A century of dog sledding in the shadow of Denali By Joe Yelverton
The Language of the Great Silent Places
Cracking the cold winter air, a distinctive voice radiates through the forest, arousing three more voices, and a whimsical ensemble. A bemused raven observes from atop an old spruce tree, tilting her head at the growing commotion. Six more voices join in, creating a peculiar melody, now echoing across the hillsides. Countless others add their voices, making the once discordant chorus an affecting anthem, flooding the landscape with a visceral sound, overflowing with emotion. These passionate voices belong to 26 sled dogs, Alaskan huskies, each one with a distinct personality, all belonging to a complex social hierarchy, communicating in a way that might seem like a cacophony to some. But for the curious, for those who love
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A L A S K A H U M A N I T I E S F O R U M S P R I N G 2021
nature and all its idiosyncrasies, the language of the huskies resonates with a transcendent quality that many of us yearn for—a connection to wild things, wild places, and deep meaning. In the most primal way possible, these iconic canines are expressing a collective sense of anticipation, excitement for the opportunity to fulfill their life purpose: feeling resistance against their muscular bodies, pulling a sled through a winter landscape, carrying a human who has formed a bond with them, built on a relationship of mutual trust. David Tomeo is one of these humans, serving in a unique position as the kennel manager for Denali National Park and Preserve. The 51-year-old Park Service employee talks about the process of readying the dogs for work and heading out on the trail—putting harnesses on jubilant bodies, unfettered in their display of affection for their handlers; then strategically hooking
