What happens when a woman and her husband move their family from New Hampshire to Alaska to train a team of purebred Siberian Huskies for the world's toughest dogsled race, the Yukon Quest? They endure thousands of miles of lonely training in the Yukon trying to avoid thin ice, wolves, and rogue moose; they put up with the amused skepticism of Alaskan locals; and they pit themselves against the ultimate, fickle adversary--nature. RUNNING NORTH is the true story of how Ann Cook, her husband, George, and their young daughter, Kathleen, moved to Alaska and how their Siberians became the first team from the lower forty-eight states to finish the Yukon Quest. It tracks George on his horrific journey through the Yukon, recording the frostbite, the hallucinations that come with exhaustion, the wolves, and the nights out on the ice at minus ninety degrees Fahrenheit. This is the great story of man struggling against nature and surviving. But unlike most accounts of high adventure that center solely on the adventurer and the quest, RUNNING NORTH is also the story of Ann Cook, who drove the truck and carried the gear and kept the family together. In the tradition of MY OLD MAN AND THE SEA, she tells both stories in simple, elegant prose that reveals the tragedy, joy, and folly that lie on either side of the curtain separating the adventurer from the world left behind. They run up against crazy landlords, win over gruff neighbors, drive a broken-down truck that sucks oil like Alaskans suck coffee, listen to a radio show that keeps trappers in contact with the world, meet mysterious fishermen who appear without notice and disappear without a sign, fight with a young cousin who will betray them in the end, protect their young daughter from the dangers of their new wild world, and stare awestruck at the wide sweep of Alaskan landscape. RUNNING NORTH is the story of two very different adventures on the edge: one among the racers braving the Yukon and the other among the people they leave behind. Ann Cook is a sled dog racer, a columnist, and an American Kennel Club judge. Born and raised in New England, she's been a graphic artist, an antique dealer, and a contender for the U.S. Women's Rowing team. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband, her daughter, and thirty-five purebred Siberian Huskies. Chapter One Anyone who has ever been to Alaska remembers the light. There is sometimes too much of it, and sometimes not enough. The land seems to be in a perpetual state of sunrise or sunset. There is always a pink-blue glow in the sky. Trees are silhouetted. Clouds and mountaintops are often rimmed with golden sunbeams. Even after dark, there is magic in the sky. It is the light that controls the coming and going of Alaskans; not just the human Alaskans, but all living things in the territory. There are long summer days for the gathering of food, and brief winter days for hibernation. The power of nature is strong there: ever-present and overwhelming in the way it supports life and in the way it takes life away. My husband and I are sled dog drivers, "mushers" in sled dog parlance, and we went to Alaska to train our team to race in the Yukon Quest, a thousand-mile challenge billed as the world's toughest race. We drove nearly five thousand miles from our home in New Hampshire in a truck and trailer that carried us, our three-year-old daughter Kathleen, our handler Sandy, and thirty-two Siberian Huskies. We drove into Alaska at a time when many people drive out. Labor Day had passed, and the snowbirds, as those who go south to escape the cold are called, were headed out in camper trailers, vans, and trucks. On long stretches of the Alaska Highway, ours was the sole vehicle they met. We were traveling into the darkness that they were leaving behind. Our summer had been spent making preparations for the trip. We were, in essen...