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It’s a Lifestyle

An Interview with Martin Buser

by June Price

10/01/2004

"The Iditarod isn't a two week sporting event," says four time Iditarod champion Martin Buser. "It's a lifestyle"

Surrounded by his dogs and family in Big Lake, Alaska, its obvious Buser lives what he preaches. The kennel is spacious and spotless, with dogs running free, curled up beside their dog houses or, in the case of Char, taking time for a workout on what most still call "Martin's Gerbil Wheels."

Char is totally oblivious to the fact his human is giving a tour. Anyone harboring any doubts that these dogs aren't "born to run" would be swayed by Char. A youngster, Char's sharing a kennel with another young dog but ignores both canine and human distractions to continue the workout. There's nothing binding Char to the wheel in any way other than an ingrained love, or perhaps need to run.

Ironically, Buser, known for his innovative techniques and ideas, seems at a loss to explain how he "trains" the dogs to the wheel.

"I just put them in there," he says, pausing to run a hand thru his hair, perhaps in thought. "They pretty much train themselves." As Buser described the typical scenario, it was easy to imagine a younger, less agile Char taking those first few steps on the wheel.

"Puppies are curious creatures. If you leave a puppy alone with it long enough, they're simply going to be unable to resist climbing on it." Buser grinned, describing the first few tentative steps on the wheel, the look of sheer amazement on the puppies' faces when they realizes ‘It moves!" and the wonder and excitement as they begin to experiment with that discovery. When they ‘get it,' they're very proud of themselves, he noted, and they quickly move from those initial, tentative, awkward steps to a trot and eventually a lope without any intervention on his part.

True, there are missteps, he admits, noting that is why they don't keep the wheels well oiled as it comes screeching to a halt. Char hops off, trots over to the water dish for a drink, then, after a brief puppy wrestling session with his kennel partner, its back on the wheel.

The benefits of the wheel are obvious but even while wishing I could magically transport one of the wheels to my backyard for my own husky mix, I couldn't help noticing that Buser kept angling to the side to watch Char.

"That's one of the added benefits," he explained when I mentioned this. "I don't often get to see the dogs run from the side." Watching Buser watch Char's long, fluid trot that easily moves into and out of a lope, the advantage is clear. Long before Char has even been hooked to a sled, Buser has an idea what sort of mover Char will be, how his stride might match teammates, and perhaps most important, his inner work ethic.

Buser's work ethic is well known among competitors. Not only is he always tinkering and trying to improve, but he's passed on the value of hard work to his family. They're all involved in the newest venture, formal kennel tours. Wife Kathy, who Buser calls the "brains of the outfit" in an introductory slide presentation for the kennel tour, continues to work a full time job while helping out in the kennel while his sons, Nikolai and Rohn, have been involved since the time they could walk. Both are signed up for the 2005 Junior Iditarod.

"They know more about dogs than they know they know," says the proud father, "if that makes sense. They've listened to us talking dogs from the time they were born, so it's there." Yet, while saying this, Buser claims indifference to their choice of future occupation. In fact, the son of an orthopedic surgeon himself, there's a certain amount of pride in Buser's voice as he notes that Nikolai, the eldest, is already considering some sort of medical occupation. They're "honest, good citizens," he feels, saying that is what he's proudest of, and that if they don't take anything else from this sport, that is an accomplishment.

Buser himself knows the importance of giving back to his chosen sport, too. Although long a fan and media favorite, he's new to the kennel tour business. While it's certainly one way of increasing kennel revenue, he also sees it as a chance to diversify and show his dogs and sport to those who might not otherwise know about it. As the husband of a teacher, he's also made sure it educates as well as entertains.

The tour begins with a brief slide presentation featuring some spectacular Jeff Schultz photography, a presentation briefly interrupted when Buser returns with a basket of puppies. Although the tour has just begun, this is probably the highlight of the tour for many as the puppies work their magic. Even for those familiar with the sport, it's still amazing to look at the tremendous athletes pictured in the presentation and then down at the snuggling puppy in your arms. These tiny, seemingly defenseless creatures, you realize, will grow up to do this. These soft, tiny, often still pinkish feet will run 1,049 miles and still be ready to go.

