transition

The day we flew out to Texas for a first-in-years holiday with family, my agitation grew as the sun rose. Even though I hadn't gotten out a suitcase or purchased a single Christmas gift to take with us, the thought of leaving Alaska without one last run with the dogs was driving me nuts. We hadn't run from the house in nearly a month, and I was still uncertain about my ability to effectively hit the brakes on the road if I needed to. But it had snowed a bit, and the snow plows hadn't arrived yet so I thought we could get out to the trails from the house without too much trouble.

An hour before sunset (at two forty, a week out from solstice) I finally gave in and hauled the sled off the truck, pulled out lines and got ready to go. Even though we've had Billie since Thanksgiving, this would be his first run right out of the yard.

I am so glad we went. The run was perfect. The roads had enough snow for the sled, and Reese corrected quickly when he tried to turn up the wrong street. He found the trail, and the snow berm left by the plows had been broken down a bit by skiers. The overflow on Rosie Creek was refrozen, and the trails were set up with just a tiny crust of new snow. Reese and Billie took every direction I gave them, whipping around corners and flying up trails. Reese didn't once slack his tug looking for an opportunity to turn around. We wove up through the silent milk-and-cookies birch forest on the slopes of the rolling hills the dogs pulled hard and steady, and I managed to avoid hitting any trees on the tight corners. We passed the grizzled old european skier we've run into a few times. He doesn't speak - at least, he's never returned my greetings when we've passed him - and appears to spend most of his days on the trails near our house. That night he was almost a shadow himself, gliding through the blue shadows of dusk in the arctic, hardly breaking stride as he stepped off the trail to accommodate our headlong progress.

We came out onto the big logging road, and I turned downhill this time, thinking we'd find the lightning tree and a long westward loop home. The dogs took the turn tight, despite the broad road, and expecting a gentler turn I flipped the sled and did a header into a snowdrift. But I hung on and the dogs stayed lined out perfectly while I blew the snow out of my nose and righted the sled.

We never found the lighting tree - I figured out later that this particular branch of the logging road is too far east - but the trail we took brought us back around to a familiar path eventually and we looped on towards home. It wasn't a long run, but the dogs to to stretch out and we got lots of good gee-haw turns in. I even felt like Billie - who I wasn't even sure was paying attention to me at all these last few weeks - was taking some initiative in the turns.

This year running dogs has been a tart mix of bliss and frustration. I have felt in over my head a few times, with making the move from four (old) dogs to eight, with juggling the strengths and weakness of various leaders after being so used to Leo's power-steering, with the unexpected loss of trail access from the house that I had been anticipating all year, and even with changing work schedules that have kept me off the trails much more than I'd hoped. And there have been miles and miles of trail, near home and away, with Pete and alone, relishing the trees and the sky and the power and joy of the dogs. There have been moments of elation in finding cool new trails to explore, watching my leaders take a perfect command turn on the fly or passing another team without a sideways glance, seeing them frisky and ready to keep going after what I thought was a long hard run, nuzzling dogs on dark mornings or howling with them after dinner under the insane starlit skies of the north country.

This last run felt like a turning point. Solstice has passed, and we are on to a new year. Now that we are running as a team, now that we've faced and worked through the challenges of the early season, we are ready to push into new territory. We are ready for the white mountains, for longer runs and unknown trails. I've been away from my dogs for what seems like forever, losing track of time in a gridlock of asphalt and cement and traffic and a groomed, gridded suburbia and the nightmare of a retail culture pulling out all the stops for the Christmas Rush. But my life, my real life, the life I have chosen, is waiting. There will be days and days for trails and dogs and miles. Just a little bit longer, and I will be home.

an extra set of hands

Temperatures remained below freezing, though just barely, all week. We got a few snow showers, so I was excited about the coming weekend. My EMT class was taking their state test on Saturday morning and I had made some tentative plans to take the dogs up to a friend's house for birthday sled rides for her son and his friends when we were done. I had given sled rides to this group of kids last winter and had really enjoyed sharing the dogs and the thrill of mushing with the group of five and six year olds. It was a good thing the plans were tentative, though. Unlike my last group of students, this group's test took a lot longer to complete and I wasn't headed home until after the sun was headed down and the kid's birthday was over.

I was sorely disappointed, knowing my days to run dogs were limited with an out-of-state trip coming up, but looking forward to Sunday's trails. I had promised a friend of mine a ride in exchange for helping wrangle the dogs, and my stress level regarding managing the team was reduced knowing I'd have an extra set of hands. I loaded the truck just after the sun came up at ten forty five, swung through town to get coffee and headed out to her cabin. She lives just down the street from the trailhead I've been using in Goldstream.

It turned out to be a good thing I had her with me. As I was hooking up dogs, Reese and Billie - who I had up front - decided we were taking too long and started looping back into the team to say hello to the dogs behind them. Billie - our only intact male - was particularly interested in checking out Pepper who we suspect is going into heat.  We got everyone untangled, and I left Toni up front to hold them in line while I clipped the last couple of dogs in. I had done just that and was walking back to grab my coat from the tailgate when the snub line - which I had attached to the back bumper of the truck - snapped and the team took off. Toni still had a hold of the two lead dogs, so all that happened was a giant ball of dogs and lines.

We got everyone sorted out, Toni in the sled with my coat hastily shoved under her knees, and we were off into the marshes. We were running with  Reese and Billie up front, Pepper and Xtra in swing, Norrin on his own in team and Devilfish and Parka in wheel. Reese did his slowing-and-looking-back routine after about half a mile, on a wide spot in the trail. I've learned this is a precursor to an unauthorized u-turn, and as soon as he started I told him "NO" and yipped to keep everyone going. The second he put tension on his tug again with his nose straight ahead, I praised the heck out of him and ran behind the sled for a minute to lessen the load. This seemed to work (this time) as he didn't try to u-turn again on the fly for the whole run.

We stopped to make some adjustments, and the second the sled came to a stop, Reese tried to pull the team around. With Toni available to stand on the sled, however, Reese never made it around past the swing dogs and he stayed lined out while I got things sorted out. As we kept going and the trails got narrower, I noticed that the sled was tracking hard to the left, running into the snow bank and any trees or bushes in that direction. Toni was getting faces full of snow on every corner and most straightaways.

After another mile or two, I stopped and went to check the line again. The problem was immediately apparent. The shock ring - a heavy-duty elastic ring that takes some of the jarring force of the sled bumping or braking or hitting a tree off of the dog's backs - was very messed up. It hadn't snapped, exactly, but the stretchy part had come apart somehow and escaped from the carabiner on one end (this is still a mystery to me) and lodged in a tiny space between the sled and the runners on the right side. The dogs were essentially pulling on one side of the sled instead of the middle, causing it to constantly veer to the left. Again, Toni was essential in getting some of the tension off the line so I could correct the problem and inspect the shock ring (which had come with the sled and was both old and a DIY job to start with) to make sure this malfunction wasn't a safety issue - at least for the rest of this run.

Soon we were on our way again. Over the next five miles, we passed skiers, walkers and fat-tire snow-bikers with perfect on-by manners and without out a single slacked tug line. My suspicions that Norrin's bad behavior on the lake was 100% influenced by Pico was proved out. He never even looked at the distractions as we passed them.

At about the five-mile point, on a little pond, I stopped the sled and asked Reese to perform his signature move. He did so enthusiastically and perfectly, swinging the team out over the pond and back behind the sled. With hardly a pause and without a single tangle we were on our way down our back trail and I was glowing with relief and pride. I let Toni ride the runners for a bit on this stretch of trail - a particularly smooth and straight bit perfect for a first try - and I got some video from the basket.

On the way back, at the bridge over Goldstream, Norrin balked fifty yards out and refused to cross - even though he'd crossed with just a little bit of tug-slacking on the way out. His bulk stopped the team, but with Toni there I was able to unclip him and calmly walk him across the bridge by himself, then clip him in once we were over. The whole Norrin melt-down went much more smoothly with that option available. I'm still not sure exactly how to address this bridge-balking he's developed, and I won't be able to start until we get back to Alaska after Christmas anyway. I posted a question about it to the mushing forum on Sled Dog Central, and have gotten a lot of advice back to pick and choose from. I have a strategy now, and Norrin's bridge phobia will be a nice project to return to in January.

unseasonable

I woke up to a roar late Saturday night as our roof dumped its load of snow into the yard. On Sunday morning, I rose early to feed to dogs so we could get out on the trails and make the most of the last day we'd have to run this week. I prepared their food and got dressed, then I stepped outside to standing water on the porch and meltwater dripping off the roof of the shed and outhouse. The thermometer read nearly forty degrees. I was heartbroken.

