I have yet to run the dogs at night this year, mostly because my new work schedule doesn't demand it. Instead, I am finding myself running rather frequently at dusk. The early sunsets (2:50 today) leave us running home in twilight unless I am really on the ball in getting out the door early in the day.
The last run of the year had us racing through a gentle snow shower as the sun set behind the clouds. By the time we turned onto the marsh trail back to the house it was dark enough to switch on the spectacular jetliner-signaling head lamp Peter got me for Christmas last year. I had forgotten how magical running through the woods with the light bouncing off snowflakes and the sparkle of ice on the trees can be.
Despite that I can run dogs during daylight all season, I resolve for the remainder of the winter to implement regular night runs. I am missing too much of the the moon and the stars and the northern lights, and the dogs love the dark tunnel of trails and chasing the light of the headlamp through the marshes.
Happy New Year! May it take you to places you never dreamed of, and on adventures you'll never forget.
12.31.2010
12.30.2010
kibble and bits
Before I started keeping sled dogs, the feeding of dogs was a simple equation. We bought dry kibble. I put some in a bowl. The dog ate the kibble. If the dog got fat, it got less food. There was water in a bowl, and if the dog wanted water it drank some. Simple. The dynamics of feeding & watering sled dogs seem at this point to be exponentially more complicated. This has been emphasized by the recent cold snap, my concurrent illness and a conversation with a sprint musher down the street.
I am feeding our dogs Eagle Pack Power, both because I have been feeding our pet dogs Eagle Pack Adult food for years and because I know that several well respected distance mushers use Eagle Pack Power for their teams. When the dogs first arrived, I looked at the handy weight-to-food chart on the Power bag and started dishing up kibble accordingly. The dogs were lean when I got them. Dottie was a touch on the skinny side, so she got about a quarter cup extra at each meal. In addition to their food, they were getting chicken-baited water after runs as well as some little chunks of frozen chicken and occasionally fish as post-run snacks on days we increased mileage significantly.They seemed to be holding their weight once we started running in the early season's warmer temperatures, so I didn't make any adjustments to this regimen.
The outside dogs' food is soaked in hot water, and this is their primary source of water since any left outside would quickly freeze. I had looked up how much water working huskies should be getting daily and thought I was in the clear with this amount. Also, this was the routine I had used (based on another musher's input) last year and it had worked out fine inasmuch as the dogs stayed healthy & ran well all season.
I had an inkling of things to come when I attended the Alaska Dog Mushing Association's Sled Dog Symposium this fall. Not only was the keynote presentation about the science and recent research around nutrition & feeding, but this subject was the featured forum and was brought up and discussed, at length, at every single lecture or forum I attended, without exception, for the entire weekend.
A conversation with a competitive mushing neighbor of mine last month brought my whole routine into question. I first got worried when she said I should be watering my team once a day in addition to meals regardless of our run status, and then again after any run. She also hinted that my food-to-water ratio was too high and all the nutrition was washing right through them.
She also questioned my food-brand choice, recommending that I switch to a "better" competitive brand formulated by mushers. The one, of course, that she uses. She was also horrified by the amount I was feeding and told me to double it immediately, especially for Dottie who so far hadn't responded with any significant weight gain to her larger meals. She also warned that my chicken-treats were making the dog's diet protein-heavy and that I needed to balance it out with some fat, but also said that she feeds each of her dogs a pound of meat a day in addition to (soaked) dry food. She recommended a bucket of fat-supplement available at the mushing store be given twice a day with meals, especially with the cold weather coming on. She also showed me two different wormers and some other supplemental powders that could be added to the mix. I ate all this advice up like candy, but like too much candy it left me a little queasy.
At the end of our conversation, she loaned me The Speed Mushing Manual. The first (and longest) chapter warns that feeding is the most important component of dog driving, that every musher is a zealot when it comes to feeding their own team and none of them, even the top competitors running neck in neck in the same races, do it exactly the same way. He then spent the first third of the book exclusively discussing food.
All this information coincided with the sudden deep cold snap, and I panicked. I know enough about physiology to know that dehydration hinders metabolism, and the thought that the outside-dogs were chronically dehydrated and therefore chronically cold was distressing. I started watering once a day, and twice a day when we ran. I started to worry that my baited water was too heavy on bait, and was dehydrating them instead of helping. I doubled their food. I bought a tub of lard and started melting an ice-cream scoop's worth into their meals. As the air got colder, the scoops got bigger. I started wondering about supplements and different types of meat.
Then I got sick and it got colder and we didn't run for two weeks.
When I put the dogs in harness again this week, the difference was ... remarkable. Dottie was no longer distressingly skinny, but borderline chunky. Leo and Sawyer were downright fat. Sawyer's harness, which was on the small side to begin with, barely fit her. I started out with slow, short runs for the first two days back, watching them carefully. They didn't seem to be suffering at all from their sudden weight gain and long rest. We did nearly fourteen flat miles today, averaging between seven and eight miles per hour, and all three of my fat-camp huskies were pulling hard and running smooth all the way home. I'm cutting down slightly now that things are warmer, but don't want to swing too far in the other direction because we are putting miles down again and the dogs will be burning more and more calories as we do.
I'm not sure where to go from here. I am no nutritionist, and I have no idea how to manage all these different components, much less their attendant advice. Also, we are not a racing team. We are doing slow, low mileage runs on relatively easy terrain with an empty sled just four or five days a week. These dogs are tough as nails, and have run tens of thousands of miles on all kinds of different types & combinations of food. I doubt I will hurt them too much as I make infinite minor adjustments to their diet (and scoop the attending - and recently doubled - output) but I am still managing to come up with plenty of worry.
I am feeding our dogs Eagle Pack Power, both because I have been feeding our pet dogs Eagle Pack Adult food for years and because I know that several well respected distance mushers use Eagle Pack Power for their teams. When the dogs first arrived, I looked at the handy weight-to-food chart on the Power bag and started dishing up kibble accordingly. The dogs were lean when I got them. Dottie was a touch on the skinny side, so she got about a quarter cup extra at each meal. In addition to their food, they were getting chicken-baited water after runs as well as some little chunks of frozen chicken and occasionally fish as post-run snacks on days we increased mileage significantly.They seemed to be holding their weight once we started running in the early season's warmer temperatures, so I didn't make any adjustments to this regimen.
The outside dogs' food is soaked in hot water, and this is their primary source of water since any left outside would quickly freeze. I had looked up how much water working huskies should be getting daily and thought I was in the clear with this amount. Also, this was the routine I had used (based on another musher's input) last year and it had worked out fine inasmuch as the dogs stayed healthy & ran well all season.
I had an inkling of things to come when I attended the Alaska Dog Mushing Association's Sled Dog Symposium this fall. Not only was the keynote presentation about the science and recent research around nutrition & feeding, but this subject was the featured forum and was brought up and discussed, at length, at every single lecture or forum I attended, without exception, for the entire weekend.
A conversation with a competitive mushing neighbor of mine last month brought my whole routine into question. I first got worried when she said I should be watering my team once a day in addition to meals regardless of our run status, and then again after any run. She also hinted that my food-to-water ratio was too high and all the nutrition was washing right through them.
She also questioned my food-brand choice, recommending that I switch to a "better" competitive brand formulated by mushers. The one, of course, that she uses. She was also horrified by the amount I was feeding and told me to double it immediately, especially for Dottie who so far hadn't responded with any significant weight gain to her larger meals. She also warned that my chicken-treats were making the dog's diet protein-heavy and that I needed to balance it out with some fat, but also said that she feeds each of her dogs a pound of meat a day in addition to (soaked) dry food. She recommended a bucket of fat-supplement available at the mushing store be given twice a day with meals, especially with the cold weather coming on. She also showed me two different wormers and some other supplemental powders that could be added to the mix. I ate all this advice up like candy, but like too much candy it left me a little queasy.
At the end of our conversation, she loaned me The Speed Mushing Manual. The first (and longest) chapter warns that feeding is the most important component of dog driving, that every musher is a zealot when it comes to feeding their own team and none of them, even the top competitors running neck in neck in the same races, do it exactly the same way. He then spent the first third of the book exclusively discussing food.
All this information coincided with the sudden deep cold snap, and I panicked. I know enough about physiology to know that dehydration hinders metabolism, and the thought that the outside-dogs were chronically dehydrated and therefore chronically cold was distressing. I started watering once a day, and twice a day when we ran. I started to worry that my baited water was too heavy on bait, and was dehydrating them instead of helping. I doubled their food. I bought a tub of lard and started melting an ice-cream scoop's worth into their meals. As the air got colder, the scoops got bigger. I started wondering about supplements and different types of meat.
Then I got sick and it got colder and we didn't run for two weeks.
When I put the dogs in harness again this week, the difference was ... remarkable. Dottie was no longer distressingly skinny, but borderline chunky. Leo and Sawyer were downright fat. Sawyer's harness, which was on the small side to begin with, barely fit her. I started out with slow, short runs for the first two days back, watching them carefully. They didn't seem to be suffering at all from their sudden weight gain and long rest. We did nearly fourteen flat miles today, averaging between seven and eight miles per hour, and all three of my fat-camp huskies were pulling hard and running smooth all the way home. I'm cutting down slightly now that things are warmer, but don't want to swing too far in the other direction because we are putting miles down again and the dogs will be burning more and more calories as we do.
I'm not sure where to go from here. I am no nutritionist, and I have no idea how to manage all these different components, much less their attendant advice. Also, we are not a racing team. We are doing slow, low mileage runs on relatively easy terrain with an empty sled just four or five days a week. These dogs are tough as nails, and have run tens of thousands of miles on all kinds of different types & combinations of food. I doubt I will hurt them too much as I make infinite minor adjustments to their diet (and scoop the attending - and recently doubled - output) but I am still managing to come up with plenty of worry.
12.26.2010
back in business
If I had never taken my sled to Laughing Husky, I would never have known what I was missing. My sled has been tracking poorly all winter, but with nothing but last year's ancient boat to compare it to I assumed it was my inexperience that kept me slamming into trees and bouncing off the trail and into powder. What a relief to realize it had nothing to do with me.
With the new drag mat and bridle in place and temperatures sitting at a balmy -20 just after dawn, we headed out on the nine-mile O'Brian loop. I was curious to see how all this down time had affected both their stamina and mine. The dogs tore out of the driveway, and when we got to long, straight downhill towards Ivory Jack's I spent time getting used to the dynamics of the new mat. It is set on hard plastic strips which hinge off the sled and this stiffness allows it to float over the trail when no pressure is applied. My old mat dug in if it was down, slowing the team significantly. Conversely, applying pressure to this new mat gives exponentially more braking power than pressure to the old mat (which was already adding lots of friction with no help from me) because of metal screws drilled into the rubber. With just a tiny bit of heel pressure, the screws bite into the trail and the team slows down fast.
At the bottom of the hill, I felt I had gotten the hang of the new mat. As we were crossing the slick ice on O'Connor Creek, I suddenly realized that we had run about a half-mile fast downhill and I hadn't once had to steer. And that is because we were solidly on the trail, not careening back and forth across it as I struggled to keep the runners on the pack. I paid close attention as we rounded the corner behind the community center and into some hair-pin turns and down-hill sections later on. The sled tracks perfectly, and I can pay a lot more attention to the dogs and the trail ahead now. I feel like I went to the car repair shop and drove away with an entirely new vehicle - better handling, responsive brakes.
The dogs ran well for the first five miles, then slowed down significantly. The girls especially looked tired. I found myself kicking and running much more than usual for the back-stretch of this particular loop. We took a shortcut home, a trail we hadn't run yet this year. It turned out that what was a well-traveled trail last year had only been traversed by one cross-country skier this season, and only half-way at that. Leo hesitated when I first asked him to turn off our usual loop, but didn't miss a beat when I asked him to turn off the faint ski-trail into untracked powder a few minutes later. He hauled us over a bank and through a trail-less section of forest. The team powered through the deeper stuff and never even looked back as I directed them through a maze of creeks and ponds until we popped out onto our regular route about a half mile from the house. The novelty of a new trail made up for the extra work of breaking it, I think.
