tnspring2004 by True North

Bristol Environmental & Engineering Services Corporation is an Anchorage-based company with offices in Marysville, Washington, and San Antonio, Texas. We employ more than 70 full-time persons, with additional staff during the summer field season. 'vVe participate in the U AA Career Fair each year, to meet new graduates who might become new employees. Our client list includes the U.S. Navy, the U.S. Air Force, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, Kulis Air National Guard Base, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The occupations listed below are just some examples of the types of work you will find in a consulting engineering firm.

>- CIVIL ENGINEERING AND DESIGN • Landfills. Water & Sewer Systems. Roads. Airports

>- CONSTRUCTION AND CONSTRUCTION MANAGEMENT • Field Supervision. Cost Estimating & Scheduling. Health & Safety

> ENVIRONMENTAL SCIENCES • Hazardous Waste Management. Chemistry. Geology & Hydrogeology. Biology

>- INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY SERVICES • CADD • GIS. GPS • Web-based Document Management

> ADMINISTRATION • Accounts Payable & Receivable. Payroll. Contracts To express interest, please forward your resume with cover letter to the address below. You can also learn about new opportunities by logging on to our web site.

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staff photo by Bob Martinson

While planning True North 2004, a staff member suggested running a story about urban sprawl's effect on dog mushing. We figured that as more people build homes near dog lots in the Mat-Su Valley, the newcomers would chafe at the sound of barking dogs. Bob Martinson, a True North photographer, volunteered to contact local dog mushing legend Martin Buser. Bob met Buser at a Seawolves basketball game and assured us Buser would welcome his call. But when Bob called Buser, the musher remembered nothing of Bob. When True North regrouped, we decided to change the focus of the dog mushing article to Buser's relationship with his dogs, and Bob signed up to take photos for the article. During the photo shoot, Bob and Buser hit it off so well that Buser invited Bob to the Iditarod's kickoff party. The evolution of Bob and Buser's relationship reflects the characteristic of Alaska that True North 2004 articulates. In an environment as vast as Alaska, our relationships are closely knit. Common threads bind us to each other and to our environment. Welcome to True North 2004.

Top left to right: Bob Martinson, photography' Andrew Morton, design' Aaron Edwards, photography'

Brian Bublitz, co-editor & writer' Adam Paunic, "vriter, design & circulation.

Bottom left to right: Gene Rachinsky, writer & photography' Chris Gillm,v, writer & photography' Paola Banchero,

professor' Liz Brooks, co-editor & writer' Mai Li Kross, design. Not pictured: Jamie Kmet, advertising.

4 TRUE NORTH路 2004

FEATURES

Net Loss Commercial fishing in Alaska suffers as overseas farm-fishing looks to invade the purity of the fishing industry. By GENE RACHINSKY . PHOTOGRAPHS BY BOB MARTINSON & GENE RACHINSKY

50 Years Young Spawning from simplicity, UAA reaches the half-century mark as the largest university in the state. By WILL JACOBS

The Science of Growth Space is a rare commodity for students using science labs and classrooms at UAA, but plans for expansion can improve education. By BRIAN BUBLITZ

Extreme Sports

A look at extreme sports in Alaska and the dedication it takes to support such a hardcore habit. By CHRIS GILLOW . PHOTOGRAPHS BY GABE DUMLAO & AARON EDWARDS

Transforming Colors A life of hardship and discovery leads to

success for a painter from Mongolia. By FUMIYO SATO . PHOTOGRAPHS BY AARON EDWARDS

UAA Grads: Where are they Now? Ever wonder what happens

to UAA graduates? Satisfy your curiosity with these UAA success stories. & AARON EDWARDS

By TRUE NORTH STAFF' PHOTOGRAPHS BY BOB MARTINSON

Man of the Trail Experience the life of a sled-dog musher and his

canine team with a profile of Martin Buser. By ADAM PAUNIC' PHOTOGRAPHS BY BOB MARTINSON

Alaska: The Ultimate Proving Ground

Ultra-marathon run足 ners gather in Alaska to endure the Iditarod Trail Invitational, a competition that calls on racers to push themselves through the Alaska wilderness. By BILL KRIEGS . PHOTOGRAPHS BY CHRIS GILLOW & BILL KRIEGS

A Race of Mercy The paw-powered history of the Iditarod Trail Sled

Dog Race. By BRANDON WILLIAMS' PHOTOGRAPH BY BOB MARTINSON

XtraTuf: The Steamy Relationship Between Alaskans and their Boots Take a trek with boot lovers to find out how boots can be everyday footwear. By LIZ BROOKS' PHOTOGRAPHS BY BOB MARTINSON

Left to Right: Gillnet at sunset; Copper River King salmon command some of the highest salmon prices in the world. One reason for the high price is that they are the first run on the calendar coming in early May, and their high content of Omega 3 oils claim many health benefits, photos by Bob Martinson; Fresh Halibut are hoisted from the fish hold of a boat in Gustavus, photo by Gene Rachinsky.

5 tanford University researcher Josh Eagle said com mercial fisheries produce 40 percent less today than in 1980, when they were producing more than 99 percent of the salmon consumed worldwide. In Alaska, 10 percent of the workforce is employed in the salmon fishing industry and the fact of farm-fishing taking over makes a devastating impact on commercial fishing. Because of competition from salmon farms over seas, Alaska's share of the global market declined from 50 to 40 percent in the 1980s, to less than 20 percen t in 2000. The state declared a state of emergency and offered commercial fisheries financial relief. Commercial fisheries are losing their market share not only to overseas competitors but also to domestic aquaculture. Farm-fishing or aquaculture producers have gained the competitive edge over commercial fish eries due to cost-cutting measures, technology and improved logistics that make it possible to ship fresh fish worldwide. As a result, these producers can provide consumers with a fresh product year-round, even as demand for fish has surged worldwide. According to the Stanford report, international com petition for salmon often undermine local efforts to pro tect environmental quality and marine resources. Marc Jones, executive director for Alaska Fisheries Development Foundation, said that farm fishing drove the prices of salmon down overall. "Farm fishing is a reality," said Jones, "and it goes from this point forward. It's never going to go away. In order to help the commercial industry, we need to restore value. Quantity is there, but by producing high quality product they can establish a greater margin and restore value of the commercial fisheries targeting every market that will pay a premium price for the product." Jones said he believes that commercial fisheries are going to survive the crisis. "They will always be there," he added, "and I am sure they will be there long past my figure." In light of industry pressures and added costs, local