Last year, a freak ice storm in mid-November wrecked the trails and it was weeks before they were manageable again. I had told myself over and over that last year's midwinter thaw was an aberration. Apparently I was wrong. It wasn't long before rain began drizzling down onto the little snowpack that had accumulated so far.

Although many of the competitive mushers I know took their teams out to train in the downpour, on the slushy muck the rain was making of the trails, we did not. We are not training for races, and we are still having enough trouble on the trails without heat and muck and standing water to deal with. Instead, we waited for the rain to stop then brought the dogs inside a few at a time to dry out. By evening, the temperature had dropped down again and the misty rain turned back into snow. But it would take a lot more that that evening's dusting to undo the damage the few hours of rain and thaw had done to the snowpack and trails.

Parka and Devilfish waste no time in joining me on the couch.

In the mean time, I packed up to go back to work for another week of regular hours, a long commute and no trail time until the weekend.

Peter wrote an e-mail to a former classmate that night. In it, he typed: "My wife is a musher so I hope for her sake it stays frozen up and we get a foot or so to make up for what we lost and then some.  Her mood is pretty much correlated with the quality of the trails." True words.

Norrin and Xtra chill out together while their coats dry.

flat labyrinth

On Saturday, Pete and I took the dogs to experiment on some new (to us) trails near North Pole. There is a little recreational area on some small lakes there, maintained by the Borough. A map on their website showed a great little trail system with groomed loops ranging from three to twelve miles. We'd only been out to this area once, in the summer, and had been irritated with the lower-48 feel of the park and crowds. Also, it is a long drive from the house. However the appeal of flat groomed trails was strong, since I planned to run all eight for the first time and have Peter along for the ride. And I figured the mostly-closed park, that doesn't even collect entry fees in the winter, wouldn't be too crowded. 

There were several empty snow machine trailers in the parking lot and clumps of ice-fishers scattered out on the lake but the hastily-plowed parking lots were essentially empty. We parked and unloaded next to a six by twelve foot wooden sign emblazoned with the map I had carefully studied online. Peter has been training hard at being a rock-star handler, and almost before I was out of the truck he had the sled unloaded. By the time I had the lines and sled ready to go at what sort of looked like it might be the trail head, all the dogs were unloaded and harnessed. I must be doing something right! We hooked up the dogs - Billie and Xtra up front, then Reese and Pepper, Norrin and Pico, and Devilfish & Parka in wheel, all of them slamming and yelping to GO! Pete jumped in the sled and we were off down the bank to the lake and hopefully the trail.

Initially, we were following the single snow-machine track I'd lined the dogs out on. I figured that once on the ice, we'd see the official "groomed" trail and easily follow it around the first huge lake and into the woods. When we got to the ice, it was clear there was no such thing. The lake was laced with a web of snow machine trails that left hardly any untouched snow. The dogs picked one that seemed to loop around the shore, and I peered through the blue gloom of cloudy winter days here to try and pick out where we should go. I was at a loss. And the few attempts I made to guide Billie (I'd put him up front with mailable Xtra to see how he would lead without pushy Reese or sometimes-confidant Norrin) just confused him.

So the dogs just went. We followed the track along one shore, up over a little peninsula of land then back down onto the ice just a few yards from some ice fishers with their snow machines and augers and poles. The dogs tried to head in their direction, and it took Peter jumping out of the sled and guiding them the other way to get us moving again. They settled into a nice pace across the huge lake, and since I had no idea where to go I just let them follow whatever path struck their fancy.

At one point, right in the middle of the lake with all the little clumps of ice fishers out of sight, we ran into a huge puddle of slush on the ice. All my panic about an overflow disaster came flooding back as I envisioned the sled, with Peter and I clinging to it, breaking through the ice and sinking. I yelped for the dogs to run faster and started desperately peddling behind the sled. To my relief, every kick sank through a couple of inches of slush and hit solid ice underneath. In seconds, we were past the spot and back on good snow and ice. But my heart was racing hard.

We looped around a little island and passed two cross-country skiers and their German Shepherd. To my horror, Pico and Norrin managed to drag the team sideways to investigate the dog, looking for all the world that they were going to attack him. He was laying on the snow quietly at his owner's feet to let us pass. The owner raised her ski poles in defense and I screamed at them to pass. They never made contact with the dog, but it was close and Pepper ended up tangled from the sideways tug. I was so embarrassed and angry. I'm pretty sure without Pico egging him on, Norrin wouldn't have participated in the investigation at all.

We continued around in the general direction of the truck, but Billie saw some snow machines up in the woods and turned to follow them. The machines were going fast through the trees, and I had no interest in getting anywhere near them, much less getting turned around in the woods with no real trail to follow. I stopped the sled, with no little effort on the ice, and Pete jumped out to try and get the dogs to turn away from the shore and back to any number of possible trails across the lake. Reese, in swing, figured out what he wanted and tried to follow Pete, pulling Billie and Xtra backwards. Xtra, looking stressed, looked back at me in a panic. I had Peter switch Reese and Xtra, and with a burst of confidence, Reese lead us out across the lake. We were flying along for awhile, a little overflow here and there but all solid ice underneath. A loose dog broke free from some ice-fishers and followed us for a little while, barking gleefully at the team but causing no problems.

We got to the other end of the lake and circled around more fisherfolk, when wove in and out of some little coves, following the ice's edge. On the third little inlet, Reese made the command decision to leave the lake. I was pretty sure I didn't want this, but I didn't catch him soon enough and by the time I was trying to hit the brake the whole team was hauling up the steep shore. So up we went. We went careening down a little access road, then through a parking lot where two more loose ice-fishing dogs approached. We got hung up there for awhile, and Peter jumped out and played rabbit, trying to get the dogs headed back at least in the direction of the truck. This worked, and we made it back across several slick parking lots to where we had started. Here, there were several minutes of chaos as the team got wrapped around sign posts, parking lot marker posts, parked snow machines and each other. Pico chewed through his neckline and decided to run at a 90 degree angle to the team. Reese decided that a crowd of snow machiners standing around on the ice looked friendly, and tried several times with varying success to loop back into their midst to say hello.

When he finally got pointed back in the direction of the truck, I decided we were done. We re-loaded and headed home. We had only gone five miles, though at a good clip. I wasn't sure if this was a successful run or not. The mass chaos at the end had taken away some of the mellow feeling of the run overall, I was frustrated (though not surprised) with Pico's unwillingness to work and his bad trail manners, we hadn't really been able to do any command work and the low mileage was disappointing. But it had been a nice day out, we'd successfully run eight dogs, we now knew that this trail system wasn't going to work for us, and it had been fun to have Peter along (not to mention critically helpful.) And there was still Sunday to get out and get some good miles in.

familiar trails

With our trail access from the yard still thwarted by snow plows and a successful load-and-go shake-out with Peter on Thanksgiving night, I decided to load the team and head to Goldstream Valley on Saturday morning. I wanted to give Billie a mellow experience on his first run with us and the comfort of familiar trails, given all the trouble we've been having around here, was appealing.

I loaded the dogs and drove out to a nice little trail-head I had discovered on my very first run with my proto-dog-team two winters ago. There is a little pull-out at the end of a road with plenty of room to get dogs situated and a sled lined out. From there, the trail drops gently into the marshes without any 90 degree turns or steep drops to navigate with a fresh team. I decided to leave Xtra at home this trip, so my team was Billie and Reese up front, Pepper and Norrin in swing and Parka and Devilfish in wheel. I'm not sure, looking back, why I thought it was a good idea to put Reese up with Billie right away. I think I had an idea that Billie would be a steady forward force, even if his command leadership wasn't perfect and that somehow on new trails - trails I was familiar with and confidant navigating myself - the Mysterious Reese Brain would miraculously overcome his directional challenges and u-turn obsessions.

Unloading and hooking up went well. I had spent a great deal of time Friday, before picking up Billie, working on getting the truck as organized as possible for the efficient off-loading & harnessing of dogs. It seemed like only a few minutes before we were flying down the trail towards the frozen marsh. The first part of the run went perfectly. Billie and Reese took my directions to loop around a big pond and then hit the main trail towards Ballaine Road and our old powerline trail. At the road, they took the gee turn at a four-way trail intersection as if they did it every day. We crossed the footbridge over Goldstream creek without a hitch and turned - a perfect gee onto a smaller trail, on command - onto the connecting trail to a long zigzagging powerline trail.

