Pete arrived back just in time to take care of the dogs & house while I went to work for a couple of days. I was with him for about four hours between picking him up from the airport and heading out, and most of those four hours I was trying hard to get some sleep. While at work, the temperatures rose to a balmy zero degrees but my heart sank when I saw the forecast: the warm spell would last about as long as my two-day shift.
When I arrived home, however, it was still only ten below zero although the bottom was slowly dropping out. I fed the dogs and Pete and I bundled up and ran our busted up little Ford station wagon in to a mechanic in town. We bought the thing for $900 five years ago from a girl I met at yoga, and it has run - with a few major tune-ups here and there - like a well oiled machine ever since, come gravel roads and snow and ice and brutal cold and many long, long Alaskan road miles. This time, however, the usual noises and rattles seemed a little more ominous. Gripping the clunking and shaking steering wheel, I limped the wagon into town and pulled in to the oddly deserted mechanic shop with Pete in the truck right behind me. On the window glass of the office, written hastily with a sharpie, were the words: Moved to Van Horn Road, across from Northern Power Sports. Not even an address. I guess we hadn't been here in a while. I consulted with Peter, then started to back the station wagon out of the parking lot. No dice. The engine revved, but the gears clunked and cracked one last time and didn't engage. The deserted mechanic shop was as far as it was going to go. At least we'd made it into town, and into an out-of-the-way parking lot. Fearing the worst, we pulled out all the extra oil & anti-freeze bottles, jumper cables, sleeping bags, gloves and blankets and called a tow truck to take it the rest of the way.
Back home, we quickly loaded dogs and the sled in the truck and headed for the Goldstream trails. With the roads plowed back to ice and trails not yet opened up over the berms, I didn't want to run from home. Now that I had Peter to help, I figured we'd have a nice long run in the valley and I'd be able to continue my Reese re-training with a bigger team and some company. We set out at a good clip with Reese and Billie up front and Pete in the basket. It wasn't a quarter mile before Reese was slacking his tug and looking back at me. I yelled NO and peddled behind the sled a bit. I yipped encouragement for all the dogs to speed up. He never quit looking back at me, every few steps. It wasn't long before he made his move, and before Pete could jump out or I could run forward he had enacted the most incredible tangle of lines I have yet seen. Lead dogs were tangled with wheel dogs and the team was so wrapped up that I had to completely release every single dog in turn, sometimes holding two dogs' harnesses in one hand while fumbling with impossible knots with the other, to get everyone sorted out. Despite the constraints on her lines and all around chaos, Pepper managed to dive off the trail into a snowdrift and completely disappear in the powder for a moment before returning with a gleeful, explosive shake. No matter what I did with him, Reese continued to dive back towards the sled, threading through as many lines as possible, every time I got him sorted out. Finally, I let him go and had Pete hold him away from the team. All of this, and we were two thirds of a mile from the truck.
Not sure exactly what to do, but sure this was the last straw for me letting Reese run up front, I considered my options. I still wanted Norrin alone in team, but I didn't want Reese in swing where he could still influence the leaders and cause more disastrous tangles. In the end, I decided to move Xtra up to run with Billie in lead, and brought Devilfish up from wheel to run with Pepper in swing. Although Parka is a better fit for size and stride with Pepper, she sometimes has issues with other female dogs and I didn't want to add an altercation to today's list of run difficulties. Reese, for his part, was demoted to wheel. Finally sorted out and lined up, we got moving again. We've done this out-and-back several times now, and I was confidant that Billie and Xtra could hold their own around the familiar turns and cross trails.
The next big obstacle we faced was the dog-eating bridge troll under the Goldstream Creek bridge. I was hoping that a week's worth of positive, solid runs in his new tangle-free solo-team position had instilled some confidence in Norrin. But it was just a wild hope, and the one-on-one bridge-therapy I was thinking about doing had never happened. So our strategy was this: we would run up to the bridge as usual. If Norrin balked before we reached it, I would quickly stop the sled, unclip Norrin and let Pete take the team across without us. Then I would firmly and calmly walk Norrin across alone (hoping that having the team safely on the other side would motivate him to keep moving) clip him back in and we would keep running as if nothing had happened. I wanted to strike a balance between avoiding positive reinforcement (positive attention, praise or a break from running) for fear-behavior and yet not make facing his fears traumatic, solidifying the problem. Ultimately, I need Norrin to trust me when I ask him to do something, and do it even if he is afraid.