At any rate, we made it home tired but all of us are glad to be back out on the trails.
With the new drag mat and bridle in place and temperatures sitting at a balmy -20 just after dawn, we headed out on the nine-mile O'Brian loop. I was curious to see how all this down time had affected both their stamina and mine. The dogs tore out of the driveway, and when we got to long, straight downhill towards Ivory Jack's I spent time getting used to the dynamics of the new mat. It is set on hard plastic strips which hinge off the sled and this stiffness allows it to float over the trail when no pressure is applied. My old mat dug in if it was down, slowing the team significantly. Conversely, applying pressure to this new mat gives exponentially more braking power than pressure to the old mat (which was already adding lots of friction with no help from me) because of metal screws drilled into the rubber. With just a tiny bit of heel pressure, the screws bite into the trail and the team slows down fast.
At the bottom of the hill, I felt I had gotten the hang of the new mat. As we were crossing the slick ice on O'Connor Creek, I suddenly realized that we had run about a half-mile fast downhill and I hadn't once had to steer. And that is because we were solidly on the trail, not careening back and forth across it as I struggled to keep the runners on the pack. I paid close attention as we rounded the corner behind the community center and into some hair-pin turns and down-hill sections later on. The sled tracks perfectly, and I can pay a lot more attention to the dogs and the trail ahead now. I feel like I went to the car repair shop and drove away with an entirely new vehicle - better handling, responsive brakes.
The dogs ran well for the first five miles, then slowed down significantly. The girls especially looked tired. I found myself kicking and running much more than usual for the back-stretch of this particular loop. We took a shortcut home, a trail we hadn't run yet this year. It turned out that what was a well-traveled trail last year had only been traversed by one cross-country skier this season, and only half-way at that. Leo hesitated when I first asked him to turn off our usual loop, but didn't miss a beat when I asked him to turn off the faint ski-trail into untracked powder a few minutes later. He hauled us over a bank and through a trail-less section of forest. The team powered through the deeper stuff and never even looked back as I directed them through a maze of creeks and ponds until we popped out onto our regular route about a half mile from the house. The novelty of a new trail made up for the extra work of breaking it, I think.
At any rate, we made it home tired but all of us are glad to be back out on the trails.
12.25.2010
holiday cheer
Temperatures continue to rise today. The official thermometer at the airport read zero at one o'clock. I am stuck at work (with a borrowed internet connection! a wonderful Christmas gift!) for seventeen more hours, and I'm chomping at the bit to get outside and on the trails. It was even dusting a little snow this morning ...
Backtrail: Holes In The Ice
Our second run began at the same little dead-end road two miles from the cabin. Peter helped me hook up again, and this time we only needed a little guidance to start moving in the right direction. That initial euphoria of flying down a trail behind a fresh team with the swish of runners the only sound caught in my throat as the field flashed by.
Unable to control where we were going, I just held on as Rsta took us to the left at the end of the field instead of right. We followed a fresh-looking snow machine track across a large frozen pond, over some smashed down, icy cattails and across a series of smaller marshy wallows. I worked my feet on the runners, shifting my weight and getting a better feel for how the sled responded to corners and straightaways and ruts in the trail. The dogs were in a groove, and settled into a nice trot. It was only a few short minutes before I saw powerlines and heard traffic on Ballaine Road. I had seen the "Caution: Dog Team Crossing" sign driving down that road a thousand times but had never noticed exactly where the trail came out to cross. On the trail itself, it was obvious. I don't know how I had missed it so many times before.
I slowed the sled, hoping Rsta would turn to the right or left so we could run along the road and perhaps loop back to the cabin. Instead, she plowed ahead to the asphalt. I stopped the sled and called for her to turn. "Gee ... gee" ... she jumped, banging against her harness straight ahead, not looking at me. "Haw, Rsta, Haw ..." she dug into the snow and inched the sled forward. I lifted my foot for a second to get a better grip on the brake. As soon as they felt the tension slack, the whole team jumped forward, and Rsta was on the road before I could get the claw back in the snow. For the moment there were no cars, but with a 50mph speed limit against us I didn't want to linger. I tried to drag the sled backwards, but realized the futility of this move the instant my foot left the brake again - the dogs were now all in the road and I had the brake set in the last bit of snow before the asphalt. I took a deep breath, let the brake go, and ran along side the sled as the dogs tore forward across the blacktop and onto the trail on the other side.
We ran along what I have come to know as the northern of the two Goldstream Valley trails for about twenty minutes. With a big, wide trail ahead of us and no options for turning, the three dogs trotted along contentedly and I settled into a blissful trance. I was mushing! We had successfully crossed a major road! What could possibly go wrong!?!
When we did get to a major trail intersection, I stopped the sled and tried to get Rsta to turn to the right. I knew there was a major trail along the southern edge of the valley, and I assumed this southbound trail connected to it. It would be a perfect loop. "Gee ... gee." Nothing. I set the snow hook as deep as I could and stepped off the sled. As soon as she saw me approach, Rsta turned around and ran towards me, causing a tangle in the lines. I sorted it out and dragged everyone out straight, then carefully moved the whole line at a 90 degree angle to the sled. I ran back to the runners to pull the snowhook ... and Rsta followed right behind me, pulling Pico and Arwyn around with her. Tangles. Arwyn's foot got caught in a neckline, Pico's harness was wrapped around his belly. Rsta had woven herself between the gangline and Arwyn's neckline. I straightened everyone out and walked Rsta back out front in the direction I wanted us to go. I walked backwards to the sled, yelping "No" at her every time she tried to turn and follow me. Back at the runners, I pulled the snow hook and said "let's go." Rsta immediately turned to the left and pulled us back onto the main trial. I stopped the sled and set the hook again.
The second time Rsta took the sled into a U-turn, I switched her out with Pico to see if he would understand where I wanted us to go. I lined him out and followed the same procedure of walking backwards to the sled while trying to verbally stop him in his tracks. Unlike shy, sensitive Rsta, my yelling "no" did nothing to dissuade him. He dutifully turned and followed me back to the sled, tail wagging full speed. I wanted to scream in frustration. Rsta and Arwyn started to whine with anxiety. I stood on the runners and took a deep breath, trying to calm down enough to deal with the dogs gently. Pico gave me a long look, then suddenly turned and bolted excitedly back down the trail hitting the end of the tug at full speed. It only took me a second to see that Arwyn's harness was wrapped around her belly, but she was running now, too, and I wanted to let us get at least a few yards down the trail now that we were moving. I stopped the sled and managed to get her untangled before Pico had a chance to come back to investigate.
And we were off again. We went down a slight dip in the trail, and crossed a creek. The trail we were following now was well defined with snow machine tracks and went straight across and up a gentle slope on the other side. Pico ignored this, took a sharp left-hand turn and plowed up the narrow, winding creek following a single set of cross country ski tracks that were not only lonely, but looked old. We had been out for an hour already, and I knew we didn't have much daylight to work with. Despite my attempts to make a nice loop and head home, we were headed east again, away from the road. The banks of the creek, after just a few yards, became steep and forbidding. There was no way to turn around, even if I could get the dogs to do it. I let them run.
Five minutes later, craning my neck up to both sides trying to find a likely way out of this mess, I was nearly thrown off the runners as the team took a sharp left turn. I jumped off with one hand on the handle bow to steady myself and saw in a flash or horror that the right runner was skimming over the edge of a blue-black hole in the ice, the size of a small hottub. Unfazed, Pico jumped up a short incline and onto a wide place in the creek behind the hole; a beaver dam or something had formed this small pond and the hole must have had something to do with a little waterfall or eddy where the creek started flowing again. The cross country ski tracks were gone. Pico stopped and turned to look at me, then turned and tackled a startled Arwyn, barking for her to play. More tangles.
I put Rsta back up front, and she was eager enough to head back down the creek the way we had come, giving the hole a much wider berth than Pico. When we got back to the packed trail, I sighed with relief as she turned left, the way I had wanted her to go, south and west in a loop back towards the road. We bumped up over the creek's banks, then out onto another pond. This one was big, and the trail was initially packed hard. A minute later, the dogs feet were sinking into deep snow and the snow machine trail became a faint trace under newer snowfall. Then it was gone. We were at the end of the huge pond, facing the right direction to get home but with no trail to follow.
I was certain the trail I wanted (the south-valley trail, which I had skied the winter before) was just on the other side of a big stand of white spruce ahead of us. Rsta stood still, up to her hocks in snow, looking back at me for direction. I took my foot off the brake and she took two steps forward into the deepening snow at the edge of the ice. She stopped. I pushed the sled. It scooted ahead and she walked forward until the line was taunt again, the stopped and looked back. I pushed the sled forward. Nobody moved, and the brushbow nudged Arwyn's back legs. She balked sideways and dragged Pico with her. I quickly pulled the sled backwards to put tension back on the lines before we could tangle again. Rsta, in the mean time, wrapped herself and her lines around a bush on the edge of the pond. She was now much more interested in some old rabbit tracks than the fact that she was in harness in front of a sled. I walked forward to grab her collar and unwrapped her, leaving the snow hook on the sled.
I was exhausted and frustrated, and had also become convinced that the trail I wanted was just through the trees. Not knowing what else to do, and with my aforementioned propensity for inertia, I let go of her harness and started walking. To my great relief, all three dogs followed me. The snow quickly came up to my knees, and I post-holed on into the forest at a snail's pace. The deep snow and drag mat kept the sled from sliding into Arwyn and Pico. We were making steady progress ... and then we hit the trees. Or rather, the sled hit the trees. Moving over downed logs and small bushes under the snow, I did double-time, walking ahead, then back to dislodge the sled when it caught on something under the snow, then forward again. I was sweating through all my layers, hat and gloves off, thighs aching with the effort. We inched along through the spruce. Back and forth. The trail was just up ahead. I could almost see it through the dense overhang. I plowed on through the drifts, the dogs seeming happy with the new arrangement of follow-the-two-legged-leader. The sled lodged again. I looked up to gauge our progress, and realized I could no longer see the hills, or the sun, or the pond we had left. We were a hundred yards or more past where I thought there should be a trail. Nothing.
Just a few more yards. We moved forward. The sled snagged again. I went back. The drifts seemed to get deeper with every step. I wallowed, looking back at where the dogs were stuck against another sapling, sucking in cold breath, looking through the trees for any sign of the trail I knew must be just up ahead, just past the next drift.
As the trees got even thicker, the snow pack lessened. The dogs were now following just at my heels, then next to me, then suddenly they were ahead and the sled was just out of reach. I ran forward to grab the handle and jump on the runners. Just as I took the first step, Arwyn, Pico and I saw the same thing off to the left. A steep drop off, a creek, and a snow machine trail right down the middle. The two of them leapt off the trail and down the bank, dragging a yelping Rsta and rolling sled with them and leaving me high up on the bank, alone. I jumped down after them, caught my foot in a root and fell hard onto the ice. I looked up just in time to watch the sled disappear around a corner, upstream and heading decidedly away from the road without me. Then silence. I was too exhausted to cry.
Instead I took a deep breath, struggled to my feet and started calling for Pico while jogging up the creek. I cannot begin to describe the relief I felt when I saw the sled parked in snow just two bends ahead, the dogs standing contentedly waiting for me to catch up.
When I reached them, I realized immediately that Rsta was a wreck. She was tangled up in the lines, and shaking hard, trying to pull away from the other two dogs and sled but unable to get any distance. Even after I straightened her out and sat with her in the snow for a few minutes to help her calm down, moved her away from the other two dogs and got everyone pointed in the right direction - downstream - she refused to run up front. I switched her with Pico for lead, but he had lost all focus after his adventure and would only stay up front long enough for me to walk out of reach before turning around to play tackle the two trapper dogs. I tried Arwyn next, but when she realized I'd put her up front she simply laid down in the trail and rolled on her back.
