/ Archived Race Coverage / Taking it Personally

Taking it Personally

An Interview with Chief Veterinarian, Stuart Nelson

by June Price

12/01/2004

'I take it personally, very personally.'

I've just asked Stu Nelson, the Iditarod’s Chief Veterinarian how he feels when the race is attacked by animal rights activists.

These people are 'Internet terrorists,' in his opinion. 'They've never given a penny of their time or money, or spent one day caring for these dogs.' He also points out that few of them have even been to Alaska, let alone seen a sled dog race.

Although Nelson, who was born in Quincy, Illinois, may appear quiet and unassuming on the surface, he has a passion for the race and the dogs that make it what it is. He’s also frustrated.

'We work hard all year to make this race as successful and safe as possible then, the week before it begins, we get slammed.' At that point, he points out, everyone is too busy doing their job to respond. Nelson has responded, of course. In fact a short time before this interview Nelson and Michael Davis, whose veterinary studies are often taken out of context and used by animal rights activists against the race, combined forces and sent a letter in response to an attack in a newspaper. 'It was never published,' he sighs, something he’s grown used to but will never accept.

Nelson’s tenure with the Iditarod began when he saw an advertisement in a veterinary journal before the 1986 race. Jim Leech was Chief Vet at the time. Nelson wasn't familiar with the race but had worked with horses and liked working animals, so it seemed a natural.

Although his first experience with the race came about almost by accident, he returned -- again and again.

'The dogs, of course,' he says, trying to explain why. 'They're just incredible. It was definitely a break from the daily routine, too, and you got to meet some interesting people.' He pauses to think. A smile crosses his face. 'And there’s simply the beauty of the landscape and the adventure of it all.' Nelson kayaks and takes advantage of all Alaska has to offer whenever possible. Nelson is the son of a veterinarian and believe it or not, he doesn't own a dog. When questioned about this, he says that he is a 'relief' vet traveling all over the country filling in for other veterinarians so it would not be fair to the dog to constantly be putting him in a kennel.

Nelson believes he has and can continue to make a difference, not just in the race but the overall health of dogs everywhere. Although he officially lives in Idaho, Nelson spends nearly half his year in Alaska. He’s been very active in promoting research and implementing the knowledge gained, whether on sled dogs or the common household pet. One example is the ongoing research project focusing on ulcers in working animals which has resulted in medications being developed that are available everywhere, not just on the Iditarod Trail.

'I wish people realized how hard we work to make this the best, safest race possible,' he says. 'People need to understand that if an animal isn't well cared for, it can't perform, so good care is the norm, not neglect.'

'Mushers are usually the first to see any abnormality,' he says, when asked to give a Reader’s Digest version of how his vets operate during the race. He’s quick to point out that the vets and mushers work together. 'The vets have been educated and know what to look for on the trail, true, often seeing things even before the team stops. The mushers are on the front line. They know their dogs better than anyone. They keep records in a vet diary throughout the race and have it available and signed at every checkpoint.'

Every checkpoint?

'Every checkpoint,' declares Nelson again. There is interaction between the musher and veterinarians at checkpoints, whether the musher is staying or moving on down the trail.

I asked Nelson a question that comes up commonly, whether from fan or race foe. To the average observer, there are just too many dogs to even differentiate between them, let alone examine. He reminds me that the dogs have gone thru extensive comprehensive exams pre-race and then gave me an acronym to explain the basic steps taken. The acronym is HAWL.

'H' stands for heart and hydration, something of the utmost importance to both musher and vet. The vets specifically check for elevated heart rates (greater than 120 bpm at rest) and abnormal rhythms (arrhythmias). It has been noted that most sled dogs have a heart rate of less than 100 beats per minute. That's fit; very fit, as house dogs normally have a heart rate of about 120. In any case, the heart aspect of this acronym is obvious but, if one reads any of the many books written about the race, one will inevitably encounter a mention of a musher doing what is might be called the 'snap back' test to check a dog’s hydration. Basically, they pull the skin between the dogs’ shoulders up and watch to see if it 'snaps' back into place quickly. The speed with which it does this is a good indication of the hydration level.

'A' stands for appetite and attitude, two more important ingredients for success. Bottom line, what the vet is looking for here is to see if the dog is not only eating but having a positive race. Good attitude makes for a happy, healthy dog, so it’s high on the list of things to check for, according to Nelson, even as simplistic as I've made it sound summarizing it here.

'W' stands for weight, which might be seen as a logical partner of 'hydration' and 'appetite,' but not always. If an animal is eating well and has a good appetite, but has difficulty keeping on weight, it’s going to be losing strength as the race progresses. This would mean more time and attention will have to be paid it by the musher during both runs and rests. These dogs might even have to be coaxed to eat or drink, meaning more care must be taken.

