My leaders took the turn from the road at the trailhead on cue. There was a tiny patch of refrozen overflow on the edge of the creek, the ice brown and churned from passing hikers and skiers, but it was covered in a dust of new snow and the dogs didn't notice it until we were already over the ice. It wasn't long before I noticed Norrin slacking his tug line. His tongue had been lolling nearly to the ground before we even started running, and it was clear that in the heat his motivation was bottomed out. Billie wasn't willing to keep up the pace if Norrin was lagging behind. Before we had gone a mile, the whole team had stalled out in the sun.
It had been over a month since I had last - unsuccessfully - tried to run Reese up at the front of the team. Thinking this might have been enough time for the Reese Brain to forget its obsession with U-turns, I started the process of switching him with Norrin up front. Eager to go, Reese looked back at me and began shrieking and slamming his harness before I'd even gotten Norrin backed up and clipped in. His enthusiasm caught on. Parka and Devilfish began slamming their harnesses, popping out the snow hook as they did so. I grabbed the sled as it passed, using its momentum to swing onto the runners with a sign of relief. But no sooner were my feet down and my eyes back up on the trail than the sled slowed and I saw Reese weaving his way back through the team, bounding towards me in a blind ecstasy of enthusiasm and energy. The snowhook was still in my hand, so I set it and dove into the fray in one motion. I hauled Billie and Reese back up front, unclipping Reese as I went. Stepping over lines and tangles, I hauled Reese back to wheel, leaving him with Parka and moving Devilfish up, working hard to figure out what to do next.
I put Devilfish in swing, and moved Xtra up front with Billie. Reese and Devilfish were now both yelping in tandem for us to get moving again. Norrin, alone in the team position, stood with a slack line, watching and panting and occasionally taking a mouthful of snow. No help. I was sweating from running back and forth along the team. Xtra hung back, and Billie didn't seem willing to line out with her pressure on his neckline. I pulled the hook and called them to go anyway. Billie took up the slack between his collar and Xtra's, and when she didn't move forward with him, he stopped. Xtra looked back at me, sideways in the trail. It was clear she wasn't going anywhere next to Billie. Pepper dove into the snowbank. I set the snow hook again.
I unhooked Pepper, who was now tangled in a knot around Devilfish's line, and moved her up with Billie. I got Xtra back into Pepper's spot in swing, but as I was giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder I felt a bump. Pepper's squat, powerful little body had managed to haul Billie by his neckline back down the trail towards us, and she was smacking her head into my legs and trying to climb up on my back to get some of the attention I was giving Xtra. I walked Pepper and Billie back up front, gave them a pat and told them to line out. I turned. I took two steps back towards the sled and a still-shrieking Reese. I felt my knees give as Pepper bolted back towards me and knocked me off the trail into the snow. Now that I was at her level, there were kisses all around. Devilfish and Xtra joined in, creating the biggest, most complicated tangle to date and effectively pinning me in the snow. Billie hung back and stared at the chaos in the snow bank. Reese continued to yelp at full volume, nearly in my ear. Pepper yipped along with him, tail wagging happily at all the excitement. Norrin stood on the trail, panting, lines slack. A mile from home. I wanted to cry.
Instead, I gently fended off Pepper's affection, righted myself and got my feet back on the packed trail. I unclipped, untangled and reclipped the mess of lead and swing dogs. I took off my fleece and threw it back into the sled basket and threw my hat in too, for good measure. I held Billie and Pepper forward by the neckline and stared back at the team. What to do?
I unclipped Pepper completely, and walked her back to Norrin's single spot in team. Unclipping his neckline, I secured her with it. His huge, unmoving bulk kept her on the trail while I walked back up to Billie. I took the second leader tug and started working it backwards out of the gangline. Billie was going to have to lead on his own, or I was going to be walking in front with him, all the way home. I got Pepper set up with a tug next to Norrin. To my surprise, Billie was still up front when I turned. The gangline was slack and sitting on the trail, but he was peacefully munching snow and hadn't made a move back towards the team. I walked forward and pulled him with me until his lines were taunt. I gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, "Line Out, Billie." I walked backwards down the trail towards the sled. Billie sat down primly on the trail and turned watch me over his shoulder. He didn't move.
