bad trail

My apprehensions about the moose on the big pond and growing dissatisfaction (ok, boredom) with our two regular loops from the house had me chomping at the bit to try something new, and hopefully add more miles in the process.

My first attempt was on the nine mile O'Brian loop trail last week. Instead of turning down O'Brian Road as usual, we continued to follow the snowmachine tracks alongside the larger Sheep Creek Road, the main access road through the valley. Almost all roads outside of the city have snow machine track running next to them, and my intent was to follow it. Our regular trail cuts across the loop of Sheep Creek and comes within sight of it again before turning back towards our neighborhood through the woods. I figured if I followed Sheep Creek road for awhile, we'd find another cut-off and add several miles and some new trail to our loop. The road-side trail quickly went from flat to a 45 degree angle and I found myself struggling to keep the sled from sliding into the trees as we flew downhill. Once we reached the bottom of the valley, the snow machine trail became less packed and started running a little too close to the road for my comfort. I was sure that we'd find a trail before the railroad tracks, but no cut-off appeared. At the tracks, Leo couldn't see where the trail continued on the other side. My blood ran cold as he tried to take out onto the road just as a car flew around the corner at 50 mph.

Disaster avoided and sweating with effort and fear, we continued alongside the road looking in vain for a cut through. The trail continued to deteriorate, becoming rough and punchy with huge banks before each side-road crossing.

A good friend of mine hit a dogsled last year with her car in just such a scenario, where a road-side trail crossed her neighborhood street. I firmly believe that the accident was not her fault (and thankfully no one - dog or human - was hurt in the incident) and have always maintained that the musher was at fault for running a fast team down a trail with multiple road and driveway crossings and thick spruce cover blocking their approach from oncoming drivers. Before the accident last year, I had found myself on that particular trail with Pico and the trapper dogs (we spent a lot of time lost last year) and was so spooked by the potential for disaster that I never ran the team on that trail again.

Yet last week, I inadvertently put myself into a nearly identical situation. The way the trail ran so steeply up to each road crossing, I couldn't see road when Pico and Leo crested each bank. My anxiety continued to rise. Between these not infrequent crossings and the poor trail we were all working hard. The dogs were frustrated with having to drag the sled through choppy powder, even though I was running as much as I could along side their slower breaking-trail pace. It was with no small measure of relief that we came around the last corner and through a greenhouse parking lot to re-connect with our usual trail far from roads and driveways and train tracks and cars.

As we ran home in the dark, I comforted myself with the thought that we probably added three or four miles to our usual nine mile loop. Even if I would never run along that road again, we had at least gained some milage. I was crushed when we got home and I checked the GPS. All that extra time and work had only added three quarters of a mile.

A few days later, I tried again. This time, we headed north into the hills and the promise of trails that have been taunting me all winter. We were headed up a small side-road towards the cabin of some friends that we dog-yard sat for years ago. These were the trails where I first ran a team on my own, seven dogs and way more power than I was ready for then. I know these trails go on for miles, and although I was too busy hanging on for dear life on those first few runs with Paige & Cody's dogs to know the whole system, I knew how to get us there. Or so I thought.

The first and overarching problem is that I started the run in a funk. Life was piling up high around me, but I'd skipped running the day before for that reason and couldn't do it again. We all, I thought, needed to get some sunshine on our faces and some trail under our feet. My heart wasn't in it, though. I wanted to be in bed. The first issue we ran into was the same as on our previous run - the trail to connect to our goal ran along poorly packed snowmachine trail adjacent to a road. Leo would have none of it. Every time we got to a driveway after struggling through uneven, unpacked ghost trails Leo saw the inviting hard pack of the road and swung the team out onto it as I called for him to keep it straight. The snow was even worse than our previous run, so much that Dottie did a face plant early on and I barely managed to stop the sled before it hit her. Despite my intent to keep us off the road, Leo would hear nothing from me. Every hundred feet, at each driveway, he pulled the team into the hard pack and I yelled and coaxed and hollered, eventually gave up, dropped the snow hook and physically dragged the team back onto the barely existent trail. We'd run a hundred more feet and do the whole thing over again. And again. And again. As this continued, my patience disappeared and my frustration began to grow exponentially. As did Leo's. After the third driveway we were at an impasse, and my frustration was growing fast.

Then we ran into two ferocious sounding loose dogs. They stood out on the road, harassing the team from a distance but we had nowhere to go but towards them. As we approached, Pico fell into his fugue state, slamming into Leo and screeching to get to the loose dogs. Leo was so frazzled from our fight about the trail that he didn't snap or correct the screaming pup. When we came even with them, Pico created a huge tangle that had the girls panicked and me trying to fend off the dogs and get us moving again before a fight broke out. It took all the self control I had not to start screaming.