fishermen are haVing a hard time making a profit. "In the last 10 years the costs went up 15 percent or more, which includes fuel, insurance, maintenance expenses on vessels and supplies. This contributes to the amount of fish we need to catch for us to break even," said John Herschleb, 51, an owner of Pagan Fisheries based in Cordova. He has been in business for more than 30 years and is now thinking about retiring from the business. Not everyone is able to adapt as the industry changes, said Gunnar Knapp, professor of economics at the Institute of Social and Economic Research at UAA. "It's a hard problem to deal with," he said. "People are adapting by cutting their expenses. They handle fish more carefully and get higher quality. With some people quitting fishing, it helps others; there's more fish for those who hang on." Similar to the transformation that occurred in agricul ture in the Lower 48, the fishing industry is now on the verge of major restructuring as well. Alaska is planning to start new cooperative fishing programs and reform producer-processor relationships. "The good news is the aquaculture revolution is forc ing more efficiency on a sector sorely in need of such change. The bad news is that such change involves con siderable human suffering and community disruption," explained Rosamond L. Naylor, the Julie Wrigley Senior Fellow at Stanford's Center for Environmental Science and Policy (CESP) and lead author of the report. The industry is already contemplating one response on the advertising front. To bring back the popularity of commercial fishing, the industry needs to educate the public about farm-fish ing products that have toxins and food coloring which cause health problems, suggested Paula Terrel, program director at Alaska Marine Conservation Council. "A huge marketing and educational campaign about the value of the wild and the problem with farm fishing will definitely make a difference in the fishing industry." • NET LOSS

by Will Jacabs

This year, the University of Alaska Anchorage

celebrates 50 years of public higher education

in southcentral Alaska. Home to more than 21,000 students, it is a major regional university with programs ranging from non-credit, non-degree courses to graduate degrees. UAA is now the largest of the University of Alaska schools,and, beyond doubt, one of the most important institutions, public or private, in Alaska. UAA had modest beginnings. The president and the University of Alaska Board of Regents started to offer university courses on Alaska's military bases in 1950; in 1953, they began to enter into agreements with school districts to operate community colleges. The first of these created Anchorage Community College, the first institu tion of public higher education in southcentral Alaska. The college, which shared space with the new Anchorage High School (now West High), opened in 1954 and its first graduate completed an associate degree in 1956. ACC was followed by community colleges in Palmer in 1958 - later Matanuska-Susitna Community College Kenai-Soldotna in 1964 and Kodiak four years later. Throughout the 1950s, the university had offered a few upper division courses on Elmendorf Air Force Base and the U.S. Army's Fort Richardson. In the early 1960s this effort began to expand. The Board of Regents also began to consider the development of a University of Alaska campus in Anchorage, focusing as early as 1962 on property in the Goose Lake area in what was then the outskirts of Anchorage. Construction of the five build ings that constituted the Anchorage Community College 8 TRUE NORTH· 2004

campus, the core of what is now known as the West Campus of UAA, began in 1968. In the 1960s the Regents also began to decentralize the administration of the university. They created the Anchorage Regional Center in 1966 to bring all UA oper ations in the Anchorage area under one administration headed by Donald M. Dafoe, the first provost. Two years later, the Regents enlarged Dafoe's responsibilities by creating the Southcentral Regional Center. In a single organization, it included ACC, upper-division and grad uate programs, Elmendorf and Ft. Richardson opera tions, and the community colleges in the Mat-Su Valley, at Kenai-Soldotna, and in Kodiak. This institution fore shadowed UAA as we know it today. The '60s also saw a lively debate about the relationship between the expanding University of Alaska and Alaska Methodist University, a private school that opened in 1960. In 1969-70 the two universities created the Anchorage Higher Education Consortium - an agree ment for easy transfer of students and, more important ly. the land, library collection, and financial arrange ments for the Consortium Library. Since its completion

in 1973, the library has served both UAA and Alaska Methodist (now Alaska Pacific University) faculty, staff, and students. It is the foundation on which the new Library of the 21st Century, set to open this fall, is built. In 1970, the Regents grouped the existing upper-divi sion and graduate programs into the Anchorage Senior College. They also decreed that in any city where the University of Alaska offered those programs, the opera tion - including community colleges - was to be named "University of Alaska, (City)." Lewis Haines, who succeeded Dafoe as provost of the Southcentral Region in 1969, was the first CEO of the University of Alaska, Anchorage. In 1976, to mark the continued decentralization of the UA system, the president appointed John Lindauer as the school's first chancellor. The 1970s were a complex and confusing time for the new university. The statewide system and the Anchorage operation were consumed with labor dis putes, organizational confusion, financial difficulties, and passionate quarrels about the compatibility and rel ative importance of the community college and universi ty missions. This turmoil peaked in a series of leadership crises. The year 1977 saw four different presidents of the University of Alaska. Given these difficulties, it is not surprising that the experimental combination of the community colleges and traditional university programs in a single adminis trative framework, embodied in the Anchorage and Southcentral Regional Centers and the original University of Alaska, Anchorage, did not endure long. In 1978 the University of Alaska placed all community col leges in an organization devoted exclusively to a com munity college mission. This change effectively separat ed ACC from the fledgling UA,A -leaving the latter to be composed solely of the units reorganized from the recently dissolved Senior College: the College of Arts and Sciences, the Justice Center, and the Schools of Education, Engineering, Nursing, Business and Public Administration. The late '70s began a period defined by continued growth and increasing independence of all the institu tions in the region, supported by the increasing flow of state funding from North Slope oil money. Less than eight years into this promising era, however, the whole of the University of Alaska was threatened by the col lapse of state finances, caused by a decline in ,o\'orld oil prices. In the fall of 1986, President Donald O'Dowd proposed to reorganize the university system yet again, this time to consolidate all operations - community col leges, baccalaureate, and graduate programs - into three separately accredited regional universities head quartered in Fairbanks, Anchorage, and Juneau.