Trail conditions were as perfect as they could get this early in the season. There were some tussoks, but things were generally smooth - even in places where I knew bad ATV ruts were the rule. Once we got under the power lines, however the trail conditions changed dramatically. It almost seemed that the snow had skipped over the trail entirely. Certainly the ruts were much worse. I went from riding mindlessly along enjoying trail and reminiscing about the myriad times I'd run this route to desperately working the sled over the rough trail to keep it upright and moving behind the team. They were still running strong, though, not seeming to notice the sudden change in my work load behind them.

Suddenly the sled slowed, and the runners sank into powder. I looked up and saw that Billie and Reese had plunged off of the trail to the right, following a mostly unbroken ATV track instead of the packed down path. The were floundering in the snow and slipping a bit on the ice underneath. I called them to haw over back to the pack. Reese, on the left, did exactly that ... and when we reached the trail kept heading left despite my yelps of GEE. I tried to hit the brake to stop them, but this wide spot was over a forty foot long marsh-puddle on top of the trail and all my efforts just bounced off the ice as everyone followed an enthusiastic and confidant Reese back the way we had come.

What followed was several minutes of chaos as I tried desperately to hook the sled in, or wedge it against a tussock and get the team turned back around. As always, very effort was thwarted by the Reese Brain which had decided that we were heading east and any other direction was no longer acceptable. The ice under the snow was sabotaging my efforts at control, and even the packed trail - with its suddenly deteriorated condition under the power lines - was not giving me any purchase with the snow hook. At various points over the next minutes-that-seemed-like-hours, between trying to bring Reese around and get him to stay put, I was prone on the ground behind the sled being dragged with one hand on the brake bar, or snowplowing next to the flipped sled with one hand desperately gripping the handle bow, or sliding along face-first inches from the runners with both hands gripping the main gang line at the shock ring, with the brush bow rhythmically slamming into my head. Grace is not my middle name.

At this point, I had kicked the sled over and was trying to ease my grip back from the gang line to the handle bow. My leg had somehow gotten wedged precariously near the stanchion, and when the team lurched forward I had an awful instant of thinking the force was going to snap the bones. I flinched, and when I flinched I lost my grip, and before I had blinked the sled and the team were gone - down the trail without me.

I screamed for them to whoa, launching myself forward only to instantly fall flat on my face on the ice. I scrambled up again, crabbing sideways to the packed trail and sprinting after them. I was already breathless from wrangling the sled and team on the ice, and now, tearing after a team I knew I could never catch, every breath felt like a breath sucked in space - ice cold needles stinging my lungs and no oxygen to be had and hopeless visions of doom with each gasp.

The snowhook saved me. For all the futility of trying to get it to hook in over ice and shallow snow and frozen dirt, it spun, bounced and lodged itself into a giant grassy tussock fifty yards down the trail. When I reached the sled, it took some a great effort to get it dislodged. When it did, the entire miraculous giant tussok came with the hook and landed in a shower of frozen dirt in the sled basket. I leaned over the handles, relieved and exausted and shaking, trying not to throw up or lose my tremulous grip as the team dove forward forward, slamming the sled over endless ruts back towards the main trail.

I hardly needed to give them direction to get back to the truck. Dogs are good at back-trail, after all.  At the trail head, they got some moose snack and a rub down, I loaded everything up and we headed home. I was horribly frustrated, exhausted and disappointed for much of the ride back. But on further reflection, despite a few minutes of high drama right in the middle, the run had gone incredibly well. The dogs were taking commands on the fly, and we did traverse six solid miles at a good clip. Maybe it hadn't been so bad, after all. But my bruised arms and sore muscles and the remembered terror of the lost team flying down the trail without me was a convincing voice to the contrary. 

:: A few seconds of the run back to the truck through the Goldstream Marshes on Saturday :: 

Sunday, we tried again. This time, I put Norrin up front with Billie and left Reese in swing with Pepper. We flew down Saturday's path, and made it all the way around to the trails behind Ivory Jack's without a hitch before turning around. Without Reese up front, however, the turnaround did not go very smoothly. We ended up halfway down someone's driveway, and then wrapped around the only spruce tree in sight, before finally managing it.

On the run out, we had crossed two big constructed bridges and three little foot-path bridges, all covered in a nice layer of snow. I hadn't even noticed the last couple. On the way back, however, Norrin - still up front - decided that bridges were the homes of dog-eating trolls and sat down in the middle of the trail whenever we got close to one, letting the team slam into him without seeming to mind as long as he didn't have to cross. I managed to coax him over the three little foot bridges without too much trouble, but when we reached the first big span bridge, he stopped and wouldn't budge despite the whole team yipping and trying to push and pull him forward. With nothing to hook into due to snow machines grinding the snow down to dirt at sharp turn to the bridge all I could do was stand there and wait for him to gather his wits and start running again. Eventually he did, giving a shake and proceeding over the span at full speed as if there had never been a problem. The next five miles to the Goldstream Creek bridge were smooth and problem-free, but when Norrin saw the bridge from fifty yards out he sat down and proceeded to try and back out of his harness.  I hooked in and switched him for Reese, thinking that being in team would cure his anxiety. I was wrong on that count, but we did make it across after several balking stops and two more tangles, and Billie and Reese led us back to the truck without further incident.

Looking back, I'm beginning to see that my leadership this year is going to have to consist of more intentional management. Billie is a solid workhorse up front, but will cave to whatever stronger-willed Reese decides to do if they are running together. Norrin is calm and capable enough up front with Billie as long as the run is progressing smoothly, but meltdowns are still an ever-present possibility. Their strength as a pair is mostly when presented with clear left-or-right intersections with long, straightforward runs between. They certainly will not turn the team around. For any anticipated directional changes or multi-choice intersections, I need to put Reese up front.  For all my complaints about the Reese Brain, he is the most responsive of the leaders, actively looking for trail when I stop the sled. But I need to keep him in swing until we are at that point, or headed down our back-trail to avoid a command decision by the Reese Brain to shorten our runs on a whim or take us down some random ghost trail he thinks saw as we flew by. I also need more snow to hook in and safely make all these changes with a strong team slamming their lines to keep moving forward, but snow is one factor I can't control at all. 

Two days, two good - if drama-filled - runs. For the two weeks after Thanksgiving, I'll be on a very unaccustomed nine-to-five schedule, teaching a state certification class for the EMTs at work. It will be weird to be sleeping at home and working every day, and I'm not looking forward to only having the weekend to run dogs for a little while, and then a longer break as we head out to visit family over Christmas. Meanwhile, the adventure continues ...

in good company

It was ten above zero and dark when I pulled into the little rural gas station on the way into town. It was ten-cent-off Friday, and my wallet needed the discount as much as my truck needed the gas. When I looked up from the nozzle, another truck with a dog box had pulled in behind me. As soon as the owner saw me glance his way, he called out “How many dogs.”

“Eight. You?”

“Twelve.”

He was older than me, perhaps in his late forties, with an Ester Fire Department jacket flapping open in the slight breeze. I recognized his blue-and-orange dog-box from around town. We continued to pump gas in silence for awhile.

I turned to continue the conversation just as he started speaking again, “Where do you live?”

“Cripple Creek,” I waved up towards the hills rolling to the south and west behind the gas station. “You?”

“Old Nenana,” he indicated the direction with his chin – same hills, just to the north of the artificial barrier made by the Parks Highway.

Gas continued to flow, charges continued to ring upward.

“How far you running?” Now I could hear the thick northern European accent across the cold air.

“Ten to fifteen now, I want to work them up a bit and do some camping.”

“Yeah … camping.” There was a pause, “That’s what we like to do … but now I’ve started to race and I pretend like we’re still just camping.”

I laughed, “Yeah … I’m sure that’s where we’ll end up eventually.”

“It’s a slippery slope. I started with just two, skijoring. Then I got a sled, and needed four. Then four wasn’t enough for camping, so there were six … then eight … and now … “ He chuckled and shook his head. His gas nozzle clicked off.

“I was warned, and I’m sliding down the slope anyway.”  My gas nozzle clicked off, and I turned to set it back in its cradle.

He was opening his truck door, “Enjoy the trails this weekend.”