I stood on the runners at a loss. We were going nowhere. It was getting dark. I knew this creek would take us back to Ballaine Road eventually, but I had no idea how far away we were. This was not the trail I had been looking for, and deep in the creek bed I couldn't see the hills for context. Then I remembered something I had read two years before about the way sled dogs were traditionally run on the open tundra where there are no trees or trails. The dogs are hooked up one equal length lines, side-by-side in what is called a "fan hitch." They fan out but pull together, every dog beside all of his team mates. With three dogs refusing to lead alone, anything was worth a try. I un-clipped Arwyn from the gangline and attached her tug , along with Pico's and Rsta's, to the bridle. All three dogs were now side-by-side, none of them bearing the full stress or responsibility of being up front. Before I had a chance to stuff the gang line in my backpack, they were headed down the trail at top speed. I hardly had time to jump on the runners as the sled blew by.
I called Peter from the creek-trail and asked him to meet us at the Ballaine Road Trailhead. I was shaking with exhaustion, both mental and physical, and knew we would be lucky to make it just that far without further incident, much less across the road and through the marshes with their myriad of forks and side-trails. I have never been more happy to see my car that I was when we came around the last corner of the creek. The dogs recognized the vehicle and sprinted up the little hill. At home with the dogs snacked and bedded down and the sled unloaded, I stripped out of my soaking clothes, curled up under a pile of blankets and was asleep before I'd taken a second breath.
Unable to control where we were going, I just held on as Rsta took us to the left at the end of the field instead of right. We followed a fresh-looking snow machine track across a large frozen pond, over some smashed down, icy cattails and across a series of smaller marshy wallows. I worked my feet on the runners, shifting my weight and getting a better feel for how the sled responded to corners and straightaways and ruts in the trail. The dogs were in a groove, and settled into a nice trot. It was only a few short minutes before I saw powerlines and heard traffic on Ballaine Road. I had seen the "Caution: Dog Team Crossing" sign driving down that road a thousand times but had never noticed exactly where the trail came out to cross. On the trail itself, it was obvious. I don't know how I had missed it so many times before.
I slowed the sled, hoping Rsta would turn to the right or left so we could run along the road and perhaps loop back to the cabin. Instead, she plowed ahead to the asphalt. I stopped the sled and called for her to turn. "Gee ... gee" ... she jumped, banging against her harness straight ahead, not looking at me. "Haw, Rsta, Haw ..." she dug into the snow and inched the sled forward. I lifted my foot for a second to get a better grip on the brake. As soon as they felt the tension slack, the whole team jumped forward, and Rsta was on the road before I could get the claw back in the snow. For the moment there were no cars, but with a 50mph speed limit against us I didn't want to linger. I tried to drag the sled backwards, but realized the futility of this move the instant my foot left the brake again - the dogs were now all in the road and I had the brake set in the last bit of snow before the asphalt. I took a deep breath, let the brake go, and ran along side the sled as the dogs tore forward across the blacktop and onto the trail on the other side.
We ran along what I have come to know as the northern of the two Goldstream Valley trails for about twenty minutes. With a big, wide trail ahead of us and no options for turning, the three dogs trotted along contentedly and I settled into a blissful trance. I was mushing! We had successfully crossed a major road! What could possibly go wrong!?!
When we did get to a major trail intersection, I stopped the sled and tried to get Rsta to turn to the right. I knew there was a major trail along the southern edge of the valley, and I assumed this southbound trail connected to it. It would be a perfect loop. "Gee ... gee." Nothing. I set the snow hook as deep as I could and stepped off the sled. As soon as she saw me approach, Rsta turned around and ran towards me, causing a tangle in the lines. I sorted it out and dragged everyone out straight, then carefully moved the whole line at a 90 degree angle to the sled. I ran back to the runners to pull the snowhook ... and Rsta followed right behind me, pulling Pico and Arwyn around with her. Tangles. Arwyn's foot got caught in a neckline, Pico's harness was wrapped around his belly. Rsta had woven herself between the gangline and Arwyn's neckline. I straightened everyone out and walked Rsta back out front in the direction I wanted us to go. I walked backwards to the sled, yelping "No" at her every time she tried to turn and follow me. Back at the runners, I pulled the snow hook and said "let's go." Rsta immediately turned to the left and pulled us back onto the main trial. I stopped the sled and set the hook again.
The second time Rsta took the sled into a U-turn, I switched her out with Pico to see if he would understand where I wanted us to go. I lined him out and followed the same procedure of walking backwards to the sled while trying to verbally stop him in his tracks. Unlike shy, sensitive Rsta, my yelling "no" did nothing to dissuade him. He dutifully turned and followed me back to the sled, tail wagging full speed. I wanted to scream in frustration. Rsta and Arwyn started to whine with anxiety. I stood on the runners and took a deep breath, trying to calm down enough to deal with the dogs gently. Pico gave me a long look, then suddenly turned and bolted excitedly back down the trail hitting the end of the tug at full speed. It only took me a second to see that Arwyn's harness was wrapped around her belly, but she was running now, too, and I wanted to let us get at least a few yards down the trail now that we were moving. I stopped the sled and managed to get her untangled before Pico had a chance to come back to investigate.
And we were off again. We went down a slight dip in the trail, and crossed a creek. The trail we were following now was well defined with snow machine tracks and went straight across and up a gentle slope on the other side. Pico ignored this, took a sharp left-hand turn and plowed up the narrow, winding creek following a single set of cross country ski tracks that were not only lonely, but looked old. We had been out for an hour already, and I knew we didn't have much daylight to work with. Despite my attempts to make a nice loop and head home, we were headed east again, away from the road. The banks of the creek, after just a few yards, became steep and forbidding. There was no way to turn around, even if I could get the dogs to do it. I let them run.
Five minutes later, craning my neck up to both sides trying to find a likely way out of this mess, I was nearly thrown off the runners as the team took a sharp left turn. I jumped off with one hand on the handle bow to steady myself and saw in a flash or horror that the right runner was skimming over the edge of a blue-black hole in the ice, the size of a small hottub. Unfazed, Pico jumped up a short incline and onto a wide place in the creek behind the hole; a beaver dam or something had formed this small pond and the hole must have had something to do with a little waterfall or eddy where the creek started flowing again. The cross country ski tracks were gone. Pico stopped and turned to look at me, then turned and tackled a startled Arwyn, barking for her to play. More tangles.
I put Rsta back up front, and she was eager enough to head back down the creek the way we had come, giving the hole a much wider berth than Pico. When we got back to the packed trail, I sighed with relief as she turned left, the way I had wanted her to go, south and west in a loop back towards the road. We bumped up over the creek's banks, then out onto another pond. This one was big, and the trail was initially packed hard. A minute later, the dogs feet were sinking into deep snow and the snow machine trail became a faint trace under newer snowfall. Then it was gone. We were at the end of the huge pond, facing the right direction to get home but with no trail to follow.
I was certain the trail I wanted (the south-valley trail, which I had skied the winter before) was just on the other side of a big stand of white spruce ahead of us. Rsta stood still, up to her hocks in snow, looking back at me for direction. I took my foot off the brake and she took two steps forward into the deepening snow at the edge of the ice. She stopped. I pushed the sled. It scooted ahead and she walked forward until the line was taunt again, the stopped and looked back. I pushed the sled forward. Nobody moved, and the brushbow nudged Arwyn's back legs. She balked sideways and dragged Pico with her. I quickly pulled the sled backwards to put tension back on the lines before we could tangle again. Rsta, in the mean time, wrapped herself and her lines around a bush on the edge of the pond. She was now much more interested in some old rabbit tracks than the fact that she was in harness in front of a sled. I walked forward to grab her collar and unwrapped her, leaving the snow hook on the sled.
I was exhausted and frustrated, and had also become convinced that the trail I wanted was just through the trees. Not knowing what else to do, and with my aforementioned propensity for inertia, I let go of her harness and started walking. To my great relief, all three dogs followed me. The snow quickly came up to my knees, and I post-holed on into the forest at a snail's pace. The deep snow and drag mat kept the sled from sliding into Arwyn and Pico. We were making steady progress ... and then we hit the trees. Or rather, the sled hit the trees. Moving over downed logs and small bushes under the snow, I did double-time, walking ahead, then back to dislodge the sled when it caught on something under the snow, then forward again. I was sweating through all my layers, hat and gloves off, thighs aching with the effort. We inched along through the spruce. Back and forth. The trail was just up ahead. I could almost see it through the dense overhang. I plowed on through the drifts, the dogs seeming happy with the new arrangement of follow-the-two-legged-leader. The sled lodged again. I looked up to gauge our progress, and realized I could no longer see the hills, or the sun, or the pond we had left. We were a hundred yards or more past where I thought there should be a trail. Nothing.
Just a few more yards. We moved forward. The sled snagged again. I went back. The drifts seemed to get deeper with every step. I wallowed, looking back at where the dogs were stuck against another sapling, sucking in cold breath, looking through the trees for any sign of the trail I knew must be just up ahead, just past the next drift.
As the trees got even thicker, the snow pack lessened. The dogs were now following just at my heels, then next to me, then suddenly they were ahead and the sled was just out of reach. I ran forward to grab the handle and jump on the runners. Just as I took the first step, Arwyn, Pico and I saw the same thing off to the left. A steep drop off, a creek, and a snow machine trail right down the middle. The two of them leapt off the trail and down the bank, dragging a yelping Rsta and rolling sled with them and leaving me high up on the bank, alone. I jumped down after them, caught my foot in a root and fell hard onto the ice. I looked up just in time to watch the sled disappear around a corner, upstream and heading decidedly away from the road without me. Then silence. I was too exhausted to cry.
Instead I took a deep breath, struggled to my feet and started calling for Pico while jogging up the creek. I cannot begin to describe the relief I felt when I saw the sled parked in snow just two bends ahead, the dogs standing contentedly waiting for me to catch up.
When I reached them, I realized immediately that Rsta was a wreck. She was tangled up in the lines, and shaking hard, trying to pull away from the other two dogs and sled but unable to get any distance. Even after I straightened her out and sat with her in the snow for a few minutes to help her calm down, moved her away from the other two dogs and got everyone pointed in the right direction - downstream - she refused to run up front. I switched her with Pico for lead, but he had lost all focus after his adventure and would only stay up front long enough for me to walk out of reach before turning around to play tackle the two trapper dogs. I tried Arwyn next, but when she realized I'd put her up front she simply laid down in the trail and rolled on her back.
I stood on the runners at a loss. We were going nowhere. It was getting dark. I knew this creek would take us back to Ballaine Road eventually, but I had no idea how far away we were. This was not the trail I had been looking for, and deep in the creek bed I couldn't see the hills for context. Then I remembered something I had read two years before about the way sled dogs were traditionally run on the open tundra where there are no trees or trails. The dogs are hooked up one equal length lines, side-by-side in what is called a "fan hitch." They fan out but pull together, every dog beside all of his team mates. With three dogs refusing to lead alone, anything was worth a try. I un-clipped Arwyn from the gangline and attached her tug , along with Pico's and Rsta's, to the bridle. All three dogs were now side-by-side, none of them bearing the full stress or responsibility of being up front. Before I had a chance to stuff the gang line in my backpack, they were headed down the trail at top speed. I hardly had time to jump on the runners as the sled blew by.
I called Peter from the creek-trail and asked him to meet us at the Ballaine Road Trailhead. I was shaking with exhaustion, both mental and physical, and knew we would be lucky to make it just that far without further incident, much less across the road and through the marshes with their myriad of forks and side-trails. I have never been more happy to see my car that I was when we came around the last corner of the creek. The dogs recognized the vehicle and sprinted up the little hill. At home with the dogs snacked and bedded down and the sled unloaded, I stripped out of my soaking clothes, curled up under a pile of blankets and was asleep before I'd taken a second breath.