Whatever the financial savings (and these were dis puted), O'Dowd intended not only to end the organiza tional independence of the community colleges but to eliminate them altogether, with the exception of Prince William Sound Community College. Each part of ACe's mission was to continue, but it was to do so within the framework of a new University of Alaska Anchorage (no comma). An independently identified ACC ceased to exist. In the Mat-Su Valley, Kenai-Soldotna, and Kodiak the colleges dropped "community" from their names and returned to administrative arrangements within the new UAA similar to those that had existed under the Southcentral Regional Center. To some in Anchorage and outside, it appeared that the community college mission could not survive the reorganization. Less visible but important was the fear that merging the community college and university mis sions in one house would most seriously compromise the latter. Proposals for complete separation of the com munity colleges resurfaced to no avail. The Regents approved the O'Dowd plan in 1987 and the governor and legislature declined to interfere. Debate persists in many quarters over the necessity, wisdom, and uJ tima te consequences of the 1987 restruc turing, but there can be no doubt that the present University of Alaska Anchorage, the product of crisis, controversy, and compromise, has developed into a major regional university with a reputation for high quality programs in each part of the complex and com prehensive community college and university missions inherited from its predecessor institutions. Much is owed to the two chancellors - Donald Behrend and Lee Gorsuch - who led the new UAA out of the turmoil of the '80s and through the fiscal difficulties of the '90s to its present status. UAA has enjoyed almost 16 years of sta ble and continuous organization and institutional identi ty. This has allowed the creation of programs across the range of UAA's missions, an enlarged physical establish ment, a first-class electronic infrastructure, a "Library of the 21st Century," and an Anchorage campus communi ty based on new dormitories and a campus commons. Now the largest university in the state, with an all-cam pus total workforce of almost 3,500 people and annual expenditures of $170 million, UAA is an important Alaskan institution, vital to the continued health and development of the region and the state.•

Will Jacobs is a emeritus professor of history and political sci ence. He was first appointed to the Anchorage Senior College in the department of history in 1973. He retired as associate vice provost in 2002. He is compiling a history of the University of Alaska Anchorage. 50 YEARS YOUNG

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by Brian Bublitz

Microscopes, plastic cups filled with rusting instruments, and bottles of Windex, alcohol and water clutter the tables of Lab 119 on the first floor of the Science Building. Incubators obscure the sunlight peeking through the back row of windows. Students file to their stations and sit on 3-foot metal stools as class begins in the cramped room. The instructor describes the day's experiment. But her lab could just as well space for science research and University of Alaska Anchorage. Most of UAA's science classes some run from 8:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. demand. And the problem is not graduate classroom and lab space.

describe the lack of instruction at the are at capacitYI and just to keep up with restricted to w1der足

"The facilities are so crowded that if we want to do more in terms of upper-division work in chemistry and molecular biology we need more labs," said Don Spalingel~ chairman of the Department of Biological Sciences. Without a building dedicated to laboratories, stu足 dents are often forced into research labs far too small to SCIENCE OF GROWTH

be effective. Science faculty, Anchorage business leaders and students want beefed-up lab and classroom space. "The current facilities do not meet demand," said Charles Turner, a pre med student. "A new facility will improve education." Turner said that space constraints are a concern for building as state support for higher education declines. students with busy schedules. Many biology experi On a cost-per-square-foot basis, science buildings are ments require the incubation of test samples for very expensive compared with other UAA construction proj specific amounts of time. However, because the incuba ects. For example, the proposed facilities would cost tors are stored within the labs, students cannot always about twice that of the new library, parking garage or check results at their convenience because another class dormitories. The integrated building, covering 78,000 may be in session. Turner suggests that students and fac square feet, would cost approximately $81 million. The ulty need a results room to store test samples outside of same space built in stages would take longer to complete classrooms. and cost approximately $120 million. The catch: The uni Eric Sjoden, a biology major, agreed that separate labs versity needs funding for the integrated science building for beginning and advanced classes would also be more up front. By building in stages, UAA can spread the convenient for students. spending out over a longer And even when the labs period of time. are not overcrowded, they UAA has $8.4 million in are substandard, Spalinger the bank for the project. That added. Many of UAA's can be spent at once on the lower-division labs were first phase of several build built in the 1970s. If remod ings for science instruction eled, the labs would have to and research. Or the universi meet modern-day codes - an ty may hang on to the savings while it waits for more fund expensive proposition. But ing for a single integrated sci merely remodeling would do ence building, said Cyndi little to help alleviate cramped conditions. Spear, Associate Vice The university is study Students cram into science laboratories, a situation that fac Chancellor for Facilities and ing two plans to add science ulty, students and administrators say compromises learning. Campus services. classrooms and lab space. Hoping for more funds, the University of Alaska Board of Regents filed a capital One plan calls for scientific learning and research space to be integrated into a single building. The build budget request with the Alaska Legislature earlier this ing would house all the labs, offices and storerooms for year. But due to Alaska's lagging economy and budget science departments, including biology, physics and shortfalls, money for capital spending is anything but chemistry. certain. The second plan is to construct multiple buildings in An integrated science building is now a top priority phases during a longer period of time. Each building in the University of Alaska's annual capital budget would then house one or two departments. Such campus request. voices as the Union of Students and the Department of The proposed building would center on teaching sci Biological Sciences are lobbying in favor of an integrated ence rather than scientific research, Spear said. "Teaching is our first priority right now," she said. building as opposed to the multiple-building option. "Having the departments scattered can inhibit com Additional space for science would benefit UAA, munication between departments because many of the Anchorage and Alaska, say science educators and science disciplines mix with others, such as chemistry Anchorage business people. The brochure UAA pub and physics," Spalinger said. "It reflects the complexity lished explaining the need for new science buildings puts it best: "Science education = jobs for Alaskans." of science today that cooperation between fields is key to discovery. " The Alaska economy depends heavily on people with science and technical education. The challenge is finding funding for an integrated

"The current facilities do not meet demand. A new facility will improve education."