When we finally moved past the loose dogs, the road-side trail we'd been following disappeared completely. I thought I saw a trail following the powerlines on the other side of the road so we crossed. As we did, I realized just how fast the cars on this road were going as they tore past. And to my horror, as I tried to guide Leo onto the trail I'd seen, Pico - who has never chased a car in his life - made a lunge for a speeding vehicle as it passed, pulling the team that had just safely crossed out of danger right back out into the roadway.

Heart racing, I dragged everyone onto this new unpacked, punchy trail. Heading downhill for a minute or two, I could finally ride the runners and catch my breath despite the deep snow. At the bottom of the hill, the trail disappeared again. We punched through the woods and back onto the road. With no other alternative, I held my breath and let Leo take us over the next little hill where, to my great relief, we found the driveway I'd been looking for. Just as we were about to turn, a car careened over the hill towards us. Although we were well to the right, Pico made another lunge as I screamed at him, then twisted around in his harness to chase it down the road, dragging the whole team and sled out into the middle of the street. I came within an inch of killing him right there.

Paige & Cody have since moved their kennel to another valley further out of town (and away from all these roads and cars) Halfway to their old cabin - the driveway is half a mile long - we came to the trail cut off I'd been trying to get to. But there was nothing there. Without them around to maintain this particular section of trail it hadn't been run a single time this year. With no other alternative, I called Leo to turn anyway. He saw the gap in the trees and made for it, but again the snow was unpacked and the dogs were moving slow and frustrated, looking back at me every few steps wondering if I'd lost my mind. I ran beside the sled, exhausted and frustrated. We turned a corner, where I hoped this little side-trail would meet the larger system. Nothing. Not even old snowmachine track.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Peter, asking him to pick us up at the end of this cursed road. Then called the dogs to turn and head for it again. Although we had hardly come three miles, I was terrified of Pico's behavior around the speeding cars, the cars themselves, Leo's mutinous state and the loose dogs on the road between us and the trail home. Spooked enough, I didn't see how we could get back safely without a ride. But we still had to get back to the road, and about half a mile down it to a safe pull out to wait for Peter.

As I hung up the phone, I was crushed with an overwhelming sense of failure. Not because we had run into bad trail and loose dogs, not because Leo was ignoring me and Pico was trying his hardest to get us all killed, but because by calling Pete I was giving up instead of pushing through these things. I knew there was a good, packed trail system somewhere back in those woods. I knew if I just kept running through the drifts with the sled, eventually we'd stumble on it. But I was done. I cared a great deal that the dogs were going to end the run on a bad note, that my mood was sour, that I had thrown in the towel - but I didn't know what else to do. I was not comfortable running them home through the hazards we'd come through already and I was too emotionally strung out to continue running on rough trails without losing it myself. For the first time, I wondered if I really have what it takes to race dogs for days through mountains and rivers far from roads and cell phone reception and easy outs. We had only made it three miles. How the hell did I think I could make it three hundred, much less, some day, a thousand.

We ran through virgin snow towards the road, and just as it came into sight we hit the good trail. The trail system had been only fifty yards away when I cried uncle and pulled out the phone. But I had already made my decision. This trail would have to wait. We ran onto the road and sprinted to the dead-end while I listened with my heart in my throat for the sound of approaching cars. At the end of the road, Leo immediately saw the trail leading down to Sepp's cabin (another taunting access to the trail system I'd been looking for) and turned hard to take us down and start a real run. But today was not the day. I called him back around, parked the sled well away from the road and unhooked everyone's tug lines. While waiting for Peter, I cuddled every one of the dogs hoping especially to make peace with Leo and Pico, against whom my temper was still high, and to calm Dottie and Sawyer who were anxious about this whole hard, short & bizarre run.

Not running was almost as bad as running, and anxiety continued to rise as Pico tried again and again to make a break for a nearby dog yard and Leo dragged his line out, trying to straighten the team despite that he was only hooked in by his collar. Dottie and Sawyer, jerked around by the two boys, were eying me anxiously and cowering away from my hands and the lines. Even giving in, I couldn't win.

I thought I would feel relief when the Subaru clattered over the hill and pulled up beside our motley crew. I felt only the claws of failure deepening their grip. I know that a disappointing spate is part of any endeavor, and I'm trying to remember that pushing through this is not only part of running dogs but part of doing anything worth doing in life. I need to keep getting back on the runners and back on the trails, but with two bad runs to sit with over my next shift at work, the taste in my mouth was decidedly bitter.