Lauren Maghak didn’t bring her laptop. She didn’t even pack it.
For a fourth-year student at the Virginia-Maryland College of Veterinary Medicine who is normally glued to her email, that alone was a first. But this wasn’t a typical externship.
Maghak spent a week volunteering as the only student veterinarian at the 41st John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon — a 300-mile race up Minnesota’s North Shore, the longest sled dog race in the contiguous 48 states, and a qualifying event for Alaska’s Iditarod.
At the race, Ryan Anderson of St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, claimed his record fifth marathon title.
Maghak was there for all of it — the pre-race exams, the below-zero checkpoints, the finish.
“I thought we were sleeping outside in a tent for a week,” Maghak said. “Then I got there and they were like, ‘No, we have trail shelters.’ My life was already infinitely better.”
Shelter was a generous term. At some checkpoints, it meant a barn with heat and indoor plumbing. At others, it was a shack with a wood stove and an outhouse.
“Food? I hope you packed something,” she said.
Temperatures dropped to minus 40 Fahrenheit. In that kind of cold, phones simply froze, leaving Maghak’s team with no cell service, no outside communication, and no second opinions for stretches of the race.
“It’s just us,” she said.
Eyes and hands
The veterinary work started before the race with pre-race checks on every dog — anywhere from six to 12 per team across roughly 80 teams in the marathon, 120-mile, and 40-mile events. During the race, veterinary teams rotated through checkpoints, assessing dogs as they came through.
“Unless they tell us to come check a dog, we don’t really bother them,” Maghak said. “We like to let them rest.”
At mandatory stops, the team checked every dog for heart rate, lung sounds, body condition. Sled dogs run lean, and a lower condition score is normal. Drop too low, and the veterinarians start taking a closer look.
If a dog needed pain medication or wasn’t pulling right, it came off the trail. Dropped dogs had an orange stripe painted down their face so the team could visually confirm they were out of the race.
Most of the time, mushers and veterinarians agreed on the call.
“Usually the mushers come up to you and they’re like, ‘Hey, I need to drop a dog — they’re just not pulling correctly, their heart’s not in it,’ ” Maghak said. “They take very good care of their dogs.”
Trusting herself
Maghak, a dual Doctor of Veterinary Medicine and Master of Public Health student on the public veterinary practice track, discovered the Beargrease two years ago while searching for unconventional externships. The race runs once a year at a fixed time, so she put her name on the list and waited until her fourth-year schedule aligned.
She joined a volunteer veterinary team of more than 20 — all licensed, all paying their own way. The group included a board-certified criticalist from Chicago and general practitioners from across the Midwest. Some had been volunteering at sled dog races for over 50 years.
“I’m not even convinced that the most experienced sled dog veterinarians on the team work in a clinic anymore,” Maghak said. “I think they have retired from traditional veterinary medicine and now focus only on sled dog medicine.”
At first, the experienced veterinarians checked every dog behind her. But as the race wore on and rest time grew precious, the dynamic shifted. If Maghak assessed a dog and felt confident, the others trusted her judgment. A licensed veterinarian was always nearby if she had questions, but for routine checks, the team didn’t need to go behind her. Nobody touched that dog again so that it could get as much recovery time as possible.
“It was the first time that nobody was double-checking me,” she said. “I was like, ‘I can do this.'”
It wasn’t complex medicine: Heart sounds, lung sounds, body condition scores — the foundations. But it was the first time those foundations were entirely hers.
“I’m now confident that I learned what I need to go on to residency and beyond,” Maghak said. “And I’ll be OK.”
A small world
The sled dog community, Maghak learned, is tight knit. Veterinary teams don’t turn over often. Neither do the mushers. At checkpoints, she watched the veteran veterinarians greet mushers and handlers with hugs — relationships built over years of traveling to races together.
“I’d walk up with them and they’d be hugging, and I’m like, ‘Oh hi, nice to meet you for the first time,’” Maghak said. “It felt very family-like. It wasn’t a client-patient feeling.”
One team stood out — Jesse Terry of Sioux Lookout, Ontario, who finished third in the marathon and won the veterinary award for best-kept team, given to mushers whose dogs finish the race healthy and strong.
“I’m looking forward to cheering for him as he begins the Iditarod in March. It’s fun to know a musher personally now,” Maghak said.
Taking the leap
For students eyeing their own unconventional externships, Maghak has simple advice: Think big, start early, and don’t overthink it.
“Start on Google,” she said. “See what obscure veterinary jobs and positions you can find. Start reaching out to people.”
And for anyone hesitant about taking the leap?
“At the worst, it’s three weeks long,” Maghak said. “You took a chance, hopefully made a connection, and learned one single thing. That’s still a win.”
For Maghak, the win was bigger than one externship. She earned a permanent spot on the Beargrease veterinary team and plans to return next year — even if it means taking time off from residency.
“I couldn’t tell you the last time I fully disconnected,” she said. “I didn’t even take my computer on the plane. Your phone doesn’t work at minus 40 — it just freezes. They told me good luck taking pictures, and they meant it.”
She paused. “It was a life-changing experience.”
Marjorielee Christianson, Virginia Tech