12 TRUE NORTH· 2004

Anchorage, home to four out of 10 /.'> Alaskans and nearly k5.F. FUTURE PHASES half the jobs in Alaska, is the sta te's economic engine. But the engine I.S.F. PHASE I ignites with only a 2 FLOORS + MEeH. few key industries. 30,000 GSF By far the largest of these is the oil and gas industry. A 2001 study done by the Alaska Oil and Gas Association showed that In 1999 the industry employed 2,376 people in Anchorage wi th $239 million in pay roll. The effect of that employment rip ples through the economy. The industry also spent $845 million on goods and ISF PHASE II services in the Anchorage community that created an additional 6,700 jobs and $275 million in support-industry busi nesses, and 4,900 jobs and $156 million through the rest of the community. In total, this accounts for 13,976 jobs in Anchorage alone, and the success of this industry depends on scientific advance ment, said Sean Parnell, deputy director of the Alaska Department of Natural Resources, Oil and Gas Division. Survival in the oil and gas industry largely is about finding more oil. At the same time, the industry must develop UAA hopes to consolidate science classrom and lab space into an integrated techniques that are faster, safer and clean science faciltiy. Images courtesy of Facilities and Campus Services. er. To succeed, companies need scientists from a variety of fields including geology, geophysics and petroleum engineering. Anadarko Petroleum, the eighth-largest gas producer Parnell said that all kinds of scientific jobs are avail in North America, says this on its Web site: able within the industry, but companies prefer applicants "We hire talented people and equip them with with plenty of lab and field experience. advanced technology for finding and producing oil and Other science-oriented jobs are also available at envi gas." A company such as Anadarko will make use of the ronmental protection groups and at consulting firms that hire out specialists to the oil industry, said Judy Brady, most advanced technology and methods available to the executive director of the Alaska Oil and Gas Association. industry - and hire the right people to do the job. UAA's ability to turn out well-trained scientists is The industry makes big technological leaps as a mat vital, Brady said, if Alaskans are to remain competitive ter of course. If UAA can't keep up, Alaskan jobs will go in the industry: to graduates from larger schools. Alaskans now fill many "You'd hope that the schools here are competitive of the jobs in the oil industry, especially in state agencies, but that could change. with the quality of students that are graduating." • SCIENCE OF GROWTH

by Chris Gillow

The Alaska landscape provides a natural playground that consumes outdoor enthusiasts and extremists. Jobs and school are put on hold so two-stroke engines can be tortured, then tamed; skis can be waxed, re-waxed, then propelled into the fresh backcountry; and icefalls can be stabbed until this pulseless arctic monster is conquered or it comes alive to steal the pulse of its challenger. Extremists are dedicated. Dead-set on a life full of thrills, spills and wills, they balance a hearty diet of insane individual sports with a side order of school or work. "We just work, then we can play," Todd Fisher said, manager of Peter Glenn Sports in Anchorage. "Work's not usually affected, but my play-time is." The inherent risk and time-consuming nature of extreme sports can only fit into the life of a few. These hardcore, go-until-you-puke extremists jump at the chance to risk their lives for what most people can only see in a movie. "I hate seeing that warning on snowmachine videos, 'These are trained professionals, please don't try this at home,' I mean who deems them pros?" said Nick Beasley, a University of Alaska Anchorage student and back 14 TRUE NORTH· 2004

country snowmachiner. "I go just as big and take just as many risks ... but I know my limits, too." By their definition, extreme sports demand that ath letes acknowledge their physical limits and push past those boundaries. Problem is, Alaska is a place with few boundaries. With so many mountains and meadows, extremists often wonder what to conquer next. Alaskans and extremists alike have to be a lot more self-sufficient, knowledgeable and hardcore. "Everything is big up here," Fisher said, "so you go big." Eventually, after all the cuts, bruises and broken bones, these hardcore athletes achieve personal victory. Victory has nothing to do with scoring points, sacking

the quarterback or getting the fastest time. It has every thing to do with beating a personal best or going bigger than a buddy off the 100-foot cliff that lies ahead. "Sometimes," Fisher said, "it's just about bragging rights." NICK BEASLEY, 23, and University of Alaska Anchorage engineering student, grew up riding snow machines. "One of those old white Tundras," said Beasley with a slight laugh. In all actuality, the sport of snow machining came to him as a surprise when his dad picked him up from school with the Tundra. He continued riding, eventually leaving behind ski ing, his first winter sports Jove. "Skiing limits you to going down-hill, but you can take snowmachines almost anywhere," Beasley said. Beasley came to find out that being able to go any where might not be such a good thing. Buying his first snowmachine at 16, a $2000 Polaris XLT Special, Beasley was well on his way to be carving through chest-high powder at Turnagain Pass. Little did he know, seven years later, he would experience the most extreme risk-taking event in his life, a near death jump over the Turnagain Pass parking lot. It was going to be a sick ending to an even sicker day of riding, Beasley said. The camera was ready and he thumbed the throttle. He soared over the parking-lot