To our astonishment, Norrin ran right over the bridge as if crossing bridges was his singular specialty. His tug was tight the whole way across and his steady, ground-eating trot never faltered. Although I had hope that my theory about instilling confidence through other, all-positive runs would prove out, I was still holding out final judgement for our return. Norrin's bridge freak-outs have always started earlier and been much worse on the gentler, longer approach from the far side.
We ran around the valley under the power lines for a little over five miles, then turned the team around. Pete drove on the way back, and I settled into the basket. It was the longest either of us has ridden as a passenger, and by the time Pete took over driving he was quite chilled. He warmed up quickly once he was on the runners, but I found that as as comfortable as I was nestled in the basket with my giant boots and hood ruff tightly around my face, my hands - which had sweat through two layers of liner gloves dealing with the giant tangle, but had stayed plenty warm while I was driving - were getting colder and colder. On a long straightaway a few miles into my ride, I realized they weren't getting warm on their own and I needed to do something about it. And pretty quickly. I didn't have an extra pair of liner gloves with me, but I did have a pair of heavier over gloves that were still perfectly dry. I pulled the liners off my right hand first, and as I did so I realized they weren't just damp. They were soaking wet. I winced when my hand hit the cold air and quickly fumbled to shove the stiff fingers into the dry over-glove. At that moment, the sled plunged off the trail into powder on the side of the trail and flipped on its side. The gloves went flying and my now bare-and-wet hands dove deep into the snow.
There is a moment when the cold in extremities goes from being painful to critical. Circulation truly starts to shut down, and the body sends an emergency burst of adrenaline that can help get you past whatever pain or numbness is present to fix the issue, but also carries an edge of panic. My hands were, of course, in no danger. We were just a few miles from the truck on a windless day, and I had dry gloves in my pocket and giant over-mitts available in the sled. Peter, with perfectly warm and dry hands, was right next to me. However after my gloveless spill into the snow, my wet hands briefly reached that point of cold where there is only weird numb pain, a general loss of fine motor movement and an undercurrent of panic. We righted the sled and I quickly shook the snow out of my sleeves and shoved the big gloves over my stiff fingers. Pete held the team while I hopped around, swinging my arms to restore circulation and warmth. After a minute, I slid back into the basket and we were off.
My fingers were perfectly warm in a minute or two, but the quick transition from a little cold to unusable reminded me once again that I have to be aggressive about keeping my hands dry. The liners get wet quickly when I'm working with the dogs - either hooking up or sorting out tangles - and I need to be on top of changing out wet gloves for dry ones before my hands have a chance to get cold at all.
We watched Norrin carefully on the approach to the bridge. From this side, the bridge is visible for about fifty yards before you reach it, with a gentle approach that allows Norrin to get worried and then totally freak out and sit down in the middle of the trail well ahead of the structure itself. Again, we watched closely, looking for any sign of panic. And marveled as Norrin ran across the bridge like he did so every day of his life.
Just past the bridge, we passed two skijorers being pulled two dogs each. It was the first time Pete had made a pass while driving, and because of the angle of the bridge and our focus on Norrin, we didn't see the skiers until we were on top of them. They'd had a chance to move to the side a bit, but not pull their dogs all the way off the trail. Normally, I'd have stopped the team to let them clear well off the trail before attempting to get past. Our team passed perfectly despite their lunging huskies, though I know it was a bit close for comfort.
Over the last three winters, I've been impressed with the excellent trail etiquette around here. The general rule is that machines yield to muscle powered transportation, and that smaller teams or individuals yield to bigger/faster teams or travelers. On straight stretches with lots of time to see an approach (from ahead or behind) and plenty of snow to stop and yield, this works great. However on narrow, curving trail passes can start happening before either musher is aware that there is another team in their midst. Back when Pico was running in the team, I lived in terror of running into other trail users, knowing that his frantic screeching attentions and eagerness to interact and follow and chase would both freak out whoever we encountered and probably cause a tangle or worse, even with our then-little team. Now, having a team that acts as if there isn't a thing on the trail worthy of their time as they fly by, that feeling of dread is long gone. I no longer have to run on weekday mornings or late at night to avoid other trail users. Despite all the other troubles the team has had this winter, this confidence and the freedom it brings is wonderful feeling to carry down the trail.
