It is hard to believe that it was just a week ago Friday that I was following Sepp's bobbing headlamp down a narrow, wooded trail to his cabin. It was about half a mile downhill, and I was bundled up way too much for the mild November night. We came around a corner, and a huge home loomed out of the dark. In the starlight, it was a giant shadow against the snow. As we got closer, I saw that it was only half-built (though beautiful) and on reaching the porch, saw that it was straw-bale construction.
Sepp opened up the conversation by telling me that his dog team had hauled all the supplies here over the last seven years. In the wan light of our headlamps, he showed me the sled he was going to lend me. It was old, several pieces were lashed together with string and duct tape. Two major sections looked like they had been carved out of tree branches with a large, dull ax in the dark. The brush-bow was only attached on one side. Sepp tipped the sled up and tapped the white plastic. "Runners are good. Almost new." I shrugged. "Looks great." Beggars can't be choosers.
We hauled the sled outside and brought a much newer, nicer sled into the cabin for storage while he was out of town. Back outside again, we walked down another trail. I heard dogs bark. "The others are gone. Only two left." There was a black dot against the snow, a butterball of a dog who leapt on her house to give Sepp enthusiastic kisses between suspicious barks at me. This was Rsta. The other dog was on the other side of the yard, a faint movement on white-on-white. Arwyn. She didn't bark, but paced suspiciously and didn't take her eyes off me. He told me he'd be back sometime in March to collect them.
"So ... you'll come back tomorrow morning and take them?"
"Yeah. I just ... I need to find some dog houses."
"Ok. Ten o'clock, I think it is light enough."
"Sure."
"Can you find your way back to the road."
"Yeah." I wasn't sure, but he clearly didn't want to walk back out.
"Ok. See you."
I started walking, kept it uphill, and eventually found the road and my car.
The next morning found Sepp hooking his dogs up to the wreck of a sled and sending me running behind them all the way up the hill back to the road. He put Rsta in front, saying she would do better there, although, "neither of them are leaders." At the road, he gave the station wagon a long look. "They've never been in the back of a car before ... they have hardly seen cars or been around them much. They will be very afraid. So, hold on tight or they will run."
He explained that these two-year-olds had been with him in the Brooks Range on his remote trap lines for most of their short lives. No cars. No houses. No other people. Just Sepp and the mountains and the trail. Everything was going to be new to them.
We got the sled strapped down to the roof of the Subaru and he followed me to our cabin. I wasn't sure if his gentle handling of the sled was due to care for its well-being or concern that it would fall apart. On ensuring that both dogs were secured in our yard, he gave them a quick scratch behind the ears, gave me an imploring look, and was gone. He had a flight to Santiago in three hours. And Chile had an earthquake in it's future.
11.29.2010
11.28.2010
technical difficulties
We did a seven-mile recovery run today along the south-valley trail. The dogs ran great. Pico continued to do well up front and his passing manners are incrementally improving. On the down side, the trail was all ruts and ice and we won't be heading that way again until we get significantly more snow. I also crashed the sled again on that first half-mile of trail coming out of our neighborhood. I didn't go down as hard, but I'm still sore from yesterday's two spills. I am tentatively planning on an alternate start site for tomorrow.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
11.27.2010
trail condition
I got home from work this morning to about an inch of snow accumulation. As I was driving home, I saw a competative musher out on the trails with her team tethered to a 4-wheeler. My primary concern with the icy trails is the dog's feet, and if she was taking her racing dogs out on an inch of snow-on-ice, I wasn't going to be far behind.
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
11.24.2010
drying out
All three sled dogs are inside the cabin, drying out now that the last of the freak midwinter rainstorm has passed. The yard is a mess of ice and the road has been plowed down to dirt. There were a few minutes of elation mid-morning when fat flakes of snow began pouring out of the sky. Elation died when it stopped cold after five minutes, leaving hardly a dusting on the wet porch. The trails are trashed, and what is left of the snow is solidifying into rock-hard pack ice as temperatures drop back below freezing. There is fog, but no snow clouds. We were promised snow tonight and tomorrow, if only a paltry inch, but given how unreliable snow forecasts are in this dry interior landscape, I am expecting stars instead.If I can claw my way out of this pit of despair for a moment, I find it fascinating that a region used to enduring weeks of brutal forty to sixty below temperatures and winters that last from October to April was brought to its knees for three days by an inch of freezing rain. It is also a little heartening, if only from a distance, that this life with dogs forces me to be so tied to weather, the temperatures, the snow pack. Things utterly out of my control.
I am reminded of an experience a friend of mine had this summer. She had planned a trip up into the Alaska Range to do some climbing, a trip that required a ski-plane ride up to Pika glacier. After being weathered in at the airport for interminable days, she and her climbing buddy were finally ferried up to the ice only to be socked into their snow shelter, all climbing thwarted.
In our modern lives, it is only a rare ice storm or blizzard that might alter our plans by hours, and on rare occasions a day or two. But for those that choose (if we are privileged enough to be given a choice) to work and play outdoors the temperature, wind, ice, snow pack, fog & rain play a much bigger role. We can prepare for it with all the gear and training in the world, but until the moment we launch we won't know if the paddle will take three hours or twelve with a headwind, or if the trek will take two days or ten with washed out trails and mudslides, if the wildfire will burn through the village or be damped enough by a sudden passing storm, if the crops will come in or be destroyed by a freak hailstorm too late to replant. In some of the farming first world and much of the rural third world, lives are lived closer to this uncertainty of weather, and of timing, and ultimately of outcome. Perhaps this is why so much is taken in stride there, more than it is here in the world of iPhones and Facebook and ATMs and DOT maintained roads and 24 hour grocery stores.
I find that in spite of all the time I spent in the third world and in the outdoors of the first world I am frustrated and angered and dismayed by the turn of events this week. And I am ashamed of the ferocity of my feelings. On the first day of rain, I fought an urge to pray. I wanted to beg someone or something to make the freak weather system move off. This even though I no more believe that God cares to answer my demands about temperature or precipitation or sunshine than I believe God would fill my bank account if I asked nicely or promised some token of worthy behavior in return. This even though all I will lose (and only if we don't get any more snow before the deep cold sets in) is a little bit of recreation with some dogs. This makes me ashamed, but I think that it also makes me human.
11.23.2010
the rookie moves up
The rain continues to fall and the snowpack continues to melt ...
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
11.22.2010
(facelift)
Peter said the blog needed a little something. He told me that in comic books, when there are a bunch of super-heroes working together (X-Men, The Avengers) there is always a 'who's who' with pictures of each character that readers can refer to as they follow the story. So tonight while the sled dogs are inside to dry their coats out after this awful winter rain, I did a little tweaking ... I hope you like the new sidebar.
command leader
Leo is incredible. He is not only a confidant leader, but he knows his commands well. He doesn't get freaked out when I mess up, he just stands there calmly until I figure it out. Sometimes, if I don't figure it out, he figures it out for me and drags us all back to where we need to be.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)