12.24.2010
christmas on the couch
Whatever illness Peter and I have been fighting had made its way to the Laughing Husky sled shop, as well. A few hours after I dropped the sled off, David Klumb headed for bed and my sled was left to thaw alone in the shop for the weekend. We have all recovered, but the sled repairs were put off and I picked it up yesterday afternoon. The new drag mat looks awesome, and I have a brand-new bridle (the connection between the dog lines and the sled) that I have been assured will fix the tracking problems that have had me fighting to stay on the trail (and sometimes face-planting into trees) up to this point.
Unfortunately, with all the rush of last minute shopping, post office lines, parties & Christmas Eve in general, the sled is still sitting pretty in the driveway. I am headed back to work for Christmas day, and am certain the sled dogs will spend most of the holiday on the couch here. The temperature has been steadily rising today, and is sitting at -20 for the first time in nearly three weeks. I hope it holds. Regardless, we will be hitting the trails on Sunday. We've all had about enough couch time for one winter.
Unfortunately, with all the rush of last minute shopping, post office lines, parties & Christmas Eve in general, the sled is still sitting pretty in the driveway. I am headed back to work for Christmas day, and am certain the sled dogs will spend most of the holiday on the couch here. The temperature has been steadily rising today, and is sitting at -20 for the first time in nearly three weeks. I hope it holds. Regardless, we will be hitting the trails on Sunday. We've all had about enough couch time for one winter.
12.17.2010
restarting
Although the local weather service won't declare this last week an official cold snap (it has not, apparently, been cold enough or long enough) the temperature at the cabin hasn't risen above -30 since last Friday. It has been creeping up this evening, though, an I am hopeful that Christmas week will see sustained temperatures sitting above -20. I'm on the other side of my awful illness, but sniffles and low energy are rippling in its wake. The dogs, in the mean time, have not run in ten days. They have had extra scoops of lard in their food, and extra chicken chunks in their water to fuel them against the cold. They have crowded into the cabin in the evenings to dry out the frost on their coats. They have had extra hay in their houses and elk bones to gnaw. But the sled has remained under the cabin, and they are restless.
Today, at thirty five below, Peter and I strapped the sled to the car and drove it up to David Klumb's shop, where he will spend part of his weekend adding a flip-up drag mat. He built the sled over ten years ago, and when we pulled it inside he was surprised to see it in such good shape.
There was a loose bolt on one of the runners, nearly gone, which he immediately pointed out to me. I had never thought to look for loose bolts under the snow and ice that has built up around the stanchion bases ... but in a few more weeks, I might have lost a runner to this oversight. He pointed out a few other odds & ends, running his hands over the thawing sled with not a little bit of nostalgia. He explained that the foot-boards - black nobby rubber mats drilled into the runners for traction - were a type that he didn't make, anymore. Racers didn't want them, because they were too heavy (he showed us the newer, lighter version that come standard with his sleds now.) and expensive "... but these old footboards have probably appreciated 75 or 80% since I built this sled ... you can't say that about many things ... much less things on a dog sled!"
I guess even in sled-building, they just don't make 'em like they used to.
Mr. Klumb's impressive salt & pepper beard make it nearly impossible to guess his age, but he has been building sleds since I was six years old. It took us while to find him, as he wasn't in the shop when we arrived. In the process of looking we saw the outside of his spectacular self-built, three story house on the hill north of our neighborhood, his dog yard with a very nice looking pack of Alaskan huskies who raised quite a protest about our presence in their territory, and his shop with walls of vintage photographs of sleds and dogs from all over the north country as well as several (giant!!) freight sleds in production. When we finally did track him down (he had been, apparently, in another cranny of the immense shop in a futile battle with his computer and utterly deaf to our calls) he gave the sled a once over, showed us some of his other projects and sent us on our way.
I'm working a 48 hour shift this weekend. I'll pick the sled up on Monday. With a new, safer drag mat, warmer temperatures & a fully recovered dog driver, we'll hit the trails again and start making up for the time we lost.
Today, at thirty five below, Peter and I strapped the sled to the car and drove it up to David Klumb's shop, where he will spend part of his weekend adding a flip-up drag mat. He built the sled over ten years ago, and when we pulled it inside he was surprised to see it in such good shape.
There was a loose bolt on one of the runners, nearly gone, which he immediately pointed out to me. I had never thought to look for loose bolts under the snow and ice that has built up around the stanchion bases ... but in a few more weeks, I might have lost a runner to this oversight. He pointed out a few other odds & ends, running his hands over the thawing sled with not a little bit of nostalgia. He explained that the foot-boards - black nobby rubber mats drilled into the runners for traction - were a type that he didn't make, anymore. Racers didn't want them, because they were too heavy (he showed us the newer, lighter version that come standard with his sleds now.) and expensive "... but these old footboards have probably appreciated 75 or 80% since I built this sled ... you can't say that about many things ... much less things on a dog sled!"
I guess even in sled-building, they just don't make 'em like they used to.
Mr. Klumb's impressive salt & pepper beard make it nearly impossible to guess his age, but he has been building sleds since I was six years old. It took us while to find him, as he wasn't in the shop when we arrived. In the process of looking we saw the outside of his spectacular self-built, three story house on the hill north of our neighborhood, his dog yard with a very nice looking pack of Alaskan huskies who raised quite a protest about our presence in their territory, and his shop with walls of vintage photographs of sleds and dogs from all over the north country as well as several (giant!!) freight sleds in production. When we finally did track him down (he had been, apparently, in another cranny of the immense shop in a futile battle with his computer and utterly deaf to our calls) he gave the sled a once over, showed us some of his other projects and sent us on our way.
I'm working a 48 hour shift this weekend. I'll pick the sled up on Monday. With a new, safer drag mat, warmer temperatures & a fully recovered dog driver, we'll hit the trails again and start making up for the time we lost.
12.13.2010
feverish
The mercury has been sitting between thirty and forty below since I got home from work on Sunday morning. My "beginnings of a nasty cold" turned into a full blown respiratory viral bomb and I have been in bed for the last two days. At the moment I am sitting on the couch with none other than Dottie, although I have a feeling I will be back upstairs in a bundle of blankets and tissues before long.
Peter, despite being in the middle of finals, has taken over 100% of dog care & chores (and has been at my beck and call as I wallow in a pile of cough syrup & self pity upstairs,) since walking outside in these temperatures with this bug sends me into an excruciating coughing fit that leaves me in tears. This summer, I read the book Yukon Alone about the 1998 Yukon Quest. It was Aliy Zirkle's (a mushing hero of mine) rookie year in that race, and the author details how she came down the the flu and fought through it for the first half of the 1000 mile trail, delirious with fever, camping out at forty below zero with her dogs, pushing on regardless. I dream of being that tough. For now, I am glad I have Peter to go out in the cold with food & a poop shovel for me, and I'm glad I have Dottie keeping the fever chills at bay on the couch instead of in a sleeping bag on the Yukon River.
ADDENDUM: After I posed this, I got up to get some water and go back to bed. By the time I made it to the stairs, Peter had taken over my Dottie-cuddling position on the couch.
Peter, despite being in the middle of finals, has taken over 100% of dog care & chores (and has been at my beck and call as I wallow in a pile of cough syrup & self pity upstairs,) since walking outside in these temperatures with this bug sends me into an excruciating coughing fit that leaves me in tears. This summer, I read the book Yukon Alone about the 1998 Yukon Quest. It was Aliy Zirkle's (a mushing hero of mine) rookie year in that race, and the author details how she came down the the flu and fought through it for the first half of the 1000 mile trail, delirious with fever, camping out at forty below zero with her dogs, pushing on regardless. I dream of being that tough. For now, I am glad I have Peter to go out in the cold with food & a poop shovel for me, and I'm glad I have Dottie keeping the fever chills at bay on the couch instead of in a sleeping bag on the Yukon River.
ADDENDUM: After I posed this, I got up to get some water and go back to bed. By the time I made it to the stairs, Peter had taken over my Dottie-cuddling position on the couch.
12.09.2010
cuddler
It has been thirty below zero all day, and I have the beginnings of a nasty cold. I wavered for awhile after I got home from work this morning, wanting to take the dogs out for a run but finally giving into to the fact that I am in no shape to be outside, much less with the mercury so low. I picked up a tub of sled-dog fat supplement & a fifty pound block of frozen chicken scrap for the dogs at the local mushing store, then slept all afternoon.
The thermometer is reading twenty below now, and it feels warm outside. That is the beautiful thing about these little cold snaps - they make what would otherwise be brutally cold temperatures feel manageable.
Peter, in the mean time, has brought Dottie inside again 'to warm up.' I find that this is happening more and more often. He is on a not-very-subtle campaign to keep her when the other dogs go home. Since she is now too old to race, her owner is looking for a retirement pet-home for her. I'm sure we are not that home for a number of reasons, but her sweet personality has wormed its way into Peter's heart (ok, mine too.) She is a world-class cuddler, and I find the two of them on the couch together any time she is inside. If she were any younger, I'd be jealous.
One of my concerns about keeping her was compatibility with our cat Duncan. The trapper dogs tried to eat him when we introduced them last year, and I decided at that point that loaner sled dogs were not to be trusted with the cat. Period. Peter, however, in ramping up his campaign, introduced the two of them while was at work last week. He documented this for me, and it's a good thing he did because I never would have believed him. It went well, to say the least.
I am still not convinced. We aren't going to be here forever, and finding a place to live with two dogs and a cat is going to be challenging enough. Three dogs will be close to impossible. Dottie has several health problems that will be increasingly expensive to deal with as she gets older. And although she does well in the house while supervised for short periods, we have seen her destructive potential. Total lack of house training is another issue.
Her cuddling contribution, however, is very compelling. I'm certainly not going to protest her place on the couch in the mean time. Especially when it is too cold outside to do anything but bundle up and cuddle the afternoon away.
The thermometer is reading twenty below now, and it feels warm outside. That is the beautiful thing about these little cold snaps - they make what would otherwise be brutally cold temperatures feel manageable.
Peter, in the mean time, has brought Dottie inside again 'to warm up.' I find that this is happening more and more often. He is on a not-very-subtle campaign to keep her when the other dogs go home. Since she is now too old to race, her owner is looking for a retirement pet-home for her. I'm sure we are not that home for a number of reasons, but her sweet personality has wormed its way into Peter's heart (ok, mine too.) She is a world-class cuddler, and I find the two of them on the couch together any time she is inside. If she were any younger, I'd be jealous.
One of my concerns about keeping her was compatibility with our cat Duncan. The trapper dogs tried to eat him when we introduced them last year, and I decided at that point that loaner sled dogs were not to be trusted with the cat. Period. Peter, however, in ramping up his campaign, introduced the two of them while was at work last week. He documented this for me, and it's a good thing he did because I never would have believed him. It went well, to say the least.
I am still not convinced. We aren't going to be here forever, and finding a place to live with two dogs and a cat is going to be challenging enough. Three dogs will be close to impossible. Dottie has several health problems that will be increasingly expensive to deal with as she gets older. And although she does well in the house while supervised for short periods, we have seen her destructive potential. Total lack of house training is another issue.Her cuddling contribution, however, is very compelling. I'm certainly not going to protest her place on the couch in the mean time. Especially when it is too cold outside to do anything but bundle up and cuddle the afternoon away.
12.07.2010
dog training dog
One thing that I've heard over and over from mushers is that the only way to really teach a lead dog is with another lead dog. No matter how good a trainer you are, there are some things dogs just have to learn from each other.
Pico has horrid passing manners. If there is another team or a skijorer or loose dog around he descends into a state of near hysteria and will go to great lengths, usually involving tangling up the team, to get as close as possible to the other party. On O'Brian Road (part of the mostly flat nine mile loop we did again today) there are two loose dogs that we have encountered a few times. On each occasion, Pico has launched into his antics, going so far as to turn all the way around on the trail and get DRAGGED by the rest of us while he tries to make contact. All the yelling I can do from the sled has no effect whatsoever on him in his crazed state. As far as he's concerned, there is nothing else in the world but the object of his attention. I might as well be the moon.
