starlight

The Copper Basin 300, "The toughest 300 miles in Alaska," is underway on the other side of the Alaska Range. I am kicking myself now for not rearranging my work schedule and going down there to follow it, but life in Goldstream is nothing to sniff at this weekend, either.

After a long day taking blood pressures and glucose readings at a health fair, I came home and took the dogs on our first night run of the year. Despite my declaration of intent, the presence of moose on the big pond has left me a little apprehensive. Tonight, with a 48 hour shift looming and temperatures sitting right at zero, I hooked the dogs up and hoped for the best. New snowfall had done some damage to the out-trail, and one tree had fallen and snagged just inches above the level of the handlebars - I held my breath squatting on the runners as we flew underneath, no time to brake. We made it through, and I'm glad I had my headlamp on or I would have ended up with bruised ribs and a loose dog team, or worse.

Running down the trail next to the farm field, I thought I saw a moose in the shadows under the trees at the end of the fence. As we got closer, I decided the shadow was the right shape, but too small and let another long-held breath out. Then we were through the trees, down the bank and onto the flat of the pond and in the sweep of my headlamp I saw the mama moose charging in our direction from halfway across the pond.

The shadow in the trees had been a moose. A baby moose. And now we were between him and his mama.

Even as this occurred to me, we swung to the left on the trail through the marshes, away from the path of the huge shadow bearing down on us. As soon as the team turned away, she slowed to a trot then stopped to watch. Just as quickly as we had entered the danger zone, we skidded out of it and left her snorting and stamping in our wake under the sliver of new moon.

The rest of the run was dark and deeply peaceful. We ran on flat, wide trails that the team knows well. With some cloud cover and only a tiny moon I chose a run that is mostly in the open marshes at the bottom of the valley. Once we were across the road, I turned my headlamp off and we slid across the fresh snow and black spruce in the special glow of dark nights in the north. I could hear each dogs' paws hit the pack as they loped along, and almost feel the soft creaking of the runners as I shifted my weight through corners. On the ride out, the little dipper was peaking over the northern horizon, Polaris still hidden behind the hills. As we came back, the clouds gathered, covering most of what night sky we started with but even with just a few stars peaking through there was no need for the headlamp.

We ran home on the road to avoid the moose. Once the dogs were watered & settled in for the evening Sawyer raised her nose to the invisible moon and began to sing. Her soft, wavering howl carries in it the peace and utter contentment I find on the runners on a perfect starlit night like tonight.