Fur Rondy frolic in Anchorage

Sunset, Jan, 1998 by Peter Fish

"Basically," my friend Karen tells me, "Fur Rondy is a way to keep people from being suicidal." Karen isn't an Anchorage native, but she's lived here long enough to count as a local. "If you're slogging it through February," Karen continues, "it means you've survived January. January is the worst. It's after winter solstice; it's supposed to be getting lighter, but it doesn't. But in February, we're up to nine whole hours of daylight. We celebrate."

Boy, do they. Now in its 63rd year, Fur Rondy is Anchorage's own Mardi Gras on ice, a veritable Polarpalooza. For 10 short February days and 10 longer nights, Rondy lets Anchorage express its inner Alaska with parades, fireworks, ice bowling, snow sculpting, fur-bikini contests, and dogsled racing. Lots and lots of dogsled racing.

Our Rondy rendezvous begins with the Grand Parade, which glides through downtown Anchorage on opening Saturday. At 10:30 the sky glows with the opalescence of dawn and the thermometer has climbed to a blistering 29 [degrees]. The cold, clear air gives the parade a distinctively Anchorage aura - part middle America, part Arctic Circle. High school marching bands are in short supply, perhaps out of fear that tundra-chilled tubas would glue themselves to musicians' lips. On the other hand, no subtropical spectacle like Pasadena's Rose Parade can boast so many prancing reindeer, Inuit dancers, or fur trappers bundled in the spoils of their trade. "Fur equals murder," read the placards of a small anti-fur contingent on the sidewalk. "Get a life," the trappers shout back.

Fearing fisticuffs, we rush over to the snowshoe softball tournament. This, we are told, is just like regular softball, except it's played on snowshoes, which is a bit like saying Swan Lake performed in fishermen's waders is just like a regular ballet. "Actually, it gives the little guy a chance," one player confides. "All the big crushers can't run in the snow." He tramps to home plate and blasts a line drive to left field. "Go, go, go," the crowd shouts, and the runner lumbers toward first base, advancing a full 5 feet before the snowshoes send him sprawling. Meanwhile the ball is bounding across the icy outfield toward Nome, pursued by a left fielder who keeps falling and standing up again, with each reappearance looking more and more like the Abominable Snowman. Our hearts pound. Why isn't this on ESPN?

Snowshoe softball notwithstanding, the sporting heart of Fur Rondy is dogsled racing. There are so many dogsled races - semifinals, finals, men's, women's, juniors' - you suspect every dog north of Vancouver has been put into a harness. When we arrive at the race grounds on Anchorage's Fourth Avenue, this impression proves correct. Hitched to the sleds are teams of small, scrappy dogs; big, slobbering dogs; dogs of all varieties, barking, baying, eager to race. As my friend Karen says, "The Alaskan husky is more a job description than a breed."

The starting buzzer sounds and the dogs are off, their sled drivers shouting "Gee!" and "Haw!" to spur them onward. Twenty minutes later dogs and drivers return, dogs panting but still excited. We ask one racer from Fairbanks what makes a good sled dog. "You'd get a different answer from every racer you asked," she answers. "I do very nice with the basset."

We bet she does do very nice with the basset. We long to see it run. But the short day is dwindling. We have to make a final stop.

The snow sculpture competition is Rondy's nod to the world of fine arts. One masterpiece features a giant snow dumpster being scavenged by a snowy rendition of Anchorage's most ubiquitous bird, the raven. This work has been carved by a prize-winning sculpting trio who call themselves Three Dudes from Anchorage. "We usually sit in a bar and draw things on a napkin," says one of the Dudes. "Coming up with something good sometimes takes a lot of bar napkins."

The Dudes' work stands proud. I never thought I'd be admiring a giant snow sculpture of a garbage dumpster and a raven, but here I am. It's amazing, and very, very Alaskan. Like Fur Rondy.

ANCHORED DOWN IN ANCHORAGE

Fur Rondy. The festival, whose full name is Fur Rendezvous, runs February 13-22, with most events clustered on the two weekends. (907) 274-1177.

Iditarod. The famous dogsled race begins in Anchorage (this year on March 7) and goes 1,049 miles to Nome. 376-5155.

Cross-country skiing. Groomed trails within Anchorage include Kincaid Park; 343-6397. More experienced skiers can hit the backcountry trails of Chugach State Park east of Town; 345-5014.

Downhill skiing. Westin Alyeska Prince Hotel and Resort in Girdwood, 45 minutes south of Anchorage, is said to have the lowest base elevation of any ski resort in the world (275 feet above sea level), but it has 2,500-foot vertical drop and 600 to 700 inches of snow a year! 754-1111.)

Where to eat. Anchorage cuisine has risen far beyond jokey pioneer fare - mooseburgers and the like. Simon & Seaforts (420 L St., 274-3502) is a longtime favorite for seafood and steak. The handsome Glacier Brewhouse (737 W. Fifth Ave., 274-2739) has a nice way with salmon and other locally caught fish. And despite its unimpressive strip-mall location, the Moose's Tooth (3300 Old Seward Hwy., 258-2537) is worth a try, pouring its own roster of microbrews and baking notable pizzas.)