1.14.2012
1.09.2012
an uphill climb
What hours of the next twenty or so I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking about that run. What was I doing wrong? What could I do to fix it? Was there anything I could do to fix it? We seemed to be progressing so well, and then suddenly we weren't going anywhere. Should I have let the dogs run on down the road like Billie wanted, down to the Quist Farm trails? Or should I have continued to struggle with the right hand turn onto the lower Rosie Creek crossing, ignoring all the people waiting for me to clear the trail? Should I have tried Norrin in lead at some point, or was it better to preserve the fragile confidence he's built up over the last couple of runs. Should I have stopped them on the headlong rush up the trail home and turned them around? Should I have never taken Reese out of lead in the first place? Did I get us into the mess by letting him occasionally have his head - mostly when I didn't feel like I had a way to stop him - over the last three months?
My biggest concern was my loss of control. Even with all the snow on the road, I was struggling to set the hook and swing the big team around, then taking time to untangle whatever dogs stepped over or around lines or ended up with twisted harnesses. By the time I got back to the sled, the lead dogs were restless and taking things into their own hands - this had been as much true of Billie and Xtra as it was of Reese, although his u-turns certainly took the chaos to another level. I needed more control. Somehow.
I also needed to mentally prepare myself for whatever might happen, be it constant u-turns, a lack of progress, tangles, melt-downs or unplanned trails. I needed to steel myself for infinite patience, or as much as I could muster, being human. I needed to be calm and methodical and gentle and fair. I needed to be in the moment with the dogs on the trail and not let my plans or hopes or expectations weigh on what was happening in front of me.
On Monday morning, I took all but one of the gang line lengths out of my string. I unstrapped my heavy duffel bag of extra winter gear and - for lack of another bolt - strapped the broken bar down with a few zip ties and hoped for the best. I harnessed Parka, Devilfish, Billie and Reese, leaving the rest of the dogs howling after us in the yard. I took a deep breath as we headed down the out trail. There was some powder, but our abortive run the day before had packed it down well and the four dogs didn't have any trouble flying over it, even with the drag mat down.
My stomach sank when the road came into view. The plows had been through that morning and fresh dirt and rocks - and a double-high snow berm - greeted us at the end of the trail. With no other option, I called the dogs to haw early and Reese and Billie scrambled over the berm to the left. I didn't even have time to be relieved or excited, though because as soon as they hit the road they swung around to the right. Parka and Devilfish had made the scramble over now, and I slammed the bar brake into the snow berm, sled with its nose in the air, calling for a left, knowing as soon as the runners hit the ice and dirt on the road all the control I hoped to gain with having only four dogs on the line was going to be long, long gone.
After an eternal few seconds, Reese looked back at me and then pushed Billie over to the left. I scrambled over the snow berm after the dogs and we were careening down the icy road. I cringed as my runners scraped over gravel and rocks. But here we were.
A quarter mile down, as we neared the trail head, my stomach sank again. The plows had ignored the trail and little parking spot completely. There was nothing but berm all the way down the road. I could hardly see the trail myself, and knew there was no way the dogs would be able to see where I wanted them to go when I stopped them. Deep breath. And we were there.
I managed to slow and then stop the sled on the ice, but it was tenuous. Within ten seconds, Reese had the team turned around and was yipping in frustration that I was standing hard on the drag mat and the brake. I tried to scoot the sled over to the icy berm and set the hook sideways, but the berm was powdery and hadn't set yet. The second I let slack off the brake, the dogs popped the hook out and tried to take off back down the road. We screeched to a halt on the ice a few feet further from the trail.
I stood there, Billie and Reese yipping with frustration, Parka and Devilfish looking back at me, tails wagging, intermittently slamming their harnesses to get going, already. What to do? I scooched the sled over a little closer to the berm and tried to set the hook deeper, smashing it into the powder and dirt and ice with my new giant boot. It sank out of sight. I tentatively let off the brake. The hook moved, but seemed to hold. If I could just get my hands on the lead dogs ...
I scrambled forward carefully on the ice, and grabbed the neck line between Reese and Billie. As I suspected, the snow hook was already halfway dislodged. But I've caught a flying sled before. Especially one with just four dogs powering it. I walked Billie and Reese around, back down the road to the trail and carefully over the berm. Parka and Devilfish scrambled over behind us, pulling the main weight of the empty sled and useless snow hook behind them. As I looked back, I realized the mixed blessing of the damned berm: The dogs could no longer see the road! I pointed Reese down the trail and let go. All four dogs took off, and I made a grab for the sled and snowhook as they slid by. And we were moving.
The powder here was deeper than on our out-trail - just a few people on foot had come this way since the main dump of snow over the weekend. I flipped up the drag mat, but still found myself peddling behind the sled to keep our momentum going. Every time the sled slowed in the powder, Reese looked back at me with the gleam of a uturn in his eye. By the time we reached Rosie Creek, I was starting to sweat. We crossed the creek - its ice bulging strangely in the middle - without a hitch and plowed on up the trail. And it felt like plowing. I was kicking and peddling and running behind the dogs. Halfway to the main trail, Reese stopped dead and tried to bring the team around. I let go of the sled and ran up to meet him.