Nick Beasley soars through the aIr after launching off a Jump at Turnagain Pass. photo by Gabe Dumlao

gap, but as friends watched they could tell there was, "Too much throttle." Beasley cleared the gap, and his landing, placing him on flat ground where he came down sideways. Beasley lay motionless, with a shattered ankle and broken back. He could have died or been paralyzed. "But I didn't die and there is a lot more riding to do," he said. Today, Beasley rides as much as ever. He credits the rush produced from clearing a gap or climbing hundreds of vertical feet in a matter of seconds and the serenity he feels when turning a crisp 360 degrees, white-topped mountains and the engine's rumble keeping him company. As SEAN CAHOON, 21, etched his way up the frigid icefall, he looked back to check on his climbing partner. Everything was going great. It was a beautiful, lively day to be teaching a friend how to lead climb, or was it? Eight feet from the closest screw to hook into, he reached up to work his way closer. As he stretched his 5-foot eight, 135-pound body, he felt his shoulder pop, then hang out of socket. With a dislocated shoulder and eight feet to go, he only had two things he could do. Jam his shoulder back into place and keep climbing. At five years old Cahoon skied on his first pair of Snoopy skis. While most kids his age were watching Sesame Street, Cahoon was at Kissing Bridge Ski Resort in Buffalo, N.Y., showing off his new skis and developing a lifelong love for extreme sports. He had just become an adrenaline-driven extremist. Cahoon is an all-around extremist. He goes rock and ice climbing, mountaineering, backcountry skiing, whitewater rafting and mountain biking. It's hard to choose one sport as a favorite, but mountaineering would have to be it, he said. "1 have a drive for it," he added. This drive keeps Cahoon on the fast track to personal accomplishment. To excel at anything it takes time, but extreme sports are a little different, he said. "Sports like these have a lot of different aspects, it takes a lot more dedication," Cahoon said. "There is a shitty balance between the amount of dedication you put in and the reward you get out of it. But 1 always get something out of it." EXTREME SPORTS

The reward is the rush, the feeling of accom plishment "when you get fresh lines out of a sweet gully." Unlike other sports, there isn't the compet itive nature that distorts the reason why people are there, its all about having fun, said Cahoon. The biology major recognizes that the dedica tion required to participate and excel in these sports is very time consuming. His solution for balancing extreme sports, work and school is sim ple: he blows off school. "It's not really a tough choice when there is two feet of snow or two hours of lecture," he said.

Kristine Laughlin's vibrant personality shines through during

a relaxing run on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail. photo by Aaron Edwards

16 TRUE NORTH· 2004

KRISTINE LAUGHLIN, 22, walked up to the Susitna 100 start line knowing she had seen better days. She was nauseated, hadn't eaten much and was about to run a laO-mile race through Alaska's bitter cold winter and unforgiving wilderness. Laughlin thought she might be getting old. Her mind and body unprepared and worn out from running marathons in Boston, Chicago and Lincoln, Neb. Marathons, an Eco-Challenge and racing on the Armed Forces Marathon Running team. Unknown to her, it wasn't age or the com mon cold that was affecting her performance. She was running for two. The University of Alaska Anchorage math major found out that she was pregnant a few days after the race when she took a home pregnancy test she said. Laughlin and her husband were going to wait until after the race to have a child, but, their plans accelerated. Despite feeling ill and, in her eyes, running a less than perfect race, Laughlin finished with her hardcore Alaska mentality intact. "Alaskans are tougher," she said, "a lot of the time we're more hell-bent on finishing." The runner, her blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, relishes discipline. She wound up finish ing the race in 41 hours, earning her a fourth place finish among women. Laughlin's dedication to her sport is limited by her busy lifestyle, she said. She keeps her training schedule flexible so she can go to school and work. "I don't take as many naps as I'd like to," she said. "Sleep is what takes the beating." Laughlin has lived for distance running since she was 16 years old when a friend introduced her to the sport, she said. Ever since, when she does n't run for a while she feels extremely guilty. "I feel like I need it," Laughlin said, "It's some kind of natural high." •

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY AARON EDWARDS

When you enter Khulan Bataa's room in her west Anchorage home, notice the bright red colors. The red is vivid and passionate. Several paintings on the wall are portraits of women, children and flowers. "Color means a lot to me," Bataa said. She wears a red shirt, black pants and red lipstick. "But I was afraid of using colors because I thought I might ruin my draw足 ing." Bataa was born and reared in Mongolia, between China and Russia. Unlike some nomadic Mongolian peo足 ple, Bataa is a city girl who grew up in Ulan BatOl~ the capital. Living in the United States had been a family dream.

Her grandmother found a newspaper ad for an exchange program with an American high school. "My grandmother said, 'You are going to go to America,'" Bataa recalled. Bataa's parents emigrated to Korea for better wages to support their daughter's education. She lived with rela足 tives in Mongolia for a year after her family had left. She was 17 when she came to Anchorage as an exchange student at Dimond High School. Knowing little TRANSFORMING COLORS 19

