Passion, perseverance

Iditarod champion Butcher was pioneer

By Jackie MacMullan,

Globe Staff

September 1, 2006

The most compelling pioneers are those who give little or no thought to the notion they are trailblazers. You know the type: driven, disciplined, self-motivated individuals armed with the belief they can do anything with the proper mind-set. The fact they end up accomplishing something no one else has done is truly secondary to their pursuit of a goal.

Susan Butcher was mildly surprised the first time someone called her a pioneer. It hadn't occurred to her, even though she was the first person ever -- not the first female, the first person -- to win the Iditarod three consecutive times, from 1986-88. Seven years earlier, she and her friend, Joe Redington Sr., had become the first mushers to drive a sled dog team to the top of Mount McKinley.

But her love of the outdoors drew her to those endeavors, not bragging rights, endorsements, or prize money. Butcher was happy living alone in a rustic cabin in Alaska with the nearest neighbor 300 miles away. Later, when she married Dave Monson, she was equally content shuttling her daughters, Tekla and Chisana, to ballet and violin lessons.

Although she was born and raised in Cambridge, her heart was always in the wilderness. By the time she was 20, she had moved to Alaska. By the time she was 35, she was a heralded Iditarod champion and a household name, feted by everyone from sports superstars to filmmaker George Lucas.

``I've never met anyone like her," Monson said. ``No one has. From presidents to plumbers, she left them all walking away saying, `That Susan is something else.'

``It's not so much what she did, because a lot of people do remarkable things. It was the way she did it, with an enthusiasm and a passion that was infectious to those around her."

On Aug. 5, Susan Butcher died at the age of 51 of leukemia. She will be remembered today at a memorial service at the Davis Concert Hall on the campus of the University of Alaska at Fairbanks.

Her friends will remember her for her perseverance, for insisting they put a stationary bike in her hospital room so she could ride it nearly every day until she died. They will remember her as a naturalist who championed the cause to preserve open space, as a mother who loved to pick wild blueberries with her children, as a wife and partner of Monson, her constant companion and soul mate.

Susan met David in 1980. He was fresh off a king crab fishing trip and she had just mastered McKinley. They immediately connected, and formed a team to prepare her for the Iditarod. She finished fifth that year and the next, and second in 1984. In 1985, Butcher led through the first three checkpoints before a sick moose attacked her team, slaughtering two of her dogs and injuring 13 more. A devastated Butcher withdrew from the race, and she and Monson retreated to their remote cabin in the tiny town of Eureka, ``where there were no post offices, no streetlights, no roads, no nothing," Monson said.

They lived in a former blacksmith's shop, a 12 x 16 structure without running water or electricity. A trap door in the bottom of the cabin led 8 feet to the root cellar, where the couple stored eggs, potatoes, and other food they rationed to last through the winter.

``The year the moose attacked, we were very, very broke, but we got married anyway," Monson said. ``Susan sewed together a tent. We had the ceremony in front of our cabin."

Dominant competitor

Susan and Dave subscribed to the same philosophy: Survival is just a matter of how hard you are willing to work. Together they constructed a new sled dog team, and in 1986 Butcher won the Iditarod. She won three more times in the next four years, dominating a grueling athletic competition that often took place in howling winds and temperatures that dropped to 70 below zero.

``She was a woman at the top of her field where men were expected to excel," Monson said. ``But she wasn't like Annika Sorenstam and some of these others. I'm not taking anything away from them, but they are striving to compete with the men. Susan never gave that a thought. She just did it."

Her success gave her surprising notoriety, and the couple welcome financial relief. Butcher met agent Bob Woolf at one of the many banquets held in her honor and he signed her as a client, assigning her to his assistant, Jill Leone.

``It was a fascinating experience," Leone said. ``I was used to handling financial matters, like bonuses and contracts. With Susan, she was more interested in negotiating food for her dogs than money.

``She tediously studied the ingredients of each brand of dog food before choosing a sponsor. And, once she chose one, she worked with their food scientists to improve the product. The money wasn't that important to her. The quality of the care her dogs would receive was what mattered."

Since Leone could not reach Monson and Butcher by mail, computer, or telephone, their correspondence was often via radio dispatches.

``Once I called her in the middle of delivering a litter of puppies," Leone recalled. ``She talked to me as they came out. She said, `I think I'll name one of them Angelica, after you.' I was thrilled to learn it became one of her more trusted dogs."

Long after their business relationship ended, Leone remained friends with Butcher. She exulted with her friend at the birth of Tekla, named after one of her lead dogs, and Chisana, named for a tributary in the Alaskan range. Three years ago, Butcher revealed she was suffering from myeloproliferative cancer, a slow-growing disease that had worn her down but hardly stopped her from raising her family, running her kennel, training dogs, and remaining active.

Raising awareness

When she received a grim diagnosis of leukemia last December, it became apparent she was running out of time. Even as the disease sapped her strength, she taped a public service announcement to raise awareness of her illness. Monson ran the Mayor's Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage to raise money for the bone marrow donation program, and collected more than $12,000.

``Susan was pleased," Monson said. ``She also knew all that running helped keep my stress down. To watch someone you love become so sick . . . it's very difficult."

In the final weeks of her life, Susan Butcher, hindered by the cumbersome plastic gloves she was forced to wear to ward off infection, continued to e-mail friends to update them on her progress. She worried for her children, and for her husband, but not for herself.

``She knew what a hole she would leave," Monson said. ``The youngest, Chisana, talks about it more. She is only 6, and she's sad. She collects things Susan gave her and sits in a quiet place with them. I took out Susan's wedding dress so she could touch it.

``Tekla is 11. She's an adolescent, about to be a teenager. They tell me it's a time when some kids draw away. It's a time you need your mother. I hope I can be there for her."

On the day Susan Butcher died in a Seattle hospital, Dave Monson and his daughters took a ferry to Bainbridge Island, with Tekla wearing her mother's necklace and Chisana her rings. As they studied the night sky flooded with stars, Dave gathered his youngest daughter in his lap and asked her which star she thought was her mom.

``That one," Chisana said, finally. ``But don't worry. She's not alone."

The following day was a cold, dreary, foggy morning. Dave asked his child, ``Where do you suppose Mom is today?"

``I think today she is the fog, wrapping herself around us,' " Chisana answered.

Dave and Susan would have celebrated their 21st wedding anniversary with their children this weekend at their cabin in Eureka, where they have gone every Labor Day since they've been married. Instead, friends and family will gather in Fairbanks to memorialize their pioneer with the steel resolve and the gentle soul.

``Obviously, it doesn't seem real," Monson said. ``I'm trying to think ahead. It would be irresponsible of me not to. I've got college to think about. Susan and I planned, of course, but now I've got to ask, `What if I get sick?' Those are the kind of things you never want to consider, but if I'm a good parent, I have to."

Ask Dave Monson what you can do to ease his pain, and he'll tell you to support the National Marrow Donor Program. Ask Jill Leone what will help, and she'll suggest a donation to the educational trust that has been set up for the girls.

It has been an adjustment these past weeks. Susan knew where everything was. Monson is still learning, still coping, still searching for a way to fill the cavernous void in his new life. But, he said, he will find a way.

``Susan believed I could do it," said her husband. ``Otherwise, she wouldn't have gone."

If you would like to make a donation to the educational trust fund for Tekla and Chisana, please send it to:

The Monson Family

P.O. Box 80742

Fairbanks, AK, 99706