“You too.” And we pulled out of the gas station, two empty dog trucks headed to town and work, both hoping desperately for more snow before Saturday morning.

thankful for

The night of Thanksgiving was dark with cloud cover, and cold. Despite the fifteen-below-zero temps I was restless to run the dogs and I knew if I could convince Peter to come along we could take all seven. If anything disasterous happened, I’d have an extra pair of hands.

The sun was already setting when we stared gathering gear. I put fresh hay in my newly mounted dog-box and loaded the DewClaw and SPKennel dogs first. I assumed PTSD Norrin would have to ride in the cab with us, as we have a hard time getting him through big human doorways, sometimes. I couldn’t envision squeezing his balking, mule-stubborn eighty five pound bulk four feet off the ground and into a tiny dog-box door. All the racing dogs knew the exact mechanics of loading better than I did. They ran straight to the truck and with remarkably little help from us scrambled right into their boxes and settled down for the ride. Once everyone (including a very put-out Pico) was loaded and the sled was strapped securely to the top of the truck, I went and got Norrin. As we walked around to the driver’s side door he surprised me by pulling me eagerly back to the dogbox and putting his massive front paws up on the side of the truck. Taking the cue, I opened one of the little dog doors and squatted down behind him to lift. To my utter amazement he scrambled into the box, turned a tight circle and settled down for the ride. Always full of surprises, this strange fuzzy dog.

The roads were nearly empty on the way through town and back out to Musher's Hall. Between the two of us, it didn’t take long to have all the dogs unloaded, harnessed and ready to go. I put Reese and Norrin up front, Pepper in swing, Pico and Xtra in team, Parka and Devilfish (as always, now) in wheel. Everyone was yelping and slamming their harnesses to run! I threw a camping mat and sleeping bag down in the sled basket and Peter jumped in. It was a good thing I had tied off the sled to a metal anchor pole, or they all would have taken off without me. As soon as the sled was free, the dogs shot out into the dark. Reese and Norrin found the trail from the massive packed-down area by the parking lot without much trouble and we were off through the field and into the even darker gloom of the spruce forest. It was pitch-black dark when we started running, and even our headlamps didn’t seem to do much for the dark. It would have been impossible to miss the huge shadow of a moose that crossed our path just a few minutes in, though, and think Peter's heart and mine skipped the same beat as we watched him pass silently in front of the team and melt back into the trees. 

The few times I’ve run down the sprint trails, I’ve gotten lost. It seems like no matter how many times I look at the maps they don’t translate for me once we are flying around the circuits there. To avoid an after-dark adventure in way-finding, my intention was to run out for awhile and utilize Peter to pull a u-turn on some wide spot in the trail. I could trust the dogs to follow their back-trail, even in the dark, and I figured at night on a holiday it was unlikely we’d run headlong into a big sprint team training on the outbound trail. At least I hoped not.

We went out just shy of three miles and made our turnaround bid. Reese had tried ot make an unauthorized u-turn about a mile previous, but my yelling and the team’s momentum had somehow thwarted him. He was happy enough to pull the team around once we had stopped. Norrin, up front with Reese, had a panic attack, of course, and managed to back entirely out of his harness while everyone else looped back past the sled nad turned it around. Pete caught him as he ran past and we quickly got him re-harnessed and put back into the team. I switched places with Pete and snuggled down into the sled for the ride home. I was happy enough to do so … it was cold, and in the rush I hadn't gotten my good gloves and hat battened down correctly. My ears and fingers were freezing.

We made it back with about five miles traversed – our first run with all seven dogs in the team, and with Peter helping manage it was a rousing success. We un-harnessed and fed everyone a little moose snack before loading up again and heading home by way of some fresh hot coffee.

It was a short run, and cold, but nearly perfect. I was riding high for days from being out in the woods with my husband and my dogs on such a beautiful dark night. It was a little overwhelming, really. So many things have come together this winter for me even be in a position to run dogs at all - so many generous individuals loaning us sweet, experienced, hard working racing dogs, equipment and advice. Even the dog's post-run snack came from the moose scrap left over from a successful hunt a generous coworker of mine had this fall. Not to mention a husband who is not only willing to go out after dark on a holiday in freezing temperatures to satisfy a whim of mine, and be happy to do so, but who is willing to routinely take up the care of a yard full of dogs - and love on them and spoil them - while I'm away at work for days at a time. I have so very much to be thankful for. And I am.

not racing

There is a little race called the Two Rivers Tune-Up that is scheduled over Thanksgiving weekend every year. It's an early season 'fun' race, designed to get everyone back in the swing of the controlled chaos of racing without the pressure of long miles so early in the season. There are two races - a 10-dog twenty-miler and a 6-dog ten. I was planning on heading out to cheer folks on, and when I found out that Harry Douglas didn't have a handler available I was happy to offer him whatever help I could. We chatted online about this and set a meeting time. I thought it would be nice to have something to do while waiting around in the cold for the race starts.

The next day, Harry caught me online and off guard with the question, "hey u wanna race?" My stomach flew into my throat. He had planned on running the six-dog, but he has a whole kennel full of potential racers. He figured he'd run in the ten-dog and let me take six of his around the shorter course. We worked out details and I didn't sleep that night.

A team sprints through a corner at the Open North American Sprint Championships in '08.

Deep down, of course, I want to race. Badly. I dream of finishing the Cooper Basin 300 and maybe, some day, the Quest. But this season's difficulties have made me acutely aware of how far I have to go to get there. It's a path I'm excited to explore, but I'm ever so cognizant that I'm still with sight of the first trail marker. And suddenly to be offered a ready-made team and an opportunity to race, even just for a few miles ... I was overwhelmed with excitement and also fear. But facing fears is why I started (and continued) running dogs in the first place. Jumping in with both feet is the only way to do cold water.

Brent Sass waves to the crowd at the start of the 2010 Yukon Quest.

 The next evening, at the Two Rivers Dog Mushing Association's monthly planning meeting, it was determined that the trails were in too poor a condition this early in the season for a safe race. For the third year in a row, the race was canceled. I was disappointed, and honestly a little relieved too. The pressure of taking care unfamiliar dogs on unfamiliar trails in my first race was a little daunting.

In the mean time, Harry had found out about my leadership troubles back on our trails. He generously offered to loan me an older lead dog of his that he won't be using this season to race or train puppies. I jumped at the opportunity, after all our false-starts, to try a different beast at the head of my crew. I planned on picking him up over Thanksgiving weekend.

On Friday night, I headed out to Two Rivers and picked up Billie. He's a nine year old from Ed Iten's kennel out near Kotzebue, Alaska. Ed has been racing and breeding dogs for twenty years! I was perusing the Iten Kennel site that evening, and although not recently updated I saw what appeared to be a familiar face on the dogs page. A dog named Pepper, who looked suspiciously like the happy goofball named Pepper in our yard, was smiling out at me from my computer screen. I wrote Aliy Zirkle a quick e-mail to confirm, and it is true: Pepper and Billie are not only from the same kennel, but are the same age and probably played and trained together growing up. Alaska is a small world, even for dogs!

Billie rode home in the cab of the truck with me. He is in the middle of shedding his coat (even though it was -40 all week last week!) and sat quietly in the passenger seat for about ten minutes before howling for the rest of the hour drive home. There was tail-wagging all around as we introduced him to the yard, and he settled in nicely between Norrin and Parka. Once clipped in, he sniffed and chilled for awhile but took up his yipping and barking again at bed time. Peter took him an elk bone from our emergency stash, and that was the last we heard from him until breakfast. Amazing how much a meaty, marrowy elk-bone will make you feel welcome in a strange and unfamiliar place.

off trail

Lots of little things have been happening over the last months off the trail that have contributed to where we are with the team now.

The first piece fell into place last spring, when I was trolling Craigslist for end-of-season deals on dog stuff for this coming winter. I found a beautiful eight-hole dog box for sale, with cool leaf cut-outs for windows. The price was right, but the box was designed for a smaller bed truck than my '95 F150 (also from Craiglist ... that site has truly opened up my shopping-adverse soul.) The box spent the summer languishing in the yard while I pondered on how to get it to sit securely on my truck bed. After several false starts, and with the use of the turnbuckles and chain that came with the old cabover camper shell (also from Craiglist!) Pete and I managed to get the box secured to the truck bed on the day the DOT aggressively plowed the roads down to ice and dirt. It is rock solid now, and I now have a much better appreciation for and understanding of u-bolts, carriage bolts and large-bore drill bits than before this grand adventure. Also, we now have a safe way to get the dogs and sleds to any trail on the road system.