English, Bataa said high school life was miser able. "People just asked me questions like, 'I like your clothes and shoes, where did you buy them?' But they didn't really talk to me," she said. theme to her artwork, she has a sense of color. Bataa graduated from Dimond in 2001. She wanted to Warm pinks, oranges and reds surround the images stay in Alaska and decided to attend the University of mostly of women and children - in the paintings. Alaska Anchorage. A small girl sits in a chair in one painting with a Bataa, who turns 21 soon, has drawn ever since she woman sitting next to her. The woman is hiding her face. could remember. After taking a painting class, she knew "This is my mother and me," Bataa said. "When I she wanted to be an artist. started painting, ] was trying to express my sad feelings. UAA Associate Professor Kat Tomka says Bataa is My mother hides her face because she is crying." quiet and dreamy, but works hard. In another painting, Bataa is on a bridge on which she Her painting has a definite style: "It's got a soft and used to walk with an old love. She wears a bright satin sweet feel, but not sappy," said Tomka, who teaches dress. Behind the bridge is a mountain marred by power painting and drawing. lines. The surface of the river reflects the mountain. Bataa's early life was colorless. When she thinks of Sweeping color defines the sky. her native land, she thinks in black, "This is my dream picture. I gray and white. never had a satin dress. I've never "] have a lot of sad memories," had long hair." Bataa said. "People always watch you Bataa paints from memory or in Mongolia. It's a small community. I from snapshots, an exercise that can was always afraid of being different." compound the longing she feels for Bataa differed from her peers. She her old life. pierced her eyebrow and ears. She "It's nice to see the picture, but used to smoke. Having an abusive you cannot see the person," she father, Bataa saw her mother crying explained. frequently. Nearly four years have passed After coming to the United States, since Bataa left Mongolia. Now she Bataa found colors in her life. She has friends and knows what she saw people in different clothes and wants to do. But Bataa realizes that hairstyles. her heart is divided by her love for "Here people don't care about her homeland and her affinity for what other people think about them," Alaska. she said. "People understand about She has not returned to Mongolia me now." since coming to Anchorage. She sees Bataa changed her style. She start herself living here for a long time. ed wearing bright colors, especially "] don't want to be in Mongolia, but it doesn't mean I don't love pink and red. Colors lift her up and ~ make her happier. Yet Bataa is still Mongolia," Bataa said. "Because my afraid of expressing her true colors. parents have been working so hard "I always paint one person. I am for me in Korea. It has been four alone in my space." years. I would feel guilty if I just Tomka says Bataa is evolving and decided to go back." so is her artwork. Wherever she settles, Bataa's "She is finding her individual home will crackle with color. voice," Tomka said of her soft-spoken "I don't know if my future hus student. Real feathers are attached to this painting band can handle the colors," she While Bataa is still developing a to give it a unique 3-D look. said with a smile.•

"Here people don't care about what other people think about them. People understand about me now."

TRANSFORMING COLORS 21

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Buser's team

6f 1

before the 2004

s appear fit and ready to compete (J Trail Sled Dog Race.

The unforgiving trail Buser has competed in 20 Iditarods and every race has been a challenge - some days more than others. He remembered that night, one of his first trips to Nome. "A musher's greatest fear at night is being tied down away from his dog team." he said. He's had moose run over his team, braved bad snow足 storms, and even driven his sled out onto thin ice in the Bering Sea. A musher's life. He has been doing it for more than 20 years. Experience has refined him into a better musher and a skilled competitor. Buser has also learned from other mushers about what not to do and what to avoid on the trail. "You can learn a lot from other's mistakes," he said. 28 TRUE NORTH揃 2004

It's called the last great race. Where the roads stop, the Iditarod begins: the trail spans the from Anchorage to Nome. Mushers spend all year entering smaller compe足 titions and training for long-day rides to prepare for it. The Iditarod Trail began in the 1880s, serving as a conduit for mail, supplies and prospectors eager to get their hands on Alaska's gold. Spanning a distance of 1,150 miles, the Iditarod is nearly half the size of the historic Oregon Trail. The trail includes some of the toughest terrain in the world. Today the historic trail is used primarily for competi足 tion. The thrill of the Iditarod Sled Dog Race brings local and foreign dog teams to Alaska for the chance to become the next champion. But the odds are against them. Out of 50 to 80 mushers who start the race to Nome nearly half have no chance of finishing in the top

20. Yet they come - some simply with the goal to finish the race.

To Nome from home It is a clear day, a good day to run. Buser eyeballs his team and makes a last-minute check on their harnesses before giving the command to go forward. The 16 dogs look intently at their master, watching his body lan足 guage, his every movement. They yip and bark; they squirm with excitement and anticipation of the run before them. For Buser, this will be his 21st push across the Iditarod Trail. In 2003 his team came in fourth, a day behind first-place winner Robert Sorlie of Hurdal, Norway. Today, howevel~ is not the start of the Iditarod, and

this place is not the ceremonial start in Anchorage - it's Big Lake. The race is still weeks away, and this is just one of many training runs Buser's dog team will take before the start of Iditarod XXXII in March. Located 25 miles north of Anchorage, Big Lake's small community of 2,700 enjoys quiet seclusion from the rest of the world. Buser and wife, Kathy Chapoton, moved to Big Lake in 1987 so he could train and she could continue her career as a teacher. "Big Lake has excellent trails and it's not too cold," Buser said, "you can go from here to Nome without a road." Buser and Chapoton met in 1979, while both partici足 pating in Alaska's Remote Partial Staking Plan, a pro足 gram that allowed residents to go out and claim their MAN OF THE TRAIL 29

own land by staking it with a marker and recording it with the state. Chapoton had returned from staking the land in Big Lake and was waiting patiently in the state office, while noticing Buser arguing over a plot he had claimed out in Trapper Creek. "He had such a strong accent back then," she remem bered. Born and reared in New Orleans, Chapoton moved to Alaska to feel what cold is like. Buser moved for dog rac ing. She never imagined having so many dogs before meeting Buser, she said with a laugh, "1 grew up in the city. I never owned a dog in my life." Chapoton worries about Buser every time he goes out, but feels the race has improved greatly through the years with increased media coverage and the Internet. She recalled one Iditarod that was particularly unnerv ing. In 1991, Buser got lost in a storm and she received a telephone call from a race official in the middle of the night. The official told her that out of 22 mushers, her husband was the only one unaccounted for. "It was pretty scary. 1 remember going to bed and 30 TRUE NORTH· 2004

thinking what am 1 going to do as a single mom raising two kids," she said. Her anxiety abated when she learned that her hus band was not lost, but instead taking a calculated risk to push through the storm. That risk paid off. The determined musher was testing a new breed of fastel~ shorter-haired dogs that year. Buser had heard a good deal of skepticism from the media and other mush ers about whether his new dogs could make the long haul and finish. They finished all right, second right behind Rick Swenson. Chapoton believed her husband went into that storm to prove he and his team could. "I think he gained a lot of confidence from that race."

