers the frantic search for musher Bob Ernisse, now deceased, who'd become lost in one of the infamous coastal storms. Another fearful moment was when the plane of one of the race veterinarians, Dr. Jim Leech, crashed at Cripple. Many of these moments are lost to the fans in the rush of following the race but to Nordman and other race officials, there are truly moments that make their job a matter of life and death.

How has the race changed since his early days with it as a musher?

"We came up with a fully over-loaded half ton truck," he remembers fondly of his first trip to Alaska with Tim White, "about a dozen dogs, four thread-bare tires and we had to drive slowly the entire way. It was a grand trip. Now, for some new mushers, not all, however, they'll get here and you ask ‘em how their trip went and they'll say, 'Oh, man, it was awful. The CD player broke before we got even halfway.'" The mind-set has changed.

So, too, has the experience.

"In my first race, I got lost the first night and was passed by, well, a lot of teams. That was the beginning, but what a fun trip it was," he remembers. "Now, mushers can go for miles and miles and miles and not even see another musher." The camaraderie of the race is one of its fabled ingredients, one many mushers say has been missing in recent years. Yet, in 2004, with no obvious winner until very late, the mushers involved captured much of that sense of "we're all in this together," helping each other and, to quote one, "having fun."

How would Nordman characterize today's mushers, especially those who have been most successful? Why are some able to be successful and keep being successful year after year?

"They're driven," he explains. "It wouldn't matter what they set their minds to, they'd be a success at whatever they set out to do."

As luck would have it, one of those driven mushers spent that long first night of their rookie Iditarod lost with Nordman. His name was Gary Paulsen, then just another unknown musher. While Paulsen didn't go on to claim fame as a musher, he turned that drive toward writing and established himself as a very successful author. It would be Nordman who Paulsen, also from Minnesota and author of "Woodsong," which many cite as their introduction to the Iditarod, would call to collect his dogs, kennel equipment, and gear when told he had to leave the sport for health reasons. Paulsen is back, however, and the two hoped to be reunited in 2005, this time, however, with Paulsen back on the runners for the first time in two decades while Nordman does his duties as Race Marshal. Both were looking forward to the reunion but lack of miles and dog injuries kept Paulsen out of the race. Despite this, he expects to be thoroughly involved, doing a presentation at the Winter Teacher Conference, attending the musher banquet and doing a book signing as well as providing a ride for an Idita-Rider. He’s already looking to next year for his return to the runners.

"The Iditarod is the Super Bowl, Kentucky Derby, World Cup and Tour de France all rolled together," Nordman says, completely understanding the draw of the race. Everyone one works together and knows the others' strengths and weaknesses. That's what makes it so successful. The Iditarod, after all, is about teamwork.