In the late summer and early fall, I also got to spend some time chatting with Jodi Bailey (the DewClaw dogs' person) and Aliy Zirkle (Pepper's person,) the latter while running dogs on an ATV with her for several hours in Two Rivers. It was fantastic to be able to pick the brains of these amazing women, and have so many of my little-detail-questions about sled dogs and sled dog feed and sled dog bedding and sled dog feet and sled dog health and sled dog training answered. I am still flabbergasted that I not only have access to these world-class athletes, but that they have both been willing to sit down with me - on multiple occasions - and spend the time to answer my questions talk about their lives and their dogs.

I have also been casting around for a loaner sled, so I'll have an extra available in case Peter or another friend wants to tag along for a short fun run. For this, my friend Laura - who is taking a break from mushing for a while - offered the old sled her father built her when she started out. It is a burly toboggan with the capacity to safely carry lots of gear (for camping!) or passengers, but should be light enough (we'll see!) for half the team to pull for a few miles. Laura works at the Large Animal Research Station at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. When we met her there to pick up the sled, she surprised us by allowing us back to the pens where a six month old bottle-fed musk-ox orphan was happy to eat up all the attention we could give her. In the end, I don't know if I was happier about the sled or my cuddle-time with the fuzzy prehistoric beast.

Kiwi the orphaned musk-ox. Her favorite food is Honey Bunches of Oats.

Laura's old toboggan ... waiting for a test drive

After winter set in, I was invited by a former coworker from the clinic to go check out the new home and two litters of puppies belonging to Kim and Harry Douglas (Siqiniq Kennels.) An Inupiaq from the village of Ambler, Harry has been racing mid-distance and is hoping to make an Iditarod bid soon. He has a pack of burly, hardy village dogs with several additions from Lance Mackey and Brent Sass. They are all strong, beautiful beasts. While the girls played with the puppies, I sidled over to Harry and peppered him with questions about his dogs, feeding routines, watering, training and breeding (while trying hard not to covet the two five month old Sass puppies froliking with their eight-week and four-week old counterparts.) Not only was he patient with my questions, but has quickly become a valuable resource for me on this journey into mushing.

Finally, after a short run at twenty below this week, I was startled and frustrated to find my old Baffin boots (that have proven time and time again they are not actually good to -94F as they claim, but were perfectly sufficient down to -30F) are no longer up to snuff. My toes were numb for hours after the run. I've been hearing about an overboot by NEOS that will fit over my already super-warm, all around awesome Steger mukluks and - at least according to the variable wisdom of the mushing forums on Sled Dog Central - will keep me toasty no matter how cold we run this winter, or how much overflow we hit. Last night, I finally caved in and ordered a pair. I was initially adverse to spending the money on more winter gear, but I also want to get through the cold months with my toe-circulation intact. They should arrive early next week.

snowshoes and an axe

My next strategy involved adventures closer to home to keep us off the road. I took and afternoon to stamp out some trails around our little five acres, basically creating a wide, looping figure-eight wrapped around the driveway and our usual out-trail from the yard. It roughly followed an old ATV trail, but several small trees had fallen across the path since it was last maintained. I set off with snowshoes to pack down a bigger, wider trail that would be easy for the dogs to follow and a little hatchet to chop through the offending birch. It was a nice little bout of hiking through the woods chopping at things. I certainly enjoyed it. The woods were quiet and beautiful, and there were fox, rabbit, ptarmigan and moose tracks lacing the snow under the trees. I was actually a little startled by all the moose tracks. This summer, the moose certainly didn't hesitate to graze in our overgrown clearing but for whatever reason (perhaps a full dog yard?) they are keeping out of sight this winter. I had no idea they've been watching us from the trees.

A concerned Norrin stays very, very still while our summer visitor grazes behind his house.

After I stamped out the trail a few times, I hooked up Reese with Devilfish and Parka in wheel. I wanted to run a couple of the big loops with just the three of them, and then try to work on gee-haw training ... or at least work on preventing unauthorized u-turns on the trail. Setting out did not go well. Every time I got Reese pointed in the right direction down my new little trail system, he would swing back around to our usual out-trail before I was back at the sled. After several failed attempts, I recruited Peter to be my Rabbit and run ahead of the team in the right direction to get us started. This helped, and we did a nice, smooth loop down the bottom half of the property, packing down and widening the trail further as we went.

This was all well and good until we reached the driveway. The dogs were way more excited about heading down this nice, wide, packed trail than continuing to break my little foot path out around the house. We were at an impasse for awhile, but eventually my hooking in, walking forward, correcting direction, walking back and starting over sunk in and Reese continued around through the trees. We made good progress until our path again crossed the out-trail. Reese turned us sharply towards the house. He corrected his direction much more quickly this time, but not without wrapping his tug around a little birch. I was pretty sure that by the time I got him untangled, whatever positive re-enforcement I would have gotten from getting the team immediately running again after a correct turn was lost. We powered on. On the second loop, the driveway was again enough of a temptation to have us stalled for what felt like hours (probably three minutes.) On our second encounter with the out-trail, we had an exact, unsatisfying repeat of Reese's birch tangle. As we came for our third round, all three dogs seemed to lose momentum. These loops were too short, we were stopping for turn-confusion every few minutes and not really gaining enough momentum for the nice stretch-out run they're used to. They all stopped running several times on the trail for no reason, looking back at me like, "Um, really? What are we doing here?" I was starting to doubt my grand plans, too.

On round three of the birch-tangle the snowhook popped loose just as I got Reese unwrapped and he immediately took the team up the trail to the house. I was lucky to snatch the sled as it went flying past. Reese pulled the team through the yard and stopped at his doghouse. He was done.

I put him up and put Norrin in lead, taking my big boy down the same now-broken path, hoping for something better after his spectacular - albeit temporarily spectacular - performance the day before. Norrin made it about fifty yards before stopping dead. No amount of encouragement could get him to budge, so I moved Parka up beside him. She was confused as all get-out to be up front, but plucky as always she plowed forward and managed to drag Norrin along with her to the driveway. She, however, had no intentions of continuing around the loop yet again and absolutely refused to go anywhere but down the driveway and towards the dogyard. Norrin was happy enough to comply, and mule-balked when I tried to point him in the right direction. No amount of hooking in and walking forward and guiding and walking back got our direction straight. This time, when the snow hook finally popped loose from all the back-and-forth of the gang line, I just grabbed the sled and rode behind them back to the house.

Somehow Norrin, in his dazed state at all this confusion and absurdity of running circles around the house, smacked his head directly into the mud flap of the truck as the team passed it. That was it. He was done. He sat down next to the wheel well and refused to budge. I got Parka and Devilfish unhooked (and at that point, untangled) and then carefully coaxed Norrin past the truck and back to his house. Three and a half loops of my new little trail, no successful intersections or even use of the figure-eight features, and two traumatized proto-lead dogs to show for it.

Things were still not going our way.

:: Peter got some video of this misadventure from the safety of the stairwell. Don't be fooled by the apparent success - that was just round one. ::

jumble

Riding the confidence high of our dusk run of the night before, took a deep breath and hooked up six dogs for Monday's run. With a mellow, no tangles run behind us and good trail access ahead, I figured it was time to add Norrin - who howled miserably every time we left the yard without him - to the team. With the sled packed back up with all my gear and extra dog food weight, we headed out of the yard leaving only Pico behind. The out-trail was smooth, and Reese took the right turn onto the road on call. We flew up the snowy road and me made it to the trail-head without a hitch. At the trail, Reese took a minute (without the parked car marking the way) to figure out exactly where the break in the trees was, but once he found it we were off again ... no tangles and only the beginnings of a quickly corrected turn-around.

The day was perfect. Ten below temperatures, a light dusting of new snow over well-set trails, sparkling blue sky and winter-wonderland trees all around. We crossed the creek and headed up towards the main trail system. My plan was to take a right at the T-intersection of the day before, and see if we could loop around to end up at the lighting tree, connecting us to the trails we'd already traversed on the western side of the little trail system.

Over the half-mile or so from the creek to the T-intersection, there are several smaller trails - much more visible now that we were running in full daylight - intersecting our path. I saw Reese hesitate at the first one, but called him "onby" and praised him when he did. At the second, slightly larger intersection, Reese hesitated a little more forcefully. I encouraged him past it, kicking a little behind the sled to ensure we didn't lose momentum but before the sled was past the crossing he'd stopped the team and was making a desperate U-turn on the narrow trail, plunging as fast as he could for the tiny unbroken trail we'd passed. I jumped off the sled before he passed me and blocked his progress, gently but firmly turning him around and lining him back out down the trail. He tried to follow me back to the sled twice before assenting to stay up front. I sighed with relief as the sled began to slide forward. Parka and Devilfish, still full of energy and irritated at this early stop were slamming their harnesses to get us moving again.

