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ANCHORAGE, Alaska — <\/span>Riches and paid appearances haven\u2019t followed Jessie Holmes since he won the world\u2019s most famous sled dog race,<\/a> the Iditarod, last year.<\/p>\n He doesn’t mind.<\/p>\n A carpenter and a former cast member of National Geographic’s reality show \u201cLife Below Zero,\u201d Holmes has instead been content to return to his austere, hand-built homestead in the wilderness near the continent’s tallest mountain<\/a>. His life is solitary and frugal. His closest neighbors are 30 miles (50 kilometers) away.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of things that can happen in your life once you win the Iditarod,\u201d Holmes told The Associated Press in an interview before this year’s race<\/a>. \u201cYou could become a real big deal, or you could just go back out in the bush and get right back to work, you know? And that\u2019s what I did.\u201d<\/p>\n Holmes took off Sunday along with 33 other competitive mushers in an effort defend his title in the rigorous Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, the 1,000-mile (1,610-kilometer) journey from Willow to Nome. A day later he was in the lead. <\/p>\n The winner is expected to reach the finish line around March 17 after traveling over two mountain ranges, along the frozen Yukon River and on the treacherous ice of the Bering Sea on Alaska\u2019s western coast.<\/p>\n Mushing was foreign to Holmes growing up in Odenville, Alabama, but he had an affinity for hard-luck dogs.<\/p>\n \u201cI was always getting in trouble for bringing dogs home that I found on the streets and hiding them out in the woods and feeding them out of the fridge,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n His life found a calling after he saw the 1972 Robert Redford film \u201cJeremiah Johnson,\u201d based partly on the legend of a real-life 19th century mountain man.<\/p>\n At age 18, he set out to make that a reality, jumping on passing freight trains to go north. He eventually settled in Montana, where he hooked his hound dog up to a sled to help pull equipment during the winter.<\/p>\n He still had no clue there was a thriving competitive mushing lifestyle until he moved farther north, to Dawson City, in Canada\u2019s Yukon Territory, after the turn of the century.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought, this is exactly what I want to do,\u201d Holmes said.<\/p>\n He moved two years later to Alaska, living off the land in a village on the Yukon River, near the Canada border. He used his dogs to haul wood and water and to assist him while hunting, fishing and trapping.<\/p>\n Competitive mushing gnawed at him. \u201cI could be really good at this,\u201d he thought. \u201cI think I\u2019m really good with dogs. I should race.\u201d<\/p>\n He learned some hard lessons in his first race. He finished last in a 200-mile (322-kilometer) competition in Fairbanks in 2006 and realized he needed faster dogs. He moved to a cabin without running water or electricity with nearly 40 dogs, regrouped and began to race again in 2012.<\/p>\n He also joined the cast of \u201cLife Below Zero,\u201d documenting the daily struggles of living in remote parts of Alaska. He appeared in 132 episodes<\/a> over eight seasons, with pay that allowed him to buy better dog food and equipment. He eventually also bought the land near Denali National Park where he homesteaded.<\/p>\n The hard work of mushing his dogs in the backcountry paid off when he entered his first Iditarod in 2018. He came in seventh, earning rookie of the year honors and a $26,000 check.<\/p>\n He’s been in every Iditarod since, placing in the top 10 all but two years. Last year\u2019s title came with a check for just over $57,000. He described the win as \u201cmagical\u201d and gave all the credit to his dogs, which he called his family.<\/p>\n In the Iditarod\u2019s heyday, when it was a regular feature on ABC\u2019s \u201cWide World of Sports,\u201d winning mushers \u2014 especially those with multiple titles \u2014 were able to capitalize on their fame with big endorsements and sponsorships, some pocketing $250,000 a year.<\/p>\n But waning financial support, due in part to a animal rights group targeting national sponsors<\/a>, has shrunk the purse while inflation is stifling young mushers<\/a> trying to make a go of it. This year a Norwegian billionaire, Kjell Rokke, has provided additional backing as he mushes in a new amateur or \u201cexpedition\u201d category.<\/p>\n Holmes does have a sponsor \u2014 a local auto-repair chain. But he hasn’t done paid appearances or events, and his income now primarily comes from race winnings and breeding dogs. And even though Rokke’s contribution is boosting prize money this year, Holmes said he’s not in favor of amateurs being on the trail.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t really feel like it aligns with the spirt of the race,\u201d he said. \u201cI just really don\u2019t want to say too much because I don\u2019t want to dig a hole for myself, but I don\u2019t mind saying that I\u2019m not a fan of it.\u201d<\/p>\n In a social media post, he said he logged some 4,500 miles (7,240 kilomeers) training with his dogs this winter.<\/p>\n \u201cDeep snow. Ferocious winds. 40 below and colder,\u201d he wrote. \u201cBut that\u2019s nothing new to us out here. Instead of letting it break us, we let it sharpen us.\u201d<\/p>\n The self-imposed stress of repeating as champion is burning at him. He calls this year\u2019s race the most important of his career. Many mushers have won multiple Iditarod titles, but only two \u2014 Susan Butcher and Lance Mackey<\/a> \u2014 won their second title the year after getting their first.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s hard to put that on yourself because you got to live with that pressure every day,\u201d Holmes told The AP. \u201cAnd if I do not make it, it is going to absolutely crush me.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n