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February 6, 1997

Running with the dogs captures spirit of the wild for Idaho lad

By KAREN BOSSICK
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

BELLEVUE, Idaho -- Chadd Montgomery hearkens to the call of the wild.

Nothing makes this 12-year-old feel more alive than a dog sled in his hands, the cold air biting his forehead, and his four huskies bursting with power as they strain against the harness.

"I like skiing and snowboarding, too, but this is faster, more fun, more dangerous," Chadd said. "The danger, the element of risk, the fact that I don't have as much control over my dogs as I might over my skis, attracts me -- I don't know why."

Chadd, who lives in a sprawling, horseshoe-shaped ranch house in a former alfalfa field south of Bellevue, has a full plate for a seventh-grader.

He plays soccer and polo during the summer. He skis, snowboards and plays ice hockey during the winter. He maintains B's and C's at Sun Valley's Community School, but finds himself most interested in books such as the Harper Encyclopedia of Military Biography -- anything containing data on armored fighting vehicles and World War II.

"We go to the air shows in Mountain Home, and he'll ask the airmen a question about the fuselage and they'll drop their jaws," said Chadd's mother, Mickey Montgomery.

But for Chadd, nothing compares to dog-sled racing.

He became interested in the sport while he was in third grade, when his dad bought him a Siberian husky after the family moved from Ohio to Idaho.

As a kid growing up in Michigan, Don Montgomery, now a retired insurance executive, used to haul milk with farm dogs. He raced in the Iditarod -- the legendary 1,049-mile Alaskan odyssey -- in 1977 and 1979.

His own racing was cut short by an automobile accident while he was training for The Hope -- a 1,500-mile sled race across Siberia. But he looks on his racing days with fondness, mounting wooden plaques and other Iditarod memorabilia on the walls of the family's home.

And he loves to share stories about how he took on Alaska's vast wilderness alone.

"When my sleeping bag got wet, I made myself get up every hour and run in place because I was so afraid I would go to sleep and never wake up," said the elder Montgomery, who wears an Iditarod belt buckle and an Iditarod patch on his red parka, signifying that he's among those who have finished the race.

Chadd would appear to be on course for his own bid at the Iditarod. He won the junior division of the Ashton Dog Derby last year, and he won his first two races of 1997 in Sumpter, Ore., and Montpelier.

But so far he's noncommittal about going for the Iditarod. He realizes the training and money involved. That's fine with mom: "Chadd has a long way to go before I'd let him spend long nights in the frozen north," she said.

Right now, Chadd is a wiry 5-footer trying very hard to get to 100 pounds so he can handle a six-dog sled instead of the three-dog sled he currently races.

His passion demands time-consuming commitment. He gets up at 6 a.m. every day to feed and water the dogs, and then feeds them again at night. Four times a week, except during the summer when the temperature stays above 50, he takes them for a four-mile spin along the back roads.

"I think this'll make me more responsible in high school and college," he said. "It's helped me become real organized."

Pulling Chadd and the sled is no chore for the dogs. The second they see the sled, they erupt in happy barks.

Moose, an Alaskan husky, is the leader. He holds the line taut so Chadd can hitch the other dogs. He also leads the turns as Chadd yells "gee" and "haw." Chadd always acknowledges him first upon entering the pen -- there's a pecking order among the dogs.

"It's the smart ones who make the leaders, not the biggest or strongest," Don Montgomery said.

Arley, who is learning how to lead, is paired with Moose during practice runs. Major and Vampire, whose mother was on Iditarod winner Jeff King's team last year, are the heel dogs closest to the sled. They provide the power.

They also know to jump to the inside of the track to keep the sled from skidding over a cliff when it careens around a corner at 30 mph.

"Some people think we beat these dogs into submission," Don Montgomery said. "But if you want to be cruel to a dog, you leave him at home. These dogs want to go."

A short, clippy, "Heh, heh, heh," and the dogs are off, sweeping Chadd off his feet. The main brake -- a rubber mat with spikes -- breaks off as the team zips around the second corner. Chadd stumbles as he struggles to leap onto a wooden tongue brake.

Still, he manages to hold onto the sled with a death grip as the team bounds over mounds of snow and speeds down the roadway.

"The cardinal rule is never let go," Don Montgomery said. "If you do, the dogs will run until they're tangled in a ball or they get strangled or break a leg."

Chadd has come home with blood dripping down his face after the sled overturned. His ribs get bruised from the snow hook that anchors the sled.

"It's a little scary," he said. "But then you get home alive and you get excited again."

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