Reese ran five yards before turning around on the fly, hauling an increasingly nervous Xtra with him. I caught him again, firmly walked him forward ... and nothing. He didn't try to turn again, but neither would he move down the trail. Parka, Devilfish, Pepper and Norrin surged ahead when I called "Hikeup," and slammed directly into Reese (as Xtra dodged out of their way, trying her tiny level best to move Reese herself.) Reese clearly had no intentions to move on down the trail.

We stopped. I set the snowhook and walked up, giving everyone an ear rub and encouragement as frustration at these early stops mounted. Without taking time to think about it too much, I switched Reese and Norrin, putting my big PTSD boy up front with tiny Xtra. Norrin has lead with some success before, between melt-downs. And I knew Reese needed to be back in team for awhile. Norrin hesitated at first, but with Xtra beside him pulling forward he eventually plunged ahead. We quickly reached the T-intersection, and to my amazement Norrin took the turn on the fly, with just my verbal command, smooth as butter. What was going on? Had I totally misjudged him? We flew up the new trail, following ski-tracks and making two more perfect command-turns, winding first through frozen muskeg and then up gentle, narrow switchbacks into beautiful birch forest. Norrin and Xtra hauled together, Norrin slacking his tug periodically to look back but always surging forward again when I encouraged him. His power was evident as we climbed higher and higher into the hills. Whenever he slacked his tug, the sled slowed considerably and I had to kick to keep momentum, but as long as he was pulling I was able to ride - for the first time in my short mushing career - uphill without having to get off and run behind the dogs.

We came out on what I assume is the logging road we had encountered before at the lighting tree, but at a higher elevation. I peered downhill, but there was no lighting tree in sight. I turned the team uphill, wanting to explore further. In the deeper, unpacked snow they struggled and I ended up kicking behind the sled for awhile to help them plow forward. We were now running along a low ridge, everyone pulling well, Norrin taking my commands to pass a few promising turns back downhill. At about the four-mile point the road began to head steeply downhill, and I determined this would be the best possible time for a turn around. I stopped the sled, and Norrin immediately collapsed up front and started chewing snowballs from between his toes. I gave him a minute, moving forward to give everyone praise and a quick rub-down, including Pepper who, as is her habit, quickly fell to rolling blissfully in a happy explosion of snow and somehow managing to stay untangled in the midst of her lines and harness. I helped Norrin rid his paws of snow pack and then attempted to bring the leaders around so we could head home.

Norrin was not a fan of this move, and balked. His full eighty pound bulk dropped like a mule against my hand. Xtra, always happy to please and to follow, tried to come with me but was thwarted by Norrin's protest. The other four, knowing exactly what was up, began to turn on their own, pulling Norrin backwards by his harness and causing him to drop all the way to the ground and refuse to budge. I unclipped him from Xtra's neckline and grabbed him around the chest, struggling to haul eighty pounds of dead-weight mule forward until everyone was lined out. He lay where I dropped him in the snow, nonchalantly chewing on his front foot and watching a raven wing past overhead. I took a deep breath and walked back to the sled, pulled the hook and called everyone forward. It wasn't until Reese and Pepper slammed into Norrin's prone form that he jumped up and took up his responsibility as relief leader, but with no little slack in his tug.

A mile later, another pile-up. Just before the turn back down the birch switchbacks, Norrin simply stopped, sat down and started chewing on his paws again. This time, I was sure the fresher snow was balling up in his feet. But I hadn't brought booties for him and I am still unsure exactly how to use them as he, unlike the rest of the professional sled dogs, still has his dewclaws. I've been told booties over dewclaws cause chafing and blister the dog's wrists. There was nothing to be done but wait until he was ready to go. When he was finally satisfied with the state of his fuzzy grey feet, we set off again. He took the turn onto our backtrail without a command (thankfully, as I wasn't 100% sure WHICH side trail off the logging road was our back-trail at this point.) We flew down the birch switchbacks, occasionally slamming into trees on the corners as I yelped and eyed the alarming flex of the brush-bow at each blow.

It seemed that no time had passed before we were back on the road. I thought I should switch Reese back up front, since I know he knows the road home. But I was also wary of putting him back up front and Norrin seemed to be pulling just fine. I regretted this as soon as we reached the road. Norrin insisted on taking a left out of the trail, and only when the other dogs pulled him right by the back of his harness did he assent to heading in the correct direction.

I quickly saw that while we were out a snowplow had come through and scraped the previously snowy road down to ice and frozen dirt. We were running way too fast down the road and my brakes were utterly useless. When Norrin decided to take a left-turn up a dead-end road there was nothing I could do but hang on and try to keep the sled from flipping as I careened towards the snow-berm on the ice. I got them stopped after the turn, but there was NOTHING to throw the snowhook into - the snow plow guys had done a very thorough job of clearing the road and I was stuck. I didn't want to let go of the sled - there was NO traction on the road, even if I flipped it, but Norrin went from insisting on heading up the dead end to having a breakdown and laying down on the frozen dirt. Reese, who knew exactly what I wanted, tried in vain to lead the team around but with Norrin anchoring everyone uphill there was nothing Reese could do but slam his harness a few times and then give up.

After some slipping and sliding on my part, I managed to edge the sled over to the snow berm and flip it securely into the pack. I went up and switched Norrin and Reese out again. Up front, Reese took us back down to the main road and had us headed home. Relief. But at the next intersection, where I wanted him to head straight down towards our back-trail to the dogyard, Reese made a hard left. I yelled no, but my brake bounced ineffectively on the newly bare ice and we were heading up our street towards our driveway instead. I was frustrated and fuming as we made the tight turn down the driveway and I finally had some snow to slow the sled for our arrival in the yard.

Unbeknownst to me, Pete had happened to be in the stairwell with his iPhone and caught us coming in:

We made it home in once piece, with eight miles covered ... but what now? After my high and happy four-dog run Sunday night, I felt like we had taken a huge step back. Not only were the roads suddenly unsafe to use to access the trails, but Reese, whom I counted on to at least keep us generally moving forward in the midst of his U-turn obsession, had completely balked just a mile from the house. And Norrin ... could I count on him to lead, or not? Would doing so put us in jeopardy as we explore further and further from home? Back to the drawing board, and a few days at work to puzzle this all out before we try again.

downsizing

The plan that made the most sense was two-fold. I wanted to gain a little more control over the team so that I could correct Reese's U-turns with less intervening tangles and chaos getting in the way. I also wanted to avoid the giant hill and creek bank drop-off that have given us some trouble getting to the good, groomed trail system. My solution was to run a smaller team - just Reese, Xtra, Devilfish & Parka, down in the opposite direction of our usual route to a small trail-head closer to the main road out of the neighborhood. Peter and I had traversed this route on foot last spring, and based on the giant swamp over overflow at the time I was relatively certain that although we might run into some slush there would be no sharp drops to navigate. Also, as it was Sunday, I wanted to head out late to ensure the weekend skiers and their loose dogs and small children would be off the trails as we were heading for territory much closer to a populated subdivision than our previous runs.

I hooked up my chosen four just as dusk was falling, after pulling the bag of dog food and the emergency duffel of cold weather gear off the sled. This would be a short run, always in walking distance of home, and the evening was sitting just at Zero degrees. We headed out of the yard down our usual trail. To my delight, when I stopped the sled at the road-berm and asked Reese for a right instead of our usual left he figured it out immediately and lead the team in the correct direction before my sled made the corner. Elated, I let the dogs run down the still quite-snowy road at a good clip. There was a car parked at the trail-head a half mile down and it helped Reese see the trail break in the trees. He took the team around that turn with no problems (we even missed - barely- hitting the bumper with the sled)  and hardly a halt. Excellent! I was beaming.

We ran down the trail and crossed the creek - all frozen overflow with no slush or sudden drops - without an issue. Passing several sort-of broken trails to the right and left was no problem. There was a bit of confusion as we got to the next T-intersection. I'd never come this way before, and the trail splits for the right-or-left turn pretty early. I didn't even realize the trail had split before Reese had taken the right turn, when we needed to go left to loop back around. A few yards later, when we got to the main trail, I asked Reese for a left and he hopped around and we were flying again in a second. Three perfect turns! No U-turns or tangles or stall-outs! It was getting darker, but I left my headlamp off, relishing the glow of snow at dusk. We came upon a single skijourer and her two loose labs, but passed them without incident even though they gave chase.