Raising a large family The Buser family moved to Big Lake because it's a perfect place to train, but also to raise their two sons, Nikolai and Rohn, who are both named after check points along the Iditarod. Buser is close to his boys. This year both of them have entered the Junior Iditarod, though Buser said the boys are not interested in

following in their father's footsteps as a result of growing up around mushing. "They both have diverse interests," Buser said. The extended family - the dogs - live in the backyard. Chapoton described her hus band's commitment to mushing as, "Intense. Martin really loves the outdoors and loves the dogs." Buser has won dozens of awards for his above-and beyond care for his four-legged companions, including the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award four times. His wife com pared him to a horse whisperer, one who is uniquely in touch with animals. "He just knows them, knows all their individual little quirks and knows what to say to each one," she said. Buser's care for his dogs is second nature. His objective is always to design better care for his dogs. "Having a group of dogs is sort of like children .... It's like raising children," Buser said. The couple started their business, Happy Trails Kennel, in 1987. Though Buser doesn't consider Happy Trails a business - the majority of his dogs are trained for his own team. "We try not to call it a business, it's a lifestyle," he said. "1 don't breed for sale; I breed to replenish my teal11."

A passion for mushing Buser's love for animals began at an early age. Growing up in Zurich, Switzerland he became fascinat ed with dogs in his early teens. He recalled his parents having a variety of animals around the house. "There were always critters around and 1was coached in animal husbandry very early. 1 had reptiles and amphibians," Buser said, "I had lots of turtles, yeah, I was a pretty big turtle expert." Buser started training sled dogs in his spare time while at school in Switzerland. And in 1979, he decided to move to Alaska to gain more experience in competi tive dog mushing. In Europe, Buser heard about the land

of the midnight sun - the place where the sun never sets, people live in igloos and everyone rides around on dog teams to and from work. "In Europe, just as in the United States, the miscon ceptions are still there about Alaska," Buser said. Buser's planned trip to Alaska was going to be tem porary, but once he arrived he quickly fell in love with the state. In 2000, he proudly became a U.S. citizen. "1 planned to come here for a year and I am still here for that year," Buser joked.

Dogs and champions The Iditarod is always a challenge. Buser once said his dogs were the true heroes of the trail. "We are connected in a symbiotic relationship. The dogs can't do it without me and 1 can't do it without them," Buser said. The most rewarding thing for Buser is building his team, training them and watching them go on to win a championship, "It's not the racing, it's the raising of my team," Buser admitted. This year he has already raced at three large events to keep himself and his dogs on that competitive edge. He placed second at the Kuskokwim 300 in February. The temperature dropped to 40 below during the course of the race. Buser's mushing career has led to many victories. At age 46, Buser shows no signs of retiring and still has "a few goals." One goal he holds firm to is beating veteran musher, Rick Swenson's number of Iditarod wins. "1 have four and Swenson has five, but nobody has six," Buser paused, "But for right now I am just working for five."

The light from his headlamp fluttered about; he could barely make out the trail ahead of him. Then he saw it. His snow hook (a large, steel hook used as a brake to keep the sled and dogs from running off when stopped) dangled from a nearby tree limb, and the line attached to it, led away into the darkness. He grabbed at it. The line was taut. A great weight was pulling at it from the other end. Hand-over-hand he followed it into the black abyss, until he finally reached his dogs. Pairs of green-yellow glowing eyes stared at him. They were ready and anxious to continue the race. Buser could not have been more relieved that his team hadn't traveled more than a few yards away. "Afterward, it was stiU 40 below outside, but I felt like it was 40 above," Buser recaUed. "We don't count close calls because we'd be counting all the time." • MAN OF THE TRAIL 31

LAS

THE

photo by Chris Gillow 32

K A

ULTIMATE

by Bill Kriegs

People thought him crazy. Edward R. Jesson sold his store and bought a bike for $150. Having never rode a bike in his life, he learned in eight days, before heading out on a 1,OOO-mile ride across Alaska. It was the middle of winter and he survived temperatures of 48 degrees below zero. The year was 1900. Alaska draws and inspires people toward extraordi足 nary adventures. A century ago, gold was an incentive. Today it is something else. Implausible beauty, vast land足 scapes sheltered by rippling northern lights, or low-lying sunlight spreading across Alaska's wild and rugged inte足 rior. But talk about biking, skiing or running 1,000 miles across Alaska in sub-zero weather and people shudder. "People tend to get glazed looks on their faces," said Bill Merchant, the race director of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. In the invitational, racers run, ski or bike either 350 or

1,100 miles across Alaska. They struggle to survive the most inhospitable weather while willing their bodies and spirits across a distance that equals the trip from Chicago to Portland, Me. "It is the longest, least-supported ultra-mara thon race in the world," Merchant said. "There is just nothing else like it," said Pat Irwin, a cyclist and former champion of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. Irwin fell in love with Alaska after his first race and moved here from Tennessee. "It's the most satisfying and rewarding experience I've ever had," said In-vin.