Finally, 'L' is for lungs. Is the dog having trouble breathing? Are there any obvious obstructions in the air passages? Are there any signs of impending disease or problem? Again, this brief explanation makes this sound rather simplistic but the techniques used have been effective, according to Nelson. Actually, the most common reason for dropping a dog is some sort of limp, a visual sign, so a method of determining other, less visible signs is a valuable tool to the vet core.

Although not related to this story, I have been fortunate enough to observe the veterinarian crew at the dropped dog area in Anchorage several times. At first, until you look closely, it might seem random, and then you note they are going thru the exact same procedure time after time. Even more impressively, if you stop long enough to listen and watch, you'll note that every dog is treated as an individual. They're greeted by name, easily available on the report that is returned from the checkpoint where they've been dropped with them, and ears and bellies are scratched and rubbed while the dogs are constantly reminded what 'Good dogs!' they are. Only then does the actual exam begin.

Hands gently caress and probe all joints and body areas, temperatures are taken, all the steps described above in the explanation of the HAWL method. One of the first things you'll notice is how accustomed these dogs are to being handled. Despite being surrounded by strangers, often not just vets and volunteers but fans who've walked out from the nearby hotel to observe, most dogs take the exam in stride. Volunteers are constantly refreshing the straw supply and busy cleaning up proof that what goes in, must come out. The exam itself is often accompanied by the seemingly perpetual flash of cameras as fans approach to watch. Questions are often asked and answered.

Perhaps one of the more impressive moments I've seen here, one that illustrates what happens everywhere on the trail, is that the routine didn't vary one iota from this relaxed, methodical procedure even when the wind chill dipped to fifty below outside one year. Dogs were gently unloaded from planes and crates and acknowledged as individuals, each called by name, and only then, despite the harsh temperatures and winds, did exams begin. Dog coats were nearby, ready to be put on dogs needing them and straw, always abundant, simply became more so, allowing dogs to curl up in the warmth it so naturally provides, while those needing any further attention were taken to nearby, local clinics. It’s a fine tribute to Nelson and his vet crews to see just this one team in action, knowing it’s a procedure being done all over the state, no matter what the conditions.

While Nelson acknowledges the ultimate goal of 'perfection' -- no dog deaths during the race -- has proven elusive, he knows statistics back him up. I asked him for an example. His answer was that the risk to Iditarod dogs fell somewhere between that to a human jogger and cross country skier.

To put this in perspective without getting into actual statistics, if 75 teams leave the starting line for Iditarod 2005, there will be 1,200 dogs on the trail. The race lasts two weeks, often longer depending upon the speed of the back of the pack and the weather. You can do your own statistics but with that many dogs in one spot for that long, the likelihood of each and every dog remaining safe and sound is unlikely, much as we'd like it to be different.

Of course, there are also lighter moments on the trail. In this day and age, race officials tend to know where each musher is located and/or when one is expected into the next checkpoint. When volunteers and officials are told it'll be such and such time when the next team comes in, most take advantage of the break to catch some sleep. This was the case one year in Koyuk, which is where mushers go out over the sea ice. They'd been busy but it appeared there should be at least a two hour gap before the next team came in. Most settled in for a power nap.

'Musher coming in!!!'

It was 2 a.m. and no one should have been coming in. But, of course, everyone scrambled for boots and parkas and rushed out to meet the incoming team. The problem was, it was just a team. No musher. He'd fallen off. The dogs had left him far, far behind. Rather than stop, the dogs had simply continued, little caring whether the musher was with them or not. In fact, laughed Nelson, the team had even parked itself. The surprised checkpoint group eventually reunited musher and dogs but one can only imagine the ribbing that musher took and most likely still takes when they pull into Koyuk.

Okay, other than the ability to park itself, what sort of dog does Nelson look at as the ideal sled dog?

'The ideal sled dog today isn't the stereotypical sled dog of the past,' he notes. 'It will weigh about fifty pounds and can be of any breed.' That, of course, is as long as it meets ISDMA standards and can be classified as a Northern Breed. 'It obviously has to pass some pretty rigorous exams to qualify but must also display the willingness and desire to pull a sled.'

Nelson cautioned, too, that just because a dog met these criteria didn't necessarily mean it will be a sled dog. 'It has to have the proper training and conditioning, too,' he notes, 'to adequately prepare it for racing.' In other words, just because I have a part husky sleeping on my couch and shedding on my rug doesn't mean I can take her out and hook her to a sled and get to Nome. Without the proper care, training, and conditioning, dogs cannot perform, an important fact to remember.

Although it’s physically impossible for Nelson to be personally at each checkpoint, he tries to meet each team as it enters Nome. Last year, from the vantage point of a second story window in the Nugget Inn that overlooked the finish line, I was able to observe him, time after time, standing near the Burled Arch and watching teams come up the chute. He sees his strengths as being that he tries to 'contemplate possibilities,' meaning to he tries to anticipate all problems. He’s driven to try to achieve perfection, that dog death free race, and hopes one day to greet the Red Lantern team knowing that goal has been achieved.