We hopped down the creek and were home in about half an hour. The run had been stellar, Reese had performed without a hitch. I was elated! Perhaps all he needed was a new direction to reset his turning habits and get us moving forward again.

mysterious mind

I thought our previous run had gotten us all sorted out. Reese must now know that U-turning on the road wasn't necessary, and that the hill was to be run up ... not down. I bundled up and hooked up the same five dogs as the day before: Reese and Xtra in lead, Pepper in swing, Parka and Devilfish in wheel.

We headed out, making good time on the road to the trail. When we went over the culvert where the creek runs under the road, Reese suddenly let his line go slack. He was hopping, not running, although with his long, gangly legs he was still well in front of Pepper. Xtra was giving him sideways looks as he fell behind her and tugged her head around with their neckline. He wasn't limping, but skipping along slowly, as if hesitating to take each stride forward. He looked back at me every few seconds, as if asking for something. I kept glancing behind us, thinking a car or a snowmachine's approach had been muffled by the layers and layers of insulation around my ears. The road was empty. I scanned the bushes for moose, or a fox. Nothing but snow, not even a raven overhead. I called my "starting up" command, and yipped a little to encourage more momentum. Everyone sped up. Reese kept hopping and looking back. So I kept looking back, straining to crane my neck around past all my layers and hoods and figure out what I was missing. On the fifth check, when I looked forward again, Reese had the whole team halfway through a picture-perfect haw-around and they were headed full speed towards me. All I could do was brace for the sled's spin on the hard-pack of the road and dig down with the bar-brake.

The team stopped and instantly started screaming to go again - we were only a mile from the house and nobody was in the mood for a break. We went through a shortened version of our road-doughnuts twice before Reese took off in the correct direction again, without looking back. Now we were rolling. I was heartened that it hadn't taken quite as long, but concerned that Reese had, once again, started making decisions and carrying them out on his own. And all this had taken place a quarter mile before yesterday's doughnuts. That part of the road hadn't even been in SIGHT yet.

The next challenge blocking our path to perfect trails was the giant hill. My faith that all our problems with forward motion had been worked out during my desperate hill-sprints the day before was wavering a bit after day two of road doughnuts. I was beginning to think Reese was internalizing these bad runs as perfect runs, and trying to repeat them. We came around a corner and the hill loomed before us. Reese sprinted up the switchback, hit the main trail and had the whole team pointed downhill again before I could hit the brake. The subsequent tangle involving several spruce saplings and some willow took awhile to sort out. Devilfish and Parka, who I am running without necklines to reduce tangles in just such a circumstance, managed to get their tugs knotted around the frozen vegetation anyway. Pepper took the opportunity to blissfully roll in the snow, creating an explosion of powder in the midst of it all.

Eventually we made it over the hill, my stomach in knots. At the T-turn, Reese took the gee perfectly, swinging us up behind the farm and onto the little rolling hills.

I was hoping that a right turn at the lighting-tree would bring us back around to the creek in a nice loop. I still don't know the trail systems here, which has been a bit of an issue for me. I know there are some great long loops in this system, but I have no idea where they are exactly, or which side-trail or turn will get me there. I have a vague, not-to-scale hand-sketched map of the trails from a neighbor but have found it only passingly useful inasmuch as I KNOW there are loops. But I still can't find them. We took the right and ended up at a dead-end of a tree-harvesting area with no way out. We turned (suddenly the perfect U-turn was useful, but this time, Reese insisted on plowing ahead!!) and headed home.

The creek crossing wasn't as bad as the first attempt - I realized I just need to ride out the drop, and with the team moving reliably forward across the good ice the sled will stay upright if I just trust momentum and gravity.

But at this end of this run, I was still disheartened. I was hoping to be covering more miles, and to be more familiar with the trails at this point, but instead we are stuck in a holding pattern - boxed in on one side by my unfamiliarity with the trails, another by the rougher-than-expected access to them, and on another by my lack of a reliable leader - or my inability to effectively troubleshoot with the one I have.

Four days later, we were out again. This time there was only hesitation, but no road-doughnut to contend with. The hill was an exact repeat of the spruce-and-tangles downhill sprint and nearly-barfing musher at the top, but we made it. Reese missed the T-turn this go-round, but managed to make the second-chance turn. Before we had gone fifty yards, however, he was attempting another around-haw on the narrow trail. I had no idea what had spurred this. I caught him and hauled him back up the trail, but Xtra, running up front with him, wasn't looking so hot. She was backed off her tug and just looked worried. I decided to give her a break from the pressure and chaos of running up front and stopped the sled, switching out happy, stress-free Pepper from swing. Back in team, Xtra relaxed and pulled hard with her crazy little rocking-horse gait for the remainder of the run.

At the lightning tree, I asked Reese for a left turn instead of right, wanting to head up the logging road away from the slash and dead-end of the day before. He figured it out quickly and swung the team in the correct direction. Success!!  But no sooner had I started grinning at this progress, no sooner had the sled had made the corner and everyone was lined up and headed up the trail, he took it upon himself to turn us around and was plummeting down the hill and back around the corner the way we'd come. On the broad logging road he swung wide and I couldn't catch him as he went by. I probably should have hit the brake and forced him back around, but I didn't. In retrospect, it would have been a great training opportunity. At that moment, I was done.

So we returned home down beautiful trails, and with a blissfully unexciting creek crossing. I snacked the dogs and returned to the couch to try and figure out what to try next, because what I was doing was clearly not moving us forward.

about face

I added a 40 pound bag of kibble and headed out again the next day. Reese and Xtra were in lead, Pepper in swing and Devilfish and Parka in wheel. My first mistake was trying to get Reese to turn onto the little side-trail at the entrance to the farm. With all the fresh snow, he didn't see where I wanted him to go and decided to pull a U-turn instead. Fine. I braced as the sled swung around and then held the brake down and waited for him to realize his mistake and turn around. No dice. Reese and Xtra were screeching and slamming their harnesses, dead-set on heading back the way we'd come. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. I let them run a few yards and tried to get them to come around again. Nothing. Without enough snow on the road to hook in and bring them around myself, I stood on the brake for several minutes trying to figure out what to do. Eventually, I tipped the sled onto its side and walked up, dragged Reese around got everyone lined up and untangled and headed back to the sled. Just as I grabbed the handle bow to flip it back upright, I felt something at my knee. Reese was rushing past, in the wrong direction, team in tow. The sled spun around and nearly bowled me over. I wedged it in the snow berm and tried again. This time, Reese took three steps forward before swinging us back towards home. I flipped the sled again, walked up and pulled the lead dogs around, lined everyone out and untangled. As if we had never been stopped, Reese shot ahead down the road towards the trail without a second glance back and I nearly missed grabbing the flipped-over sled as it shot past. Hm.

I was already a little bit tense about the hill ahead, but figured we'd go up it and head home by way of the creek with it's concerning but not, perhaps, as dangerous drop-offs. As we came around the corner to the dreaded slope, I could still see the long body-imprint I had made coming down the day before - despite the new snow fall - gouged in dirt and punctuated by jagged branches we'd taken out on the way down. Reese decided to take the switchback up the hill, and this seemed like a better plan to me, too. A third of the way up, the switchback touches back to the straight-up trail. Reese took the turn and headed back down the hill. Before I could stop him, all the dogs were turned around and the sled was wedged in the small spruce trees between the trails. We repeated the scene on the road, now on the hill in foot-deep snow, with me running up and down and up and down after the dogs, lines tangled in bushes and Pepper rolling happily around in the snow between direction changes.

Finally, Reese decided to head up the steepest trail on hill and we were making forward progress again. I was behind the team, pushing the sled and yelping encouragement, my stomach in knots with anxiety that he would turn the team around on the pitch. By the time the team disappeared over the top, I was about to vomit with exertion, frustration and mild hypoxia from all my yelling. As elated as I was that we made it over the awful hill on once piece, I also thought I should stop the sled and rid myself of the breakfast that was threatening. Instead I hung on and rode the brake down the other, less steep side, and down the trail.

