Byline: S.J. Komarnitsky Daily News Mat-Su Bureau

Near Willow -- Under the thin grayish glow of a crescent moon, Ramey Smyth urged his dog team forward with a soft ''Sssst.''

The sound slipped from his lips like a distant, muted rattle, barely audible on the snow-covered trail.

But ahead, a dozen pairs of obedient ears heard the whispered hiss as if it were a shout. The team broke from its pistonlike trot into a fast lope.

Twelve bodies strained into their harnesses and the shushing sound of snow across the runners disappeared in a rush of chill, night air.

In a decade of racing, Ramey Smyth has carved out a reputation for fast, hard-driving finishes.

Twice, the Big Lake musher has posted the fastest time on the Iditarod's last leg from Safety to Nome. Last year, he ran much of the 26-mile stretch alongside his sled in a T-shirt and a ratty pair of Carhartt pants.

On the way, he passed up parka-clad veterans Martin Buser and Linwood Fiedler and came close to catching Kotzebue musher John Baker, the fifth place finisher.

At age 22, it was his best finish ever and an impressive accomplishment. Smyth is a youngster in a sport dominated by mushers much older. Of the top 10 Iditarod finishers last year, the second youngest was Baker, a relatively geriatric 35 in comparison. Defending champion Jeff King is 43.

But what Smyth lacks in years, he makes up for in drive. In cracking the top 10 in only his fourth Iditarod, he cemented a rise to the top of the sport that started with mushing runs as a toddler and has taken him from success in junior races to the senior circuit.

Many include him in a group of up-and-coming mushers that includes Baker and Mitch Seavey of Seward, who could someday dominate the sport -- if not this year, then soon.

''I used to be surprised when he'd win,'' said Iditarod and Yukon Quest veteran Bruce Lee. ''But not anymore. He's a quick learner and he's grown up around dogs.''

MUSHING'S IN HIS GENES

In some ways, Smyth's success has been predetermined, his fate sealed by genetics. Like Yukon Quest winner Ramy Brooks, he was born into a family of dog mushers.

His father, Bud Smyth, ran the Iditarod a half-dozen times, finishing as high as fourth. His mother, Lolly Medley, who died three years ago from cancer, was one of the first two women to finish the Iditarod. She and Mary Shields both did it in 1974.

Where others might struggle to learn basics such as how to steer a sled around tight corners or keep the tow line tight over bumps, Smyth does it naturally.

He grew up surrounded by siblings -- 10 in all -- and lots of dogs. As a toddler he crawled into dog houses outside his family's home.

In later years, he and his brothers mushed teams around an elaborate course they designed in front of the family house in Fairbanks. And when their father left to train or race, they went on the trail too. Well, sort of.

Their trail didn't have snow. It was across the wood floor of the cabin. Their obedient team -- a mix of stuffed animals and a toy school bus for a leader -- lined up in front of a chair.

Eventually, three Smyth brothers -- Ramey, younger brother Cim and older brother Abe -- began racing competitively.

Abe, now 24, described by the others as the patient one of the three, decided full-time competitive racing wasn't for him. But Ramey and Cim, who took ninth in this year's International Rocky Mountain Stage Stop race in Wyoming, stuck with it. Twice, the two finished first and second in the 130-mile Junior Iditarod with Ramey taking the top spot. (Another younger brother, 14-year-old Tran, is running the junior race this year.)

At 16, Ramey Smyth knew he was going to run the Iditarod. He visited his neighbor Martin Buser to ask for tips on how to train and race dogs. He still has the tape recording of the interview.

VALUE OF WORK

Smyth credits his parents for a lot of his mushing savvy. But when he speaks about training dogs, he talks of his father -- a hard-driving, type-A personality who moved to Alaska in 1954 and supported himself through trapping. Still strong enough at 63 to keep up with his sons, Bud Smyth speaks proudly of how he lived on $10 a month.

Modern conveniences like televisions and microwaves are more of a burden, he says, than an advance in life.

''One way or another the things you acquire you become a slave to and they intrude into your life,'' Bud Smyth said.

A stout, bearded man with a Paul Bunyan build, Bud Smyth says he intentionally made life hard on his sons to teach them the value of work.

On the farm south of Big Lake, where Ramey lives and where his father raises potatoes and hay, the family lived without running water and relied on wind and solar power for electricity. The first summer, Smyth and his siblings lived in treehouses while the cabin was built. Once the home was finished, there were lots of chores for teenage boys.

Water had to be hauled from a nearby lake and wood continually cut to feed the stove that heated the cabin. In the early days, before the 2.5-mile driveway to the cabin was plowed, the family used dogs to haul in everything.

The worst, though, was the dead cows. Donated by local farmers for dog food, the unbutchered heifers were dropped at the end of the driveway in winter. Smyth's dad would often help his sons tie the cows, legs up, into a bathtub-shaped container the family used for hauling. Hooked to a team of dogs, the container worked well for ferrying people or laundry, but a half-ton cow made for slow going. The teens had to run from one side of the tub to the other to keep it moving straight ahead. And if the tub tipped -- as it often did in soft snow -- it was nearly impossible to get the load righted.

