Butcher left behind a legion of fans and friends

Anchorage Daily News

BETH BRAGG
COMMENT

Published: September 3, 2006 


Many of us feel as though we knew Susan Butcher, even if the extent of our knowledge consisted of watching her and her dogs on Fourth Avenue each March at the start of the Iditarod.

And we aren't yet ready to say goodbye to her. Fifty-one at the time of her death last month, she wasn't far removed from the days when she ruled Alaska as the Iditarod's most dominant musher and the inspiration for the state's most awesome T-shirt, the one about Alaska being the place where men are men and women win the Iditarod.

The long, braided hair, the unabashed affection for her dogs, the adventurous spirit that took her to the top of McKinley and across unforgiving wilderness trails -- we remember those things with clarity, because so little time has passed since Butcher was setting new standards for Iditarod success. It seems like only yesterday when she reigned over her world, because it almost was just yesterday.

We mourn her whether we knew her or simply knew about her. Like so many of our pioneers, icons and heroes, her life touched us whether or not our lives intersected. Maybe it's because Alaska, though immense geographically, is actually quite intimate. It's not unusual to be on a first-name basis with your mayor, your governor or your congressman. It's not uncommon to skate with an NHL star or ski with an Olympian. It's not rare to know the famous artist whose prints hang on your wall.

It's no use to name-drop about any of this, because your story about working out with Scott Gomez is sure to be topped by someone else's story about working with Wally Hickel.

And who doesn't have a Susan Butcher story?

At one of her final meet-and-greet appearances in Anchorage, held two years before her December 2005 leukemia diagnosis, a stream of fans and friends stopped by to say hello, get an autograph or take a photo. The wondrous thing was you could hardly tell which were fans and which were friends.

Arlene Briscoe of Anchorage was one of the fans, but she may as well have been a friend: "We've been here 17 years now,'' she told Butcher, "and you've been such a part of our lives.''

Arvin Kangas of Anchorage by way of Ruby was one of the friends, but he may as well have been a fan: He, his wife and two sons patiently stood in line for a chance to pose for a picture with the four-time Iditarod champ.

Butcher's appeal wasn't always universal -- in the 1980s, especially, fans were often divided into Susan vs. Rick camps (Rick being archrival Rick Swenson) or even Susan vs. Libby camps (Libby being Libby Riddles, who in 1985 did what everyone long figured Butcher would do -- became the first woman to win the Iditarod).

But when she retired in the early '90s, everyone wished her godspeed as she headed down the trail toward motherhood.

And when news of her illness became common knowledge early this year, everyone was stunned. How could an athlete who so recently had dominated her sport, who embodied strength, fortitude and even courage, be fighting for her life? At age 51, no less? And with two young daughters at home?

The answer is diseases like leukemia pay no heed to the resumes of the people they attack. As DeeDee Jonrowe, a fellow musher and one of Butcher's best friends, once said about her bout with breast cancer: "Cancer is no respecter of persons.''

Yet we crossed our fingers that Butcher would beat this. We told ourselves that if anyone could, she could. After all, twice she was named Sportswoman of the Year by the Women's Sports Foundation, prevailing over the likes of Steffi Graf and Jackie Joyner-Kersee. For a time she wasn't just the face of the Iditarod, she was the face of women's sports in America.

When we published updates on her condition, people e-mailed from Alaska and beyond with suggestions of alternative treatments, stories of miracle healings in South America and memories of their encounters with Butcher.

A man in Ohio remembered how Butcher always responded to letters written by his 5-year-old daughter. A woman from Chugiak offered to send a copy of her prized possession, a photo taken with Butcher in Nome, in the hope it would comfort the musher's daughters. She signed her note with this: "Another name and face she doesn't know but who is praying for her.''

Hundreds of people said goodbye to Susan Butcher at a memorial service Saturday at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. Thousands more no doubt did the same in private moments in Anchorage, Nome and everyplace else where folks took a rooting interest in the woman with the grit to take on whatever Alaska threw her way.

The mourners included names and faces Butcher didn't know -- but who felt like they knew her, and who grieve that they've lost someone special far too soon.

Beth Bragg's opinion column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Her e-mail address is bbragg@adn.com.