Now I was watching carefully for the turn that would take us back behind the farm to the groomed trails. Despite my careful watch, the right-hand trail snuck up on us and Reese missed it. No problem, there was a second turn to the same trail just a few yards down. I stopped the sled. Reese didn't even look to the right, and made a left-sided U-turn instead. Back at the first turn, I dropped the snow hook, walked up and lead him down the appropriate trail. He lined the team out and moved forward, and I ran back to hop on and navigate the spruce trees the way of the sled. The sled got caught, and Reese took this halt to mean U-turn again ... and we were headed back towards the dreaded hill with several littlte green spruce branches decorating the sled, sled bag and my coat. I dropped the snow hook again, and walked Reese back to the correct trail. Spruce navigated, we started to make some forward momentum. Clear trail ahead, team lined out, no tangles, no more intersections for a few miles. I cheered internally, and then saw Reese look back, then pause and then ... my stomach dropped ... spin on the trail and head back towards the sled. I yelled NO and "Hike UP!!!" but to no avail. I dropped the hook and caught him before he passed me, doing my best to calmly walked him back the way were were headed. I was not feeling calm. I looked at my GPS. We had traversed less than two miles in just under and hour. Mostly, I felt like crying.

But suddenly Reese was moving forward, everyone was running, and we were hauling down beautiful snowed in trails, passing the backside of the farm, skimming up and down mellow rolling hills. We ate the next few miles. The few ruts weren't bad, we skipped over them without slowing. We got to the groomed trails, and followed someone's fresh ski-tracks, winding up through snowy birch forest. We came out on a huge intersection with a giant lighting-struck tree, turned and headed home.

The creek crossing was dicey. I slowed the team to a crawl just before the drop-off. The dogs hopped down onto the ice, but the tracks across the creek had been obscured by the overnight snow and Reese had never been this way. A lone set of rabbit tracks shot down the middle of the creek towards open water below the safe crossing. Reese saw them, and followed.

The sideways motion pulled the sled off track halfway down the drop, and the whole thing flipped. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the ice, knee throbbing from hitting a branch on the way down and the team was headed directly downstream to thin ice. I spread eagled with one hand on the handle bow, and, tired after seven miles in powder, everyone stopped. Reese wasn't sure what I wanted, so he just stood there, pointed downstream, tail beating the wind. I left the sled flipped and wedged against a frozen-in tree, and limped towards the trail on the other side of the creek. Parka and Devilfish followed, swinging the flipped sled around with them and breaking it loose. Reese saw their direction, and then saw the trail in the trees, and suddenly the team and the sled were flying past. I dove for the bow, flipped the sled, the dogs scrambled up the opposite bank and we were moving again and nearly home.

Exhausted, sore, frustrated, but still riding off the high of those last perfect miles, I snacked and watered the dogs and collapsed on the couch. Eventually, we had made it. Eventually, Reese had figured out the turns, figured out the trails. I hadn't lost my breakfast. Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

knock down, drag out

We got snow! Several inches fell on Friday night, and tonight (Sunday) it is coming down again in earnest. The forecast (although I am loath to trust it) promises more all week. With a little more on the trails, I decided to add Pepper to the mix for Sunday's run. The plan was to hit the right-hand turn on the new trail-head and see if that would connect back to the trail system I'd begun exploring last spring. I was planning on at least seven miles, depending on what we found trail-wise. I added a duffel bag with emergency gear - more for weight than much concern about needing it this close to home - but decided against a forty pound bag of dog food. A decision I'd later regret.

Hook up went well, and we made it down the trail and onto the road with no issues. At the trail head to the creek crossing, a pair of skiers was emerging with two loose labs just as we passed. The labs headed straight for us, hackles raised and barking. Xtra was the only dog to attempt to turn towards them, but Reese's momentum carried her past the pair. They chased us for about a hundred yards before giving up.

At the first trail fork, I called "gee" and started to tap down on the drag mat but before I had a chance, Reese had leaned into the turn took it 100% on the fly. I was elated. I was not elated about the condition of the trail. It was more deeply rutted crap and I was back to hopping from runner to runner, trying to keep the sled upright. And then suddenly there was a wall of snow. The trail shot straight up an insanely steep hill, and there was nowhere else to go but up. I wasn't worried about getting over the thing, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to get back down in one piece. Before I had time to think too hard about this dilemma, we were hauling up the slope and I was off the sled, pushing behind the dogs and trying hard to keep my footing. They stopped several times on the way up, looking back with an, "Um, are you sure about this?" but we made it up and over the top. There was a slight drop on the other side before the trail evened out - truly evened out with no more ruts at all - and we were flying down perfect trail for the first time this year.

Within a minute or so, we passed an intersection I recognized from last year, and the trail was suddenly familiar. With some dread, I realized we had another insanely steep hill coming up, one that I had nearly wiped out on with my old, slow team last year. I needed to think. I stopped the sled next to another trail intersection - to a trail that hadn't yet been broken yet - to give myself a chance to consider my options. We hadn't been stopped more than a few seconds when Reese took the initiative to turn the whole team around and tear off back the way we'd come. In his enthusiasm, Pepper was flipped on her back and rolled through the deep snow. I made a grab for the sled as it whipped around and yelped as I saw the ball of flying snow where Pepper should be. And just as suddenly she was on her feet without a tangle in sight and we were flying back down the trail.

I tried to turn us onto the other trail - the one that swings back behind the farm to trails I am more familiar with - but it came up too fast after a corner and Reese was long past it before I had a chance to hit the brake or call a turn. And then, just as suddenly, we were at the crest of the drop-off and I still didn't have a descent plan.

I frantically stamped for the bar brake, but my foot kept slipping. I managed to stop the sled with just Reese and Xtra out of sight over the berm. I was panicked. There was too much power, not enough snow, not enough weight, too much steep. Who planned that crazy slope anyway? And why did I think running a bigger dog team was ever a good idea? I was in way over my head three miles from home with just five dogs!! Reese, taking my stop as a signal to find another route, dove down a clear spot to the left that may or may not be a switchback alternative to the straight drop later in the season. The team followed, and their momentum and direction change managed to jerk the bar brake from under my foot. The sled whipped around and over the berm and I was balancing on one runner, slamming for the brake with my free foot, screaming "whoa!!" and just as suddenly was face down in the snow, sled flipped, being dragged downhill through snow and willows and scrub with a death grip on the handle bow trying to spread myself out enough to create enough drag to stop the dogs. I imagine the snow-plow gouge the sled and I left on the side of that hill would get a good laugh out of anyone good at reading tracks.

The dogs didn't stop until the hill was behind us and they had joined the main trail again. Then they looked back impatiently, Pepper and Xtra yipping indignantly, waiting for me to flip the sled back over so we could get on our way. I was shaking. I fumbled to my knees, and felt the sled start moving again the second I started to lift it. I barely managed to scramble onto the runners and we were back to negotiating endless ruts and then sliding smoothly over the snow-packed road towards home. Disaster averted.

Due to our early turn-around, we beat yesterday's run by only a tenth of a mile. The dogs were still raring to go when we pulled into the yard, and I had been riding the drag the whole time. We need more miles, but I'd rather put them on without thin creek ice or heart-stopping slopes to contend with. At least so early.

Peter and I walked down to the creek crossing tonight to check the ice. There were numerous ski-and-dog-and-boot tracks over the crossing and although there were some concerning spots upstream, the ice was solid under our feet. The problem is that the water level is much lower this year than last, and there is a significant drop-off on both sides of the creek. Either side seems manageable from downhill, but dropping onto the ice from above will take more skill and agility than I think can reasonably expect from myself at this point. Yet when we walked up the trail from the creek, we were met with perfectly groomed trails, wide and smooth and endless ... so close, yet so far away.

Today's big lesson is that I need to spend some time with Reese, probably with another person, breaking this habit he has of pulling a U-turn the second the sled stops. I have a good idea of what I need to do - he's a smart, responsive dog and I think he'll figure it out pretty quickly- but I can't do it without another person to manage the brakes (and here is where Peter gets recruited ... again, poor long-suffering guy.) As great as it is that Reese can pull off a perfect around-haw on a narrow trail, it is ultimately potentially dangerous that he decides to do this every time we stop.

 In other news, some preliminary research indicates that my instinct about shortening the wheel tugs is completely wrong. Also, my attempt at getting the dog-box jury-rigged to fit the truck (it is made for a smaller bed) was thwarted this evening. Back to Lowes tomorrow. Live and learn. In the mean time, it is snowing like it's going out of style out there. I am still not sure how I'll manage our run tomorrow, but I can't wait to give it a try.