''You had a lot of leverage because of the cow's legs, but that is some of the hardest work I've ever done,'' he said.

GETTING BY ON LESS

While he had the advantage of a family steeped in mushing, Smyth also has had to make do with less. He's always functioned on the edge financially.

When he can, Smyth buys equipment used. He's still using training harnesses from his mother's racing days, her dogs' names stitched onto them. Other equipment he does without.

Until two years ago, Smyth didn't have a windbreaker. Instead, he relied on a plastic hay bag that served him well until the 1996 Iditarod when it dropped to 50 below on the Yukon River. Not wanting the bag to be shredded by the wind, he put it on under his clothes.

''That was the coldest I've ever been,'' he said, laughing recently as he sat on a couch at his grandmother's house off Big Lake Road.

But things are getting a bit easier.

This year, for the first time, Smyth has hired a handler to help with the feeding, cleaning and other chores associated with running an Iditarod team. He's also been staying at his grandmother's house for the past month, which has electricity and running water.

The home, closer than the farm to the main road system, gives him quicker access to area trails and is nearer to the Big Lake Foodmart, where the store's butcher recently helped him cut up 1,000 pounds of liver, chicken and other dog food mixes to get ready for the race.

Still, because of his low-budget operation, Smyth chooses his races one-by-one. Even with the $26,000 in prize money he earned from last year's Iditarod, he had to win races this year in order to afford the 1,100-mile run, he said.

That, more than anything, say other mushers, holds him back.

''If he's out working on his truck to get to the starting line because it's not running good and meanwhile Martin is doing little details on his food drop, it can make a difference,'' Lee said.

But Smyth said he thinks his hardships have paid off.

''It gives us an edge,'' he said. ''Maybe not a racing edge, but it's something we can draw on.''

OUT ON THE TRAIL

In person, Smyth is modest almost to the point of being shy. He'd be the last to say he could win the Iditarod, even if he thinks it.

''We'll see what happens,'' he said.

With short, light brown hair and a slight drawl, he's more mature than many his age. He's careful to credit family members for their help in his mushing success and speaks of how important it is to treat his dogs well.

''The dogs don't know they won a race,'' he said. ''But they know how they feel when they finish. How they've been treated throughout the race.''

On a recent run on trails near Willow where Iditarod veterans DeeDee Jonrowe and Linwood Fielder train, he constantly monitored each dog's performance.

Near the back, Jolt, a stout, chocolate-brown husky with a high opinion of himself, was enjoying his run more than working, Smyth said.

His line looked taught, but his fluffy tail waved above his back and he turned his head from side to side, checking out the passing scenery. In comparison, the other dogs trotted with their heads and tails down, concentrating on the trail ahead.

One of the more senior dogs in the team, Jolt can find a trail anywhere, but he also likes to pace himself, Smyth said. Put him up front and the whole team slows down.

''They all respect him and he doesn't like to go that fast,'' he said.

Meanwhile, Squire, a wolfish-looking dog with a curled tail running in lead, was putting his nose to the grindstone. Head down, feet moving in a rhythmic two-beat trot, he kept his line pulled tight. A hard worker by nature, he'll keep a steady speed, Smyth said, and if he thinks for any reason that he's slowed the team, he'll immediately pick up the pace.

When he trains the dogs, Smyth puts in random stops and sprints to break up the monotony. The sprints are short. He doesn't want them to get too tired.

''You want to always make them think that you're the one holding them back so they think, 'If we could get rid of this guy, we could really kick some butt.'''

A DIFFERENT RACE

Smyth said he's learned a lot in his four Iditarods. He's more patient and better about pacing himself. In early races, he would get upset because he thought he wasn't going fast enough.

Still, the Iditarod is not just about learning from past mistakes. It's different ever year, and that's the draw for Smyth.

''It's kind of a strange phenomenon,'' he said. ''The race is so hard. Something always gets the best of you that makes you want to do it again. It makes everything else seem kind of boring.''

CUTLINE: Ramey Smyth Hooks Up A Dog On His Brother Tran's Team At The Aurora Dog Mushing Track Near Big Lake. Ramey's 14-year-old Brother Is Training For His First Junior Iditarod.

During His Pre-Iditarod Check With Big Lake Veterinarian Jim Leach, Smyth Talks About The Recent Health History Of One Of His Dogs.

Big Lake musher Ramey Smyth breaks up meat for his Iditarod drop bags at the Big Lake Foodmart in mid-February. Meat manager Susie Winters helps Smyth cut up 1,000 pounds of liver, chicken and other dog food mixes to get ready for the race. Smyth runs a low-budget operation and must choose his races one-by-one.

At Smyth's grandmother's Big Lake home, Smyth goes over details with handler Maureen Chambrone. Smyth's younger sister Mariah listens in. Smyth was born into a family of dog mushers. His father, Bud Smyth, ran the Iditarod a half-dozen times, and his mother, Lolly Medley, was one of the first two women to finish the Iditarod.

Ramey Smyth and his brother Tran head off down the trails at the Aurora dog mushing track near Big Lake. They were going out on a training run in late February for Tran's first attempt at the Junior Iditarod. He finished 12th.

q Reporter S.J. Komarnitsky can be reached at skomarnitsky@adn.com.