I tentatively pulled the hook, calling "OK, let's go." Billie took a couple of steps forward. Everyone else took off at a dead run, weary of the extensive stall-out in the sunshine. Devilfish and Xtra slammed into Billie's hind end and he jolted forward, hitting the end of his tug hard ... and he stayed up front, tug straight as an arrow, leading the team over the hill, past the old burn and behind the Quist farm.
We skidded down a little hill to one of the intersections that had given me so much trouble with Reese in November. I called "Billie, Gee!" sounding much more authoritative than I felt, mentally preparing for another giant tangled mess of dogs and lines. Billie banked right and disappeared around the corner. I let out a whoop of elation, and nearly lost the sled as it whipped through the turn and hit the snow bank on the other side.
Billie charged up the next little hill, and I thought about what I knew of this trail. We hadn't gone this way all year. Last year, with the old girls, Pico and Norrin we'd kept straight and hit a huge, steep hill about a quarter mile further along. I didn't want to stall out Billie's spectacular progress with a challenge like that, not now. Up ahead, I saw where a snowmachine had plowed a trail to the left. I called, "Billie, Haw!" and like a miracle (it felt like a such a miracle I nearly burst with the relief of it) my stocky blond boy sped up and whipped to the left, disappearing behind the snow bank, never looking back. The team followed at full-tilt, and I hung on for dear life. Finally, I had my leader.
For the next week, I left Billie out front alone. Devilfish and Parka went back to wheel, Norrin and Reese pulled together in team, Pepper and Xtra were my swing girls, backing Billie up. He thrived. We did a series of short ten mile runs, testing out commands. He wasn't always perfect, but he corrected and kept going. The temperatures stayed warm. Overflow built up on the lower Rosie Creek crossing causing some stall-outs and tangles but we worked through it and kept on trucking. Over the weekend, I had another Paramedic from work come out to the house. For the first time, I took someone on a sled ride out of the yard, over the big road berms and overflow and maze of trails across the creek - and it was a success! Billie turned on command like a dream, the team hauled us over everything without wavering and my friend had a blast, asking to come out for another run any time we were willing.
I did a lot of thinking about Billie over that week, as we navigated turns that had us stymied all year and explored trails we'd never been able to negotiate before. I hadn't bonded with him much. He's a reserved guy. I'm not even sure I'd ever seen his tail wag. Instead I put my energy into the potential leadership of other dogs and took Billie's position up front for granted. A placeholder, nothing more. When the other dogs stalled out, Billie took his cues from them and stopped. When they took a wrong turn or refused to correct, he stood by and watched. This week, I began to realize that Billie and I have more in common than I thought.
I am a relatively new paramedic in a position of unusual leadership at my job for no other reason than that there aren't any better qualified medics in the area willing to work where I do. Whenever there is a doctor or nurse or even another paramedic around, I automatically defer to them because I assume they must know better. But in doing so, and getting burned by my deference on many an occasion, I am (slowly, painfully) learning that the training and experience I do have, and the instincts that are growing as I practice pre-hospital medicine, are worth something. Worth a lot, in fact. I'm beginning to trust myself more, but I still find that I let go of my own control and leadership at the drop of a hat. I stand back and watch instead of stepping up and engaging. And when I defer what I know, and what I know I can do, I usually regret it. Like Billie, I do best when I'm left out there on my own. When I'm given a chance and show what I am capable of without the easy out of someone else to fall back on, I usually manage to do just fine.
I hope I can begin to step up when I find myself out front, alone or not. I want to learn to charge around those corners with courage, trusting all that is behind me and acting on the training and knowledge I've built up there, even if I don't know what lies ahead on the trail. Billie and I have a long way to go, but for a while this winter, we can work on getting there together.
1 comment:
Mary, I so identified with you and Billie...and will try to remember your example when I defer. Thanks for showing such courage and honesty. Also...you made me cry.
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