Since there were only two of us this day, both known to Buser, I took the opportunity to snag two puppies to cuddle while questioning Buser throughout the slide show. Schultz' photos capture the variety of terrain and conditions they encounter well, tho' Buser says it varies from year to year. There are some consistencies, however, like the Farewell Burn's harsh ruggedness and the constant dangers of snow and ice. In fact, one slide shows a glacier where, according to Buser, one misstep will send you sliding all the way back to the bottom to start all over again.

Some obstacles encountered aren't that predictable, however. Buser reveals he once hit a police cruiser, believe it or not, and that Libby Riddles once hit, of all things, a washing machine on the trail. Like many, Buser also ran over the dead moose last year that made the news but unlike Ken Anderson, who remembered it being fresh and blood spurting from it as his sled runners passed over it, Buser only remembers it being soft.

"Everyone will have a different story," he explains, "because the trail is always evolving, changing." It's how you deal with the pressure that makes the difference. He mentioned sitting at a checkpoint and said one of the hardest things he'd ever done was to sit there and watch twenty other mushers pass him that year, which turned out to be his record setting year. Making a schedule is one thing, sticking to it is another.

As we emerged from the slide presentation to walk to the next session, a tent replica of the Cripple checkpoint, he motions for us to wait. "I'll get the checker," he announces.

Checker?

In a matter of moments, Buser is back, a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose and a musher cap slightly askew. Just as he's shown a flash of humor in the meeting room earlier, clicking on and off the head lamp built into the winner's trophy, his aim is to entertain while he educates. Here, he's taken on the role of a checker, saying "Musher Buser" has decided to take a rest but he'll be happy to answer questions. Displaying the check-in clipboard, "Checker Buser" laughs, pointing at the check-in sheet and shaking his head, tapping the board. "That guy, he always wants to be first," he says, pointing to where the name Martin Buser is prominently displayed as the first musher to check-in and then offers to answer any questions we might have.

Buser momentarily abandons his checker guise to explain that he feels it's important to not only give visitors a feel for what it's like for mushers on the trail, to show the conditions under which they and the volunteers operate, but to entertain, too. The role playing gives him a chance to step out of character a moment and put people at ease.

There are several different types of sleds on display and Buser briefly explains each, casually turning one upside down to show how, in less than a minute, it's now possible for mushers to change sled plastic. It used to involve several bolts and screws and many more minutes. Now, the flexible plastic simply slips into a bracket on the runner and is attached with a single lock-in bolt. Another sled, one proudly displaying the Eagle Pack logo on its sled bag, sits packed and ready for the race and can be touched and examined by visitors.

The next station, a simulated vet check, hosts two willing dogs that play the team dogs selected for observation. They quickly demonstrate that the "hands on method" is nothing new to them. Their quick acquiescence and calm acceptance of having their legs raised and stretched and body parts prodded by "Vet Buser," in a different pair of glasses and wearing an Iditarod vet cap this time, are proof. They're no more disturbed by the audience than Buser is, having been through similar processes repeatedly in their lifetime.

Nor are the youngsters at the next station upset by visitors. In fact, they're probably delighted to see visitors as that indicates that their human is going to "accidentally" let them all loose to run around outside to greet and entertain the guests. The perfect diplomats, they don't stray far, so "Handler Buser" isn't in deep trouble.

"All my dogs can be let loose," says Buser, noting this seems to surprise some people. "I've had people ask about the dogs being tethered," he said, "and told them to go let them loose. A few have taken me up on the challenge and seem surprised that the dogs don't run away." The image left then is that of happy, well socialized sled dogs happy to be with their owner and the visitors, who are given ample time to pose for photos with the dogs, musher, and sleds. .

Just as that may be the image forever engraved in visitors' minds, Buser remembers his first encounter with sled dogs. It was of happy sled dogs, too, but took place in Switzerland.