Today, Leo finally had enough of this unprofessional behavior. As soon as Pico started to get out of line in the direction of the loose dogs (and before I had a chance to start my ineffectual yelling) Leo lit into him. Leo skipped a step and jumped up a bit, then came down snarling and clamped his jaw over Pico's nose at just the instant he started to break stride and turn. It was over in less than a second, but the message was crystal clear. Pico gave a barely audible yelp and fell right back into line. He never looked back once at the loose dogs howling on the trail behind us.
Pico has horrid passing manners. If there is another team or a skijorer or loose dog around he descends into a state of near hysteria and will go to great lengths, usually involving tangling up the team, to get as close as possible to the other party. On O'Brian Road (part of the mostly flat nine mile loop we did again today) there are two loose dogs that we have encountered a few times. On each occasion, Pico has launched into his antics, going so far as to turn all the way around on the trail and get DRAGGED by the rest of us while he tries to make contact. All the yelling I can do from the sled has no effect whatsoever on him in his crazed state. As far as he's concerned, there is nothing else in the world but the object of his attention. I might as well be the moon.
Today, Leo finally had enough of this unprofessional behavior. As soon as Pico started to get out of line in the direction of the loose dogs (and before I had a chance to start my ineffectual yelling) Leo lit into him. Leo skipped a step and jumped up a bit, then came down snarling and clamped his jaw over Pico's nose at just the instant he started to break stride and turn. It was over in less than a second, but the message was crystal clear. Pico gave a barely audible yelp and fell right back into line. He never looked back once at the loose dogs howling on the trail behind us.
12.06.2010
electronics & layers
The new GPS came in the mail today. The mailman helpfully crammed it in our mailbox so tightly that I had to get out of the car and brace against the row of boxes to get it out again. I appreciated his efforts, though, because it meant I could use it today instead of having to wait to go to the post office tomorrow.
With new lithium batteries (supposedly better in the cold, but as far as I'm concerned the jury is still out) installed, I stuffed the the toy along with a chemical hand warmer into a dog bootie and strapped it on the sled handlebars. Despite the temptation, I only consulted it once but was excited to see all the data on our run when we got back. We ran on the mostly flat south-valley trail, looped around via a very sketchy creek with a massive drop off that we managed to navigate without any injuries, and came back on the north-valley trail. In all, we ran 12.2 miles in an hour and forty seven minutes with a moving average of 6.9 mph (although if you do the math, that's 8.7 mph all told.) Not super speedy, but a solid long run for this little pack. Although this unit is an updated version of my old and very faulty one, it has lots of new bells & whistles that will take a while to learn. Supposedly it will interface with google maps. Not much real work is going to be done here for awhile with this on the table.
The other thing of note from this run, besides that the dogs were running strong all the way home and Pico and Leo particularly seemed to perk up when we hit new (to Leo, at least) trail, is that I got cold, really cold, for the first time this season. We started late, less than an hour before sunset, and I knew it was twenty below when we left, but I didn't double up socks or long-johns and I didn't take the good arctic parka, opting instead for layers of fleece and a shell. All my layers were too much on yesterday's zero-degree hill run, and I was glad to be able to strip bit-by-bit as I got hot then, but today on the flat with only a little work for me to do here and there and much colder temps, my toes and fingers were numb after about seven miles and never really warmed up, even when I got off the sled and ran.
Figuring out how much to layer and which layers to use is an ongoing process, especially when we do new trail (like Eldorado Creek or further down Wickersham) when I don't know the terrain and therefore how much work I'm going to have to do. I wore the good parka on Eldorado Creek (when we started at -15) and ended up taking it off pretty quickly due to the hills - and by then it was soaked through with sweat and took hours to dry out at home.
Anyway, more to think about and plan around. In the mean time, here are some clips from Wickersham yesterday along with some spectacular (as usual) Abe Quigley music.
Also, I think I figured out whose truck we borrowed: Sven Haltman. At least, that's my best guess. I hope he doesn't mind that I used four of his drop chains for a few minutes. For that, I'll be cheering him all the way through the Iditarod this year.
With new lithium batteries (supposedly better in the cold, but as far as I'm concerned the jury is still out) installed, I stuffed the the toy along with a chemical hand warmer into a dog bootie and strapped it on the sled handlebars. Despite the temptation, I only consulted it once but was excited to see all the data on our run when we got back. We ran on the mostly flat south-valley trail, looped around via a very sketchy creek with a massive drop off that we managed to navigate without any injuries, and came back on the north-valley trail. In all, we ran 12.2 miles in an hour and forty seven minutes with a moving average of 6.9 mph (although if you do the math, that's 8.7 mph all told.) Not super speedy, but a solid long run for this little pack. Although this unit is an updated version of my old and very faulty one, it has lots of new bells & whistles that will take a while to learn. Supposedly it will interface with google maps. Not much real work is going to be done here for awhile with this on the table.
The other thing of note from this run, besides that the dogs were running strong all the way home and Pico and Leo particularly seemed to perk up when we hit new (to Leo, at least) trail, is that I got cold, really cold, for the first time this season. We started late, less than an hour before sunset, and I knew it was twenty below when we left, but I didn't double up socks or long-johns and I didn't take the good arctic parka, opting instead for layers of fleece and a shell. All my layers were too much on yesterday's zero-degree hill run, and I was glad to be able to strip bit-by-bit as I got hot then, but today on the flat with only a little work for me to do here and there and much colder temps, my toes and fingers were numb after about seven miles and never really warmed up, even when I got off the sled and ran.
Figuring out how much to layer and which layers to use is an ongoing process, especially when we do new trail (like Eldorado Creek or further down Wickersham) when I don't know the terrain and therefore how much work I'm going to have to do. I wore the good parka on Eldorado Creek (when we started at -15) and ended up taking it off pretty quickly due to the hills - and by then it was soaked through with sweat and took hours to dry out at home.
Anyway, more to think about and plan around. In the mean time, here are some clips from Wickersham yesterday along with some spectacular (as usual) Abe Quigley music.
Also, I think I figured out whose truck we borrowed: Sven Haltman. At least, that's my best guess. I hope he doesn't mind that I used four of his drop chains for a few minutes. For that, I'll be cheering him all the way through the Iditarod this year.
12.05.2010
snowball effect
Anticipation was high for this morning's run. Perhaps a little too high. I fed the dogs breakfast as soon as I got home, and had the sled, hot water, snacks & huskies loaded for the Wickersham trail head just after the sun rose at 10:30. I was hoping that the groomed trails, excellent snow and good day's rest would set us up for a long run, and push our max mileage up over last weeks' 12. The sky was clear, and sun was beautiful and temperatures were quickly rising towards zero from a brisk -20 before dawn.
Ever since my first Wilderness First Responder class, I have struggled with balancing packing what I actually need for a given venture and what I might possibly need in a worse-case-scenario situation. For months after I took that class, I would pack enough gear to stay comfortably stranded overnight in inclement weather for every day hike. It was overkill, and I have since refined my ways but I still over-pack more for the outdoors than I ever have for a vacation.
Although this trail is about an hour from home, it is a well-used BLM recreational area with lots of weekend traffic on its hundreds of miles of groomed trails. The parking lot was full when we arrived. Two snow machine groups and one snow-bike party were unloading as I pulled the sled off the car and started clipping dogs in. There were several iced-over cars that had been left by folks using the many cabins available for weekend getaways deep in the trail system. Despite this, and despite the fact that I was only planning on heading about seven miles down trail, I threw my winter emergency bag onto the sled and strapped it down. I ignored its heft (extra clothes & socks & mittens, a small med kit, a thick winter sleeping bag & mat) and this was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was a rookie mistake that I should never have made: New Boots. I had gotten a spectacular pair of new, super thick winter boots through the supply division of my new job. I hadn't worn them yet, but they felt like standing in a cloud when I tried them on the first time. Why not? Crazy thick winter boots don't count as new boots, right? Especially when you are riding on runners? No break-in period needed, right? Right?
No. Very wrong.
The third component of our run that I didn't account for wasn't my fault, exactly, but simply a misjudgment from my lack of experience. The snow. The snow was spectacular. It was thick and powdery and there was no indication of the awful melt we had over Thanksgiving. I sank to my knees when I accidentally stepped off the trail at a stop early in the run. The trails were well packed, but I had gotten so used to running on what is essentially ice with a thin layer of snow that I had forgotten just how much drag real snow gives a sled.
All of this added up to a disappointing run on a spectacularly beautiful day. I could see Denali from the trail. The sun was out. Once the snow machines passed us, we had the whole world to ourselves.
But the sled was significantly heavier than the dogs have been used to pulling. I don't know how much gear weight I actually added, but it was too much. With the tacky snow and the ever more deeply rolling hills, I spent most of the run with one hand on the handlebars and both feet on the trail running to keep up with Leo's pace. Which is where the boot mistake comes in. The boots are wonderful. For standing. Not for running uphill for two miles worth of a four-mile out-trail. At the top of the third major hill, I gave up and turned around. The dogs were having trouble pulling even on the flat. Their pace was markedly slower than usual and they would stop to turn around and look at me to get off and contribute at the slightest incline.
Part of the problem with running behind the sled is that although this team doesn't have enough power to pull me up steep hills (or, with a loaded sled, anything resembling an incline) with my weight off the back, they want to run faster than I can. Especially in new winter boots that are starting to rub blisters under my socks. So I end up running as fast as I can maintain and holding the sled back at the same time - a combination upper-and-lower body workout that I was not anticipating at all for this idyllic run I had planned out in my head. By the end of the first hill, I had stripped down to my shirt and was considering running in socks. By the fourth mile, I was done with the beauty and torture of this perfect winter day and we headed back.
I was fighting sharp disappointment all the way back (when I could breathe slowly enough to think.) I wanted so badly to go further, but I knew this was not the day. The dogs were running well, but frustrated by my slowing them up on hills and by the added weight in the sled. I managed to overcome my tendency towards inertia, and I'm glad. It was a beautiful day, but I was spent when we got back to the car after only eight miles of trail under us. Friday's nine miles took us about fifty minutes. Today's eight took an hour and a half.
I was buoyed a bit when we ran into a sixteen dog team hooking up in the parking lot as we returned. Before I could say anything to the musher (after lots of mutual hollering to keep the teams apart while was passed by them at the trail head) the team whipped out of the parking lot like a flock of third-graders headed for the playground at recess and we were alone again. The musher was European, and I got a good look at his dog truck while I snacked my dogs & loaded the sled back onto the Subaru. I'm looking forward to some investigative work to see who it might have been.
In the mean time, I am sticking to the old boots for the next few runs and I'm going to do some good hard thinking about what I really need to take on longer outings far from home.
Ever since my first Wilderness First Responder class, I have struggled with balancing packing what I actually need for a given venture and what I might possibly need in a worse-case-scenario situation. For months after I took that class, I would pack enough gear to stay comfortably stranded overnight in inclement weather for every day hike. It was overkill, and I have since refined my ways but I still over-pack more for the outdoors than I ever have for a vacation.
Although this trail is about an hour from home, it is a well-used BLM recreational area with lots of weekend traffic on its hundreds of miles of groomed trails. The parking lot was full when we arrived. Two snow machine groups and one snow-bike party were unloading as I pulled the sled off the car and started clipping dogs in. There were several iced-over cars that had been left by folks using the many cabins available for weekend getaways deep in the trail system. Despite this, and despite the fact that I was only planning on heading about seven miles down trail, I threw my winter emergency bag onto the sled and strapped it down. I ignored its heft (extra clothes & socks & mittens, a small med kit, a thick winter sleeping bag & mat) and this was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was a rookie mistake that I should never have made: New Boots. I had gotten a spectacular pair of new, super thick winter boots through the supply division of my new job. I hadn't worn them yet, but they felt like standing in a cloud when I tried them on the first time. Why not? Crazy thick winter boots don't count as new boots, right? Especially when you are riding on runners? No break-in period needed, right? Right?
No. Very wrong.