ALASKA: THE ULTIMATE PROVING GROUND 33

Doug Dunlop, who biked the race two years ago, describes it as phenomenally fun and breathtakingly beautiful. "I did my descent of the Dalzell Gorge at night by the light of the moon," he recalled. "The icy walls of the gorge reflected shades of purple, green and orange, giving a surreal glow to the snow and trees. It was like riding through "vhat the cover of a fantasy novel tries to look like." The race serves as the ultimate test for most racers - both physically and mentally - attracting competitors from several coun tries each year. "Even if you consider the fastest time to Nome on foot, as 22 days - that is like run ning a 50-mile marathon each day," said Merchant. When you add potential temperatures of potentially 55 below zero, and no safety net - it becomes a much greater challenge. The race starts the week before the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race on Knik Lake and runs 350 miles to the town of McGrath. Racers doing the tlOO-mile race continue to Nome. No support vehicles are allowed. Racers are allowed two 10 pound drop bags to McGrath and are responsible for their own drops to Nome. The race is limited to 50 participants. Some qualify by racing in the Susitna 100. Race organizers admit other participants based on their experience in endurance sports. Mike Curiak, a seven-year veteran of Alaska winter ultra-marathons, set the overall time record of 15 days for the tlOO-mile race on a bike in 2000. "It has become a heartthrob for me," said race director Merchant. "It truly is a life-changing experience, you never quite fit in to your day-to-day routine again and the whole rat-race thing seems a lot less significant." People still think the racers crazy. But endurance athletes are lured to the trail every year, escaping modern life, inherit ing an adventurous fortitude long unique to Alaska. To racers, the Iditarod Trail Invitational offers an experience as pre cious as the fabled gold nuggets of Alaska's past. • p'hoto by Bob Martinson 34 TRUE NORTH· 2004

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"I really wished I was wearing XtraTufs," said Muse, referring to her favorite brand of rubber boots. Muse's first XtraTufs were handed down to her from her older brother, Benny, when he outgrew them. Ever since, Muse has been loyal to the chocolate brown boots bearing the XtraTuf name. Like many Alaskans, Muse knows the value of a good pair of boots. Alaskans rely on boots to protect their feet from cold weather, falling objects and deep puddles. When we find a pair that can survive the conditions we live and work in, we don't experiment with other brands. Right now, Alaskans prefer XtraTuf boots, which have achieved cult-like status here and come highly rec ommended by those who wear them. Larry Shafer, an employee at Anchorage's B&J Commercial, has been selling XtraTuf boots in Alaska for 20 years. At work, he wears a white short-sleeved polo shirt with the red and blue XtraTuf logo embroidered in the upper-left hand corner, right next to his heart. Shafer attributes XtraTuf's popularity to the boot's chevron sole. "These boots will not slip on a wet [boat] deck," said Shafer. With deep grooves, the tread on the bottom of XtraTuf boots is rugged. The patented design incorporates sev eral chevrons, which give the pattern its name. Because XtraTufs have traction on wet decks, they are the standard boots of the Alaska fishing industry. "Ninety-nine percent of all [Alaskan] commercial fish ermen wear them," said Shafer. "Sometimes, captains put it in their contracts that anyone working on their boat has to wear XtraTufs." XtraTufs are hand-made neoprene boots. Neoprene is a synthetic rubber that resists damage caused by flexing and twisting, and can withstand a wide range of tem peratures. Out-of-the-box XtraTufs smell like fresh tires because of the fresh neoprene. Used XtraTufs smell like sweat, wood smoke, and fish guts because of wool socks, camping trips and successful fishing outings. Plus, neo prene is waterproof. XTRATUF 37

"XtraTufs are a function over fashion thing that has spawned into a culture thing." Tom Good, owner of Good Enterprises, distributes XtraTufs in Alaska for the boots' manufacturer, Norcross Safety Products. Good revealed the technique for water proofing XtraTufs. "The secret is in the seamless construction," said Good. First, boot linings are dipped three times in liquid neo prene. Between each dipping, boots are hung to dry. Then, they are dipped in a saltwater bath and baked in an oven to congeal the neoprene. The last step is tracing "vhite banding along the top and bottom of each boot. "When you buy a pair of XtraTufs, you'll notice a white powder on the outside," he said. "That's the salt left over from the saltwater bath." XtraTuf boots, which cost about $70, are made in an 80 year-old building in Rock Island, Ill., Good said. The boots were first developed in the' 60s by BF Goodwrench for fishermen on the West Coast. Now, five styles are on the market. One style, the steel-toed XtraTuf, which comes with and without insulation, is approved by the American National Standards Institute for industrial use. For approval, the standards institute requires boots to pass several tests. The ANSI label on XtraTufs means the steel-toe built into each boot can withstand up to 75 pounds of pressure per square inch. Steel-toed boots protect feet from falling or rolling objects. ANSI also requires the tread on approved boots to be able to push water on the floor aside so the boot can make direct con tact with the floor. Direct contact increases friction and decreases the chance of slipping. Steel-toed XtraTufs are popular on Alaska's North Slope oil fields where heavy 38 TRUE NORTH· 2004

mining and drilling equipment is used daily. "XtraTufs are a function over fashion thing that has spawned into a culture thing," said Eric Carpenter, a German major at UAA. "And they go well with Carhartts," added Sarah Wells, an engineering major at UAA. "When I was at the post office yesterday," said Good, "I saw a man wearing XtraTufs. I asked him why he was wearing XtraTufs and he asked me, 'Why are you wear ing socks?' I said, 'Because I always wear socks.' And he said, 'Well, I always wear XtraTufs.'" Declines in the fishing industry haven't affected XtraTuf boot sales yet, said Good. He credits the boot's staying power to the expanded market and the creation of different styles of XtraTufs. This year is the first year that Norcross Safety Products is selling XtraTufs in a color other than the traditional chocolate brown. The company now sells a 12-inch boot in navy blue designed for sailing. While commercial fishermen and industrial workers swear by XtraTufs, regular folks use them, too. Muse, the nursing student, wears hers for hiking. "They are more comfortable than hiking boots," Muse said. "They don't give me blisters." Wells wore XtraTufs every day during the summer when she worked as a kayak guide in Whittier. The com pany she worked for required its employees and cus tomers to wear XtraTufs. Carpenter wears his to class. Would he consider buy ing a different brand of rubber boots? "No," said Carpenter. "You get shot for saying things like that around here." •

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