"I'm not sure exactly how old I was, but I do remember it was a rainy day. I saw a team being hooked up and everyone, dogs and mushers, were covered with muck. You couldn't tell what color the dogs were. You couldn't see anything but mud. The thing I remembered, tho', was the clean teeth. That's what drew me in, the dogs' smile, so visible in the midst of all that muck."

That was the beginning for Buser. As it turned out, the couple in question was delighted to share their knowledge and dogs with the young Buser. He began to work with them (she was a vet, her husband in the military) and was given the opportunity to race. By 1979, he'd made up his mind to travel to Alaska to learn more and the rest, as they say, is history.

"People don't see the whole picture, tho'," said Buser. Given his success in the sport, it's easy to forget, he said, the days when he literally lived on a dollar a day. "People say there's no way you did that," he said, "but I know it's possible because I did it."

He lived remote for some time, even sharing a cabin in Anvik with Ken Chase for a time but eventually moved to Anchorage, taking a job and meeting his future wife in the process. The touch of Kathy Chapoton, a full time educator is very visible in the kennel. You see it with the tiles along the top of the dog runs decorated by her classroom students and her presence in the video presentation and on the streets of Nome. She has never missed one of his finishes, taking personal leave to go to Nome, even when the results weren't so impressive.

"We lived in Eagle River for awhile but we decided we needed to be further out so here we are," he adds gesturing at the scene about us.

What did he learn from all this?

"Not to have too many dogs," he declared. In Buser's opinion, given the relationship he wants to build with each dog, it's important to keep the number of dogs in his kennel to a minimum. All of his dogs are kept clean on a daily basis and make great house dogs, he noted. Rather then expose his older, retired dogs to the pressure of trying to keep up with younger dogs, he's arranged for them to go to the home of a friend who maintains a kennel up to his standards. The dogs are happy, healthy, and still given the chance to run when possible and live out their lives there. The kennel name "Happy Trails" seems somehow symbolic for all its residents.

If Martin Buser had one wish, however, it would seem to be that those coming into the sport come into it with their eyes open. He acknowledges that while it's become a cliché, his advice to wannabe mushers is not to get into the sport. He doesn't feel most understand the big picture.

"It's a business," he says, "and it's expensive. Money is doled out on a daily basis and you're often not aware of how much it is genuinely costing you until it's too late."

Buser estimates that each dog in the kennel costs him about $1.50 per day to maintain. That may not sound like much until you begin to do the math. That's per day, each day of the year, whether they're running on the team or not, whether there is snow on the ground or not. Let's assume you have fifty dogs. That $1.50 now becomes $75 a day. Hmm, keep doing your math. $75 a day suddenly becomes well over $2250 per month and that is assuming nothing extra is needed. $2250 per month then turns into $27 ,000 per year, almost half the purse for winning the race. And, again, that is the basic cost, not including extras like supplements, unexpected vet bills, transportation, and all the extras that all mushers have come to expect.

That's only the tip of the mountain, acknowledges Buser. It also doesn't take into account all the hours he puts in creating and maintaining trail, purchasing and maintaining the equipment used to do that, nor the time spent making appearances on behalf of the sport and sponsors. While many sponsors do cover expenses, someone at home has to pick up the slack while he's away.

In Buser's opinion, this is one of the most misunderstood aspects of the sport. Fans and wannabe mushers see the videos showing Alaska in all her grandeur, sleds smoothly gliding down the trail and the glory of crossing under the arch in Nome, not the hard work getting there.

Despite these concerns, Buser knows the sport has been good to him and is trying to give back to the sport. He's helping put together a dog team for a school in Tuluksak, fifty miles north of Bethel. It isn't with any expectations of the team taking anyone to glory but for educational purposes. The Iditarod has proven to be a valuable teaching resource and this team would provide students with a hands on focus to learn different skills and curriculum.

"I love sharing my sport and lifestyle," says Buser. "Like the tour, this is a natural progression, a means of growing, sharing, and educating people all at the same time."

But doesn't it ever get old?

Not the dogs. "How would you feel if your kids made up the entire winning Super Bowl team?" he asks. "Well, that's how I feel about my dogs. Every one of them is part of my family."