The third component of our run that I didn't account for wasn't my fault, exactly, but simply a misjudgment from my lack of experience. The snow. The snow was spectacular. It was thick and powdery and there was no indication of the awful melt we had over Thanksgiving. I sank to my knees when I accidentally stepped off the trail at a stop early in the run. The trails were well packed, but I had gotten so used to running on what is essentially ice with a thin layer of snow that I had forgotten just how much drag real snow gives a sled.
All of this added up to a disappointing run on a spectacularly beautiful day. I could see Denali from the trail. The sun was out. Once the snow machines passed us, we had the whole world to ourselves.
But the sled was significantly heavier than the dogs have been used to pulling. I don't know how much gear weight I actually added, but it was too much. With the tacky snow and the ever more deeply rolling hills, I spent most of the run with one hand on the handlebars and both feet on the trail running to keep up with Leo's pace. Which is where the boot mistake comes in. The boots are wonderful. For standing. Not for running uphill for two miles worth of a four-mile out-trail. At the top of the third major hill, I gave up and turned around. The dogs were having trouble pulling even on the flat. Their pace was markedly slower than usual and they would stop to turn around and look at me to get off and contribute at the slightest incline.
Part of the problem with running behind the sled is that although this team doesn't have enough power to pull me up steep hills (or, with a loaded sled, anything resembling an incline) with my weight off the back, they want to run faster than I can. Especially in new winter boots that are starting to rub blisters under my socks. So I end up running as fast as I can maintain and holding the sled back at the same time - a combination upper-and-lower body workout that I was not anticipating at all for this idyllic run I had planned out in my head. By the end of the first hill, I had stripped down to my shirt and was considering running in socks. By the fourth mile, I was done with the beauty and torture of this perfect winter day and we headed back.
I was fighting sharp disappointment all the way back (when I could breathe slowly enough to think.) I wanted so badly to go further, but I knew this was not the day. The dogs were running well, but frustrated by my slowing them up on hills and by the added weight in the sled. I managed to overcome my tendency towards inertia, and I'm glad. It was a beautiful day, but I was spent when we got back to the car after only eight miles of trail under us. Friday's nine miles took us about fifty minutes. Today's eight took an hour and a half.
I was buoyed a bit when we ran into a sixteen dog team hooking up in the parking lot as we returned. Before I could say anything to the musher (after lots of mutual hollering to keep the teams apart while was passed by them at the trail head) the team whipped out of the parking lot like a flock of third-graders headed for the playground at recess and we were alone again. The musher was European, and I got a good look at his dog truck while I snacked my dogs & loaded the sled back onto the Subaru. I'm looking forward to some investigative work to see who it might have been.
In the mean time, I am sticking to the old boots for the next few runs and I'm going to do some good hard thinking about what I really need to take on longer outings far from home.
12.03.2010
overflow
It is amazing what a difference trail conditions make. Today we ran the nine-mile loop that was such a nightmare several weeks ago. With poor trail, we did nine miles in just under two hours. Today, we tore through it in fifty minutes and when we got home it was clear we could and probably should have done more. I’ll have to start working out longer loops to do from the house. With the dogs looking good and the snow decent, I’m tentatively planning another White Mountains run on my next stretch of days off.
Today we hit three decent sized patches of overflow. I have watched the team enough to know that Leo and Dottie hate overflow and will go to great lengths to get around it or jump over it if possible. Sawyer and Pico don't seem to care, but will follow the lead of the other two and seem to pick up on their stress if it is a big patch. There was some overflow on O'Connor Creek, but it was refrozen almost completely and there was good snow downstream for the dogs to find traction on. Another big patch lay in the middle of a pond alongside O'Brian Road, but it wasn't deep and we sloshed thorough it in seconds.
Before I'd ever been on the runners of a sled, we dog-yard sat for a couple with fifteen dogs and a tiny off-grid cabin about ten minutes from our place. I made several videos of our two week long tenure there, and one involves a nice explanation of what exactly overflow is.
After much deliberation, I decided to call this blog Overflow. The primary reason is that overflow scares me. I have heard stories of mushers running into overflow five feet deep and coming out soaked to the bone at -40 with no way to dry out or warm up in sight. I spent all last year in terror of running into overflow, and would go well out of my way to avoid it. When I finally did go through a patch in the spring it was unexpected and nearly up to my knees ...
and nothing happened. The dogs hauled the sled and my yelp of terror through the icy water. My pants and boots froze up, but I stayed warm for the last five miles of the run and the dogs and sled were none the worse for wear. That was the last run before Sepp returned to claim is dogs.
The truth is that mushing scares me, too. Is it a whole new world to learn that I know nothing about, a venture that takes me away from my own comfort zone and the relative safety in which we live our everyday lives.
When I accepted the offer of three loaner dogs for the winter, there was a month before I would actually get them. It was a month of worry. Here is an excerpt of an e-mail I sent to a dear friend in the interim:
Today we hit three decent sized patches of overflow. I have watched the team enough to know that Leo and Dottie hate overflow and will go to great lengths to get around it or jump over it if possible. Sawyer and Pico don't seem to care, but will follow the lead of the other two and seem to pick up on their stress if it is a big patch. There was some overflow on O'Connor Creek, but it was refrozen almost completely and there was good snow downstream for the dogs to find traction on. Another big patch lay in the middle of a pond alongside O'Brian Road, but it wasn't deep and we sloshed thorough it in seconds.
Before I'd ever been on the runners of a sled, we dog-yard sat for a couple with fifteen dogs and a tiny off-grid cabin about ten minutes from our place. I made several videos of our two week long tenure there, and one involves a nice explanation of what exactly overflow is.
After much deliberation, I decided to call this blog Overflow. The primary reason is that overflow scares me. I have heard stories of mushers running into overflow five feet deep and coming out soaked to the bone at -40 with no way to dry out or warm up in sight. I spent all last year in terror of running into overflow, and would go well out of my way to avoid it. When I finally did go through a patch in the spring it was unexpected and nearly up to my knees ...
and nothing happened. The dogs hauled the sled and my yelp of terror through the icy water. My pants and boots froze up, but I stayed warm for the last five miles of the run and the dogs and sled were none the worse for wear. That was the last run before Sepp returned to claim is dogs.
The truth is that mushing scares me, too. Is it a whole new world to learn that I know nothing about, a venture that takes me away from my own comfort zone and the relative safety in which we live our everyday lives.
When I accepted the offer of three loaner dogs for the winter, there was a month before I would actually get them. It was a month of worry. Here is an excerpt of an e-mail I sent to a dear friend in the interim:
The weird thing is that I keep swinging into panic. I am terrified that our landlord will find out we're keeping five dogs on the property (although she never knew last year, when we had four.) I don't know where we are going to get three winter-worthy doghouses. I'm terrified that the little bit of part-time work I've managed to pull together for the fall and spring won't be enough for us, much less three more dogs. The litany of old worries that I had to shovel down deep every time I took the dogs out last year are suddenly boiling on the surface again. What if we run into an angry moose, and he stomps the dogs to death? What if we hit deep overflow and the sled goes in? Or the dogs go through a hole in the ice? Or I do? What if I lose the sled and the dogs run into a road and are hit by a car? Or one of them gets tangled and dragged to death? Or a snowmachine runs us down on the trails? Despite getting exactly what I was hoping and dreaming for, I had forgotten all of the worry that goes along with running dogs. And my inability to function through it, at least in terms of being able to get to sleep at night.Now that I have had the dogs for a month, that a full-time job that allows me to run dogs five days a week materialized, as did dog houses, as did snow, I am still plagued by worry. Now, though, I am finding (as last year) that forcing myself to step on the runners every day despite my fear of moose, of cars, of snow machines, of holes in the ice, of overflow, has become an exercise in overcoming fear. I hope that it is helping in some way with the other fears that I find myself facing daily, especially now that I am working as a lead medic with partners who have even less experience and confidence than I do. As hard as it is to face the trails every day, I believe facing overflow is the best way I can learn to face everything else. Not with less fear, but I hope with a little more courage.
In the end, I guess I'm realizing that I have a long way to go in suppressing fear, and not letting it control my life. Much further that I'd like to think ...
12.01.2010
Backtrail: Tangles
It is amazing to me that a year ago, I was attempting my first solo run with a dog team. After much strategizing, I decided on a route and a launch-point. I recruited Peter as a handler, and we drove about two miles to a dead-end road where a trail ran down into the valley past a huge field. I had no idea what was beyond the bend at the end of the field, but I figured a trail with snow machine tracks had to go somewhere.
We loaded the two terrified trapper dogs and a frantically excited Pico into the back of the Subaru and strapped the giant loaner sled on top. There wasn’t enough snow at that point to set the snow hook at my chosen departure point, so I had Peter stand on the brake while I wrestled dogs into harnesses (I quickly learned to harness them BEFORE I loaded them into the car) and hooked them to their tug lines. Following Sepp’s advice, I put Rsta, the black dog, up front, and hooked Pico and Arwyn, the white girl, in wheel. It was immediately clear that we were leaderless. Each dog wandered over their lines, got tangled and dragged the sled sideways, heading off towards the trees or a nearby driveway while I hooked the others up. Before we even started, I had to untangle Pico and Arwyn and drag Rsta back to the front where she was supposed to be leading after she circled the sled and headed back towards the car.
Finally they were in a relatively straight line and I quickly switched places with Peter. I let off the brake and the dogs took off … into a nearby yard, leaving the road and trail altogether. Peter ran after us and grabbed a confused and reluctant Rsta’s collar, and dragged her back around to the road and towards the trail. Pico and Arwyn, undaunted, began pulling hard in Rsta's new direction and quickly overtook Rsta and Peter despite my standing hard on the brake. More tangles. Eventually, we made it to the trail and stayed untangled for long enough to get some momentum. Peter ran alongside Rsta for a few yards, then let go and with no option but straight downhill trail in front of her, she took off at a dead run and we were on our way.
We flew down the side of the field, and I was elated! I was mushing! I whooped and all three dogs broke stride to look back and see what on earth had just happened. I barely hit the brake fast enough to avoid running into them, but I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. Two hundred yards later we were following the trail right around the end of the field. Then Rsta took off down a moose trail, dragging the team and sled with her and I spent the next ten minutes untangling the dogs and getting everyone pointed in the right direction again. Rsta had lost some of her initial drive, and when we got to a huge no-trespassing sign across the trail (and in the middle of nowhere, as far as I could tell) I decided we'd had enough for our first run. I stopped the sled and tried to get the team turned around. The situation deteriorated rapidly.
With the sled sideways in the trail and wedged against a spindly black spruce, I would untangle one dog, turn around, untangle the next dog, then turn to find the first dog tangled around the third dog's line, and on and on. It wasn't long before was sweating and swearing and wondering if I would be pulling the sled back to the road. Once everyone was untangled and straightened out, it became clear that Rsta had utterly lost confidence in me and was not leading anyone anywhere. She sat in the trail, and refused to budge. I put Pico up front. Pico ran about fifteen feet, turned around and dove into Arwyn, trying to play. A ball of lines again. More swearing, and some tears.
I put Arwyn in lead. and she stood happily wagging her tail while I got Rsta and Pico sorted out ... until the moment she realized she was up front, and alone. She laid down on the trail and rolled on her back, feet in the air, then flopped on her side and refused to budge. I switched her with Rsta, who was now getting ansty that we had been on the same twenty feet of trail for over half an hour. I had sweat through all my layers at this point, and was freezing cold and rather disheartened. To my utter relief, Rsta took off when I pulled the snow hook and backtracked us all the way to Peter and the car. We were out for over an hour. I later mapped our little jaunt at barely a mile and a half.
But for all the swearing and screaming and crying and sweating and frustration and despair, those few untangled minutes of abandon with the dogs racing down the trail and the icy wind on my cheeks had me hooked and I knew as soon as we slid in next to the car that I was gone far beyond saving.
11.29.2010
Backtrail: Mountain Dogs
It is hard to believe that it was just a week ago Friday that I was following Sepp's bobbing headlamp down a narrow, wooded trail to his cabin. It was about half a mile downhill, and I was bundled up way too much for the mild November night. We came around a corner, and a huge home loomed out of the dark. In the starlight, it was a giant shadow against the snow. As we got closer, I saw that it was only half-built (though beautiful) and on reaching the porch, saw that it was straw-bale construction.
Sepp opened up the conversation by telling me that his dog team had hauled all the supplies here over the last seven years. In the wan light of our headlamps, he showed me the sled he was going to lend me. It was old, several pieces were lashed together with string and duct tape. Two major sections looked like they had been carved out of tree branches with a large, dull ax in the dark. The brush-bow was only attached on one side. Sepp tipped the sled up and tapped the white plastic. "Runners are good. Almost new." I shrugged. "Looks great." Beggars can't be choosers.
We hauled the sled outside and brought a much newer, nicer sled into the cabin for storage while he was out of town. Back outside again, we walked down another trail. I heard dogs bark. "The others are gone. Only two left." There was a black dot against the snow, a butterball of a dog who leapt on her house to give Sepp enthusiastic kisses between suspicious barks at me. This was Rsta. The other dog was on the other side of the yard, a faint movement on white-on-white. Arwyn. She didn't bark, but paced suspiciously and didn't take her eyes off me. He told me he'd be back sometime in March to collect them.
"So ... you'll come back tomorrow morning and take them?"
"Yeah. I just ... I need to find some dog houses."
"Ok. Ten o'clock, I think it is light enough."
"Sure."
"Can you find your way back to the road."
"Yeah." I wasn't sure, but he clearly didn't want to walk back out.
"Ok. See you."
I started walking, kept it uphill, and eventually found the road and my car.
The next morning found Sepp hooking his dogs up to the wreck of a sled and sending me running behind them all the way up the hill back to the road. He put Rsta in front, saying she would do better there, although, "neither of them are leaders." At the road, he gave the station wagon a long look. "They've never been in the back of a car before ... they have hardly seen cars or been around them much. They will be very afraid. So, hold on tight or they will run."
He explained that these two-year-olds had been with him in the Brooks Range on his remote trap lines for most of their short lives. No cars. No houses. No other people. Just Sepp and the mountains and the trail. Everything was going to be new to them.
We got the sled strapped down to the roof of the Subaru and he followed me to our cabin. I wasn't sure if his gentle handling of the sled was due to care for its well-being or concern that it would fall apart. On ensuring that both dogs were secured in our yard, he gave them a quick scratch behind the ears, gave me an imploring look, and was gone. He had a flight to Santiago in three hours. And Chile had an earthquake in it's future.
Sepp opened up the conversation by telling me that his dog team had hauled all the supplies here over the last seven years. In the wan light of our headlamps, he showed me the sled he was going to lend me. It was old, several pieces were lashed together with string and duct tape. Two major sections looked like they had been carved out of tree branches with a large, dull ax in the dark. The brush-bow was only attached on one side. Sepp tipped the sled up and tapped the white plastic. "Runners are good. Almost new." I shrugged. "Looks great." Beggars can't be choosers.
We hauled the sled outside and brought a much newer, nicer sled into the cabin for storage while he was out of town. Back outside again, we walked down another trail. I heard dogs bark. "The others are gone. Only two left." There was a black dot against the snow, a butterball of a dog who leapt on her house to give Sepp enthusiastic kisses between suspicious barks at me. This was Rsta. The other dog was on the other side of the yard, a faint movement on white-on-white. Arwyn. She didn't bark, but paced suspiciously and didn't take her eyes off me. He told me he'd be back sometime in March to collect them.
"So ... you'll come back tomorrow morning and take them?"
"Yeah. I just ... I need to find some dog houses."
"Ok. Ten o'clock, I think it is light enough."
"Sure."
"Can you find your way back to the road."
"Yeah." I wasn't sure, but he clearly didn't want to walk back out.
"Ok. See you."
I started walking, kept it uphill, and eventually found the road and my car.
The next morning found Sepp hooking his dogs up to the wreck of a sled and sending me running behind them all the way up the hill back to the road. He put Rsta in front, saying she would do better there, although, "neither of them are leaders." At the road, he gave the station wagon a long look. "They've never been in the back of a car before ... they have hardly seen cars or been around them much. They will be very afraid. So, hold on tight or they will run."
He explained that these two-year-olds had been with him in the Brooks Range on his remote trap lines for most of their short lives. No cars. No houses. No other people. Just Sepp and the mountains and the trail. Everything was going to be new to them.
We got the sled strapped down to the roof of the Subaru and he followed me to our cabin. I wasn't sure if his gentle handling of the sled was due to care for its well-being or concern that it would fall apart. On ensuring that both dogs were secured in our yard, he gave them a quick scratch behind the ears, gave me an imploring look, and was gone. He had a flight to Santiago in three hours. And Chile had an earthquake in it's future.
11.28.2010
technical difficulties
We did a seven-mile recovery run today along the south-valley trail. The dogs ran great. Pico continued to do well up front and his passing manners are incrementally improving. On the down side, the trail was all ruts and ice and we won't be heading that way again until we get significantly more snow. I also crashed the sled again on that first half-mile of trail coming out of our neighborhood. I didn't go down as hard, but I'm still sore from yesterday's two spills. I am tentatively planning on an alternate start site for tomorrow.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
11.27.2010
trail condition
I got home from work this morning to about an inch of snow accumulation. As I was driving home, I saw a competative musher out on the trails with her team tethered to a 4-wheeler. My primary concern with the icy trails is the dog's feet, and if she was taking her racing dogs out on an inch of snow-on-ice, I wasn't going to be far behind.
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
11.24.2010
drying out
All three sled dogs are inside the cabin, drying out now that the last of the freak midwinter rainstorm has passed. The yard is a mess of ice and the road has been plowed down to dirt. There were a few minutes of elation mid-morning when fat flakes of snow began pouring out of the sky. Elation died when it stopped cold after five minutes, leaving hardly a dusting on the wet porch. The trails are trashed, and what is left of the snow is solidifying into rock-hard pack ice as temperatures drop back below freezing. There is fog, but no snow clouds. We were promised snow tonight and tomorrow, if only a paltry inch, but given how unreliable snow forecasts are in this dry interior landscape, I am expecting stars instead.If I can claw my way out of this pit of despair for a moment, I find it fascinating that a region used to enduring weeks of brutal forty to sixty below temperatures and winters that last from October to April was brought to its knees for three days by an inch of freezing rain. It is also a little heartening, if only from a distance, that this life with dogs forces me to be so tied to weather, the temperatures, the snow pack. Things utterly out of my control.
I am reminded of an experience a friend of mine had this summer. She had planned a trip up into the Alaska Range to do some climbing, a trip that required a ski-plane ride up to Pika glacier. After being weathered in at the airport for interminable days, she and her climbing buddy were finally ferried up to the ice only to be socked into their snow shelter, all climbing thwarted.
In our modern lives, it is only a rare ice storm or blizzard that might alter our plans by hours, and on rare occasions a day or two. But for those that choose (if we are privileged enough to be given a choice) to work and play outdoors the temperature, wind, ice, snow pack, fog & rain play a much bigger role. We can prepare for it with all the gear and training in the world, but until the moment we launch we won't know if the paddle will take three hours or twelve with a headwind, or if the trek will take two days or ten with washed out trails and mudslides, if the wildfire will burn through the village or be damped enough by a sudden passing storm, if the crops will come in or be destroyed by a freak hailstorm too late to replant. In some of the farming first world and much of the rural third world, lives are lived closer to this uncertainty of weather, and of timing, and ultimately of outcome. Perhaps this is why so much is taken in stride there, more than it is here in the world of iPhones and Facebook and ATMs and DOT maintained roads and 24 hour grocery stores.
I find that in spite of all the time I spent in the third world and in the outdoors of the first world I am frustrated and angered and dismayed by the turn of events this week. And I am ashamed of the ferocity of my feelings. On the first day of rain, I fought an urge to pray. I wanted to beg someone or something to make the freak weather system move off. This even though I no more believe that God cares to answer my demands about temperature or precipitation or sunshine than I believe God would fill my bank account if I asked nicely or promised some token of worthy behavior in return. This even though all I will lose (and only if we don't get any more snow before the deep cold sets in) is a little bit of recreation with some dogs. This makes me ashamed, but I think that it also makes me human.
11.23.2010
the rookie moves up
The rain continues to fall and the snowpack continues to melt ...
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
11.22.2010
(facelift)
Peter said the blog needed a little something. He told me that in comic books, when there are a bunch of super-heroes working together (X-Men, The Avengers) there is always a 'who's who' with pictures of each character that readers can refer to as they follow the story. So tonight while the sled dogs are inside to dry their coats out after this awful winter rain, I did a little tweaking ... I hope you like the new sidebar.
command leader
Leo is incredible. He is not only a confidant leader, but he knows his commands well. He doesn't get freaked out when I mess up, he just stands there calmly until I figure it out. Sometimes, if I don't figure it out, he figures it out for me and drags us all back to where we need to be.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
lessons in the dark
Everything has come to a standstill. The thermometer is sitting above freezing, and it has been raining since two am. The roads are an ice-slick mess, with cars, school buses, tow trucks and police cruisers sliding into ditches all over town. In the mean time, the heavy coating of snow we got over the last week is quickly melting away.
After a whirlwind of orientation & shifts at my new job, I have several days off to regroup. I was looking forward to spending most of the daylight hours on the trails, but with the trails turning into mush it looks like I'll have a chance to catch this blog up on the last few runs instead.
Two days after Dottie's ingestion incident, I took the dogs out on trails full of fresh powder. We did a six-mile out-and-back that took us across Ballaine Road and out the wide north-side trail heading east along the valley. Although the going was still a little rough with ATV ruts, it was a vast improvement over the previous week's snow cover. The dogs did great, although conditions led to a slow overall pace. They finished strong, and it was clear that even with the trail-breaking and ruts, they could have gone much longer.
After another 24 hour shift and even more snow, I was excited for a good, long run. There is a nine-mile loop through the west side of the valley that I often ran with last year's team. Based on the better snow cover and strong showing of this year's crew, I was sure we were ready for it. It was a cold morning, and I put off running until the afternoon hoping it would warm up. With temps at -10F, we took off at about three o'clock. My first mistake was not checking the quickly changing sunset times before deciding to go ahead leave so late in the afternoon. My second mistake was not throwing a headlamp into my bag. (I don't keep one in the sled bag to prevent batteries from freezing into uselessness between runs.) And with that, you can probably see where this story is going.
The snow-clouds were low, and the light was flat and gray when I left. I couldn't see the sun, and had no idea that it would be below the horizon in less than half an hour. We ran down the road, and hit the fast down-hill trail that ends about a mile and a half later in the parking lot of a local bar. The wide-open parking lot was always problematic for last year's leaderless team, but Leo took my directions and navigated through the cars & gas station pumps next door without breaking stride. The trail had been packed down by a snow-machine the day before, and the going was fast. The dogs were running strong, the trail was good. Things were looking wonderful.
About a three miles into the run, and I was looking for a small trail to the left that would bring us to the back side of my intended loop. I never found it, because nobody had broken it yet this year. As I was looking, I realized that it was getting dark. Fast. With no trail available, we forged ahead and tried to find a more round-about way to the appropriate trail system. Since I wasn't really sure where we needed to be, and no trail was apparent, Leo and I ended up at a confused & frustrated stand-off on a random bike-path for several quickly-darkening minutes. Eventually, he headed the way I thought we should go, but not before a very confused Dottie tangled the lines. Five minutes later, and we were all straightened out and I was sure we had hit the right trail. Ten minutes later, we were running through several inches of powder in gloom of semi-darkness. Fifteen minutes later, the powder-on-packed trail turned into powder-on-powder-on-ruts that nobody had run since the ground froze. And it was dark. Twenty minutes later, pushing the sled over ruts and downed trees and sinking into unpacked snow with every step, watching the dogs slack their lines in frustration as they stepped into holes and got slammed every time the sled caught on something new, sweating through every layer I had on and feeling the coming chill, I knew we should have turned around when that first turn never materialized.
One thing I know about myself is that I have a hard time making myself turn around, in a car (there must be a gas station at the next exit ...) or on a hike (if we just get over this next drainage ... ) or on a dogsled. I need to learn to listen to that little insistent voice when it first starts piping up. I usually only pay attention to it well after the point of no return. That is all well and good in most situations, but at twenty below in the dark with four dogs beginning to question your leadership it can be a little closer to dangerous.
We slogged on for five miles before we hit broken trail alongside Ballaine Road again. With no light now under the clouds, I opted to run home on the bike-path and streets instead of across the marshes & through the even darker woods. It had been over two hours since we left for what should have been a less-than-an-hour jaunt. The dogs were barely moving on the long slow uphill to our neighborhood, and I had given up riding the sled and was shuffling along behind them at a half-run, peering ahead into the dark for hazards. When we finally hit the slick, plowed road and gentle down-hill towards the cabin, the dogs perked up and settled into a nice lope. I hopped on for the ride. To my utter relief, no cars came down the road behind us and we made it to the driveway intact.
After a warm snack and a huge dinner, none of the dogs seemed worse for our misadventure in the dark.
These little lessons in detail and judgement are why I am glad to be running a small team so close to home. The more mistakes I make now, the better prepared I'll be to run bigger teams much further afield later. Humbled after this run, I know I still have a so very much to learn.
After a whirlwind of orientation & shifts at my new job, I have several days off to regroup. I was looking forward to spending most of the daylight hours on the trails, but with the trails turning into mush it looks like I'll have a chance to catch this blog up on the last few runs instead.
Two days after Dottie's ingestion incident, I took the dogs out on trails full of fresh powder. We did a six-mile out-and-back that took us across Ballaine Road and out the wide north-side trail heading east along the valley. Although the going was still a little rough with ATV ruts, it was a vast improvement over the previous week's snow cover. The dogs did great, although conditions led to a slow overall pace. They finished strong, and it was clear that even with the trail-breaking and ruts, they could have gone much longer.
After another 24 hour shift and even more snow, I was excited for a good, long run. There is a nine-mile loop through the west side of the valley that I often ran with last year's team. Based on the better snow cover and strong showing of this year's crew, I was sure we were ready for it. It was a cold morning, and I put off running until the afternoon hoping it would warm up. With temps at -10F, we took off at about three o'clock. My first mistake was not checking the quickly changing sunset times before deciding to go ahead leave so late in the afternoon. My second mistake was not throwing a headlamp into my bag. (I don't keep one in the sled bag to prevent batteries from freezing into uselessness between runs.) And with that, you can probably see where this story is going.
The snow-clouds were low, and the light was flat and gray when I left. I couldn't see the sun, and had no idea that it would be below the horizon in less than half an hour. We ran down the road, and hit the fast down-hill trail that ends about a mile and a half later in the parking lot of a local bar. The wide-open parking lot was always problematic for last year's leaderless team, but Leo took my directions and navigated through the cars & gas station pumps next door without breaking stride. The trail had been packed down by a snow-machine the day before, and the going was fast. The dogs were running strong, the trail was good. Things were looking wonderful.
About a three miles into the run, and I was looking for a small trail to the left that would bring us to the back side of my intended loop. I never found it, because nobody had broken it yet this year. As I was looking, I realized that it was getting dark. Fast. With no trail available, we forged ahead and tried to find a more round-about way to the appropriate trail system. Since I wasn't really sure where we needed to be, and no trail was apparent, Leo and I ended up at a confused & frustrated stand-off on a random bike-path for several quickly-darkening minutes. Eventually, he headed the way I thought we should go, but not before a very confused Dottie tangled the lines. Five minutes later, and we were all straightened out and I was sure we had hit the right trail. Ten minutes later, we were running through several inches of powder in gloom of semi-darkness. Fifteen minutes later, the powder-on-packed trail turned into powder-on-powder-on-ruts that nobody had run since the ground froze. And it was dark. Twenty minutes later, pushing the sled over ruts and downed trees and sinking into unpacked snow with every step, watching the dogs slack their lines in frustration as they stepped into holes and got slammed every time the sled caught on something new, sweating through every layer I had on and feeling the coming chill, I knew we should have turned around when that first turn never materialized.
One thing I know about myself is that I have a hard time making myself turn around, in a car (there must be a gas station at the next exit ...) or on a hike (if we just get over this next drainage ... ) or on a dogsled. I need to learn to listen to that little insistent voice when it first starts piping up. I usually only pay attention to it well after the point of no return. That is all well and good in most situations, but at twenty below in the dark with four dogs beginning to question your leadership it can be a little closer to dangerous.
We slogged on for five miles before we hit broken trail alongside Ballaine Road again. With no light now under the clouds, I opted to run home on the bike-path and streets instead of across the marshes & through the even darker woods. It had been over two hours since we left for what should have been a less-than-an-hour jaunt. The dogs were barely moving on the long slow uphill to our neighborhood, and I had given up riding the sled and was shuffling along behind them at a half-run, peering ahead into the dark for hazards. When we finally hit the slick, plowed road and gentle down-hill towards the cabin, the dogs perked up and settled into a nice lope. I hopped on for the ride. To my utter relief, no cars came down the road behind us and we made it to the driveway intact.
After a warm snack and a huge dinner, none of the dogs seemed worse for our misadventure in the dark.
These little lessons in detail and judgement are why I am glad to be running a small team so close to home. The more mistakes I make now, the better prepared I'll be to run bigger teams much further afield later. Humbled after this run, I know I still have a so very much to learn.
11.16.2010
brief
It has been a crazy few days, and we'll have a few more before things settle down. But for now, Dottie seems to be fine although we are still watching her closely. We seemed to have dodged a point-blank aluminum bullet on this one.
Also, we got two days of good snow over the weekend. The trails are looking much better and the dogs and I had a wonderful, if ponderous, trail-breaking run yesterday afternoon! I'm off for my third 24 hours shift in six days ...
Also, we got two days of good snow over the weekend. The trails are looking much better and the dogs and I had a wonderful, if ponderous, trail-breaking run yesterday afternoon! I'm off for my third 24 hours shift in six days ...
11.13.2010
Crisis
Last last night while I was at work, Pete went out to feed the dogs and discovered that Dottie had eaten her bowl. Her metal bowl. He called me, but said she was acting fine and had eaten her supper. It was nine at night already, and there was nothing I could do.
When I got home at eight this morning, she still seemed fine. She was acting normal, she ate breakfast & pooped. No blood. No bloody gums, even (although Peter said last night her teeth were coated in aluminum.) A few hours later, she drank a whole bowl of baited water with no hesitation. Still no blood, no abdominal distension, no shocky gums. She was acting normally and didn't seem to be in any distress or pain. I didn't know what to do.
Dottie is a working dog at the end of her career. It is unusual for mushers, especially competitive mushers with thirty or more dogs in their kennel racing on shoestring budgets to spend thousands of dollars on medical care for retired dogs. Dottie's owner is in Canada, training her team for the Iditarod and out of cell phone service range. She will be for at least a week. I called my vet, a dog musher himself, and explained the situation. He told me the last dog he'd seen with aluminum ingestion had died when they missed a tiny esophageal sliver after extensive abdominal surgery. But then told me to just wait and watch and see if she gets "symptomatic." So we are now watching & waiting for internal bleeding or sepsis on a dog whose owner I can't get a hold of. I have to leave for another 24 hour shift at 6am.
We brought Dottie inside for a few hours to watch her. She is still energetic and cuddly, but I am sick with what may be going on inside her and with the hard decisions that may need to be made in the next 48 hours.
When I got home at eight this morning, she still seemed fine. She was acting normal, she ate breakfast & pooped. No blood. No bloody gums, even (although Peter said last night her teeth were coated in aluminum.) A few hours later, she drank a whole bowl of baited water with no hesitation. Still no blood, no abdominal distension, no shocky gums. She was acting normally and didn't seem to be in any distress or pain. I didn't know what to do.
Dottie is a working dog at the end of her career. It is unusual for mushers, especially competitive mushers with thirty or more dogs in their kennel racing on shoestring budgets to spend thousands of dollars on medical care for retired dogs. Dottie's owner is in Canada, training her team for the Iditarod and out of cell phone service range. She will be for at least a week. I called my vet, a dog musher himself, and explained the situation. He told me the last dog he'd seen with aluminum ingestion had died when they missed a tiny esophageal sliver after extensive abdominal surgery. But then told me to just wait and watch and see if she gets "symptomatic." So we are now watching & waiting for internal bleeding or sepsis on a dog whose owner I can't get a hold of. I have to leave for another 24 hour shift at 6am.
We brought Dottie inside for a few hours to watch her. She is still energetic and cuddly, but I am sick with what may be going on inside her and with the hard decisions that may need to be made in the next 48 hours.
11.12.2010
Backtrail: Unexpected Beginnings
::: I am going to try and write up an account of last year's dogsled adventures on my 24h shift days. I will post-date them to reflect the day I was stuck at work with no internet access. ::
In April of 2009, I brought a five-month old husky mutt home from the pound. I was hoping to turn him into a skijoring dog. Since I know that Alaska isn’t our permanent home, at least not yet, I had not caved into the temptation to start a sled dog team knowing I would have to get rid of the dogs once Peter got into Med school. This single pup seemed like a fair compromise. I spent some time that summer getting the pup familiar with a harness and pulling, but it wasn’t until Thanksgiving weekend that year that there was enough snow to take him for a trail run with skis. My friend Toni went with us to Creamer’s Field, and although it wasn’t a perfect two-miles, Pico figured out right away what was wanted of him and pulled like he was born to it.
After we were done, I drove to a local coffee shop to pick up cup for Peter and warm up a bit myself. In line just in front of me I recognized Sepp, a man I had run into several times when I was a tour guide to Coldfoot & Wiseman up in the Brooks Range north of the Arctic Circle. An old German trapper that makes his living on a dog sled, running hundreds of miles of remote trap line in the all-winter-darkness of the far north, he stood out even in the eclectic crowd of Fairbanks with his generously patched clothes and the ragged fur trim on every item from his home-made boots to his coat lining.
Uncharacteristically, since I was sure he had no idea who I was, I said hello, mentioned that we had met on a couple of occasions at the truck stop in Coldfoot and asked how his trapping season was going. In fact, I was curious as to why he was in Fairbanks at all, as trapping should be well under way. He responded brusquely that the trapping was terrible, snow conditions were the worst in years, and that he was going to Chile to stay with friends for the winter. He turned and shuffled forward with the line.
After a moment, he half-turned back towards me, “In fact, I’m still looking for someone to keep two of the dogs from my team while I’m gone. I am a bit worried, since I am leaving on Monday.”
It was Saturday afternoon. My heart was in my throat. I nodded sagely and let silence hang between us for a few moments while my mind raced.
“I might be able to keep them.”
He whirled around.
“But I don’t have a sled or dog houses at the momenet, and I need to make a few phone calls …”
He was already scribbling his phone number on a napkin. I took it and told him I’d give him a call that evening. And scramble I did. I called every dog musher I knew to see if anyone had a sled I could borrow. Asking to borrow a sled is like asking to borrow someone’s car. Worse, because sleds are expensive and take a beating, it’s like asking to borrow someone’s car for six months and promising to bring it back with plenty of door dings, cracked CV boots and thoroughly misalligned. I got no takers. I called around looking for spare dog houses, too. Nothing. Peter, at least, was supportive if skeptical. I called Sepp that evening, and told him that I would love to take his dogs, but that I had no sled and that without a sled there wasn’t much point.
“Oh, well I have an old sled you can borrow. It doesn’t look like much, but it ran the Iditarod in the ‘90s.”
I started scribbling furiously as he gave me directions to his house. Even though it was after dark, and the instructions involved parking at a dead end and hiking a half mile through the woods, it never occurred to me to hesitate …
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