This was my plan. I would not let Reese turn around. Period. With only two dogs between me and the Reese Brain, if I was quick on my feet, I could catch him before he got turned all the way around. With only four dogs on the line and deep powder, I wouldn't even need to set the snow hook. I would stop the sled periodically for no reason and make Reese stay lined out, straight ahead. He needed to learn that stopping or slowing was not, ever, a signal for him to turn around. If we reached a turn, we would not go the way Reese decided to go, no matter now many times I had to hook in and walk up and align the team in the direction I wanted us to travel. I was going to be in charge. And with four dogs, I had a fighting chance.
But I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. The powder was deeper than I'd anticipated, and the trails were all uphill. I continued peddling and occasionally running behind the team to keep momentum going. Whenever I tried to ride the runners to catch my breath, the team slowed and stopped and I ended up sprinting forward anyway to thwart a Reese turn. But Reese didn't manage to get past me, or even much past half-way turned. We continued on up, and up, and up, stopping every quarter mile or so and getting praise for staying lined our or diving to catch Reese when he decided to turn. I had decided, given how winded I was and how hard the dogs were working in the powder, to turn around at the lightning tree. But when we got to it, Reese made the command decision to turn left. I couldn't let him. I set the hook and ran forward, panting as hard as the dogs, pulling he and Billie back to the straightaway. We would have to go a bit further.
It took three tries before Reese gave up and went straight. I was running hard behind the sled, pushing it through the even deeper powder here as much as the dogs were pulling. We were now running on an extremely narrow trail that was terra incognita for me. I had an idea that this trail would eventually connect to the wider logging road we had encountered from the trails closer to the upper Rosie Creek crossing, but had no idea where or when. I figured we must be getting close to the top, though, as we'd been plowing uphill for what seemed like years. I was soaking wet under my shell (which made me nervous, even this close to home) and sucking air at this point, wondering if the warm comfort of my new heavy boots was worth the weight. After two more stop-and-catch-breath-and-hold-Reese-out, we reached a sharp right-hand turn that seemed to be on a wider - if still narrow - road, instead of a trail. I was elated! We'd be coming around the corner to familiar trails and downhill slopes soon.
We continued forward, still in the powder, as the terrain's steepness waned a bit. Then we came around a slight left corner and I realized we had just been on a wide part of a regular trail. This was no logging road. But the corner slowed Reese, and he started to turn, so I ran forward, caught him, caught my breath and determined to keep going ... just a little further. Just to drive the lesson home. The trail widened a bit, and we trudged around another, sharper, left hand corner. Somehow, despite the fact that I had no idea where were, I was sure this turn would open up to a familiarity. Instead, there was the wall of a steep hill towering in front of us with the trail headed straight up. Reese stopped and started to turn. I ran forward and caught him, but I was done. Instead of letting him gleefully bring the team around, I held him out until he stayed there, then slowly, deliberately guided him on a wide around-haw, caught the sled on the way down and rode the runners downhill trying to catch my breath and trying to hope we had accomplished something.
I was soaked through from running uphill in powder. To stay warm on the (much shorter) return trip, I dropped the drag mat to slow the dogs down and ran beside the sled when I started to feel the creeping chill. Following our backtrail, there wasn't a single hitch. We never stopped. Reese never hesitated. There were no wrong turns. We flew down the hills, all of us running.
The sun was setting, and I shaking and still not sure if I'd done anything right. Reese and Billie took us over the first berm after Rosie Creek like they did it every day, but they couldn't see our little home-trail from the road. I struggled to stop them on the icy gravel (still cringing as the runners scraped over rocks) and told Reese to take a blind right over the broad, unmarked berm. Not sure what to expect and with no way to hook in or correct him if he decided to keep going ... or turn around again ... I wasn't sure what to think when he turned right with no hesitation and dove over the berm onto our trail. Had he recognized that we were close? I doubted he was actually following my directions so blindly. Even after all our stopping and starting on the trail, he was trying to pull a u-turn every single time we slowed, all the way out. But at least we had run. The four dogs had worked hard and we had gotten somewhere. I had stayed calm and followed through (with the exception of that last, looming hill) with keeping Reese from making trail decisions. I'll have to live with that much until the next time I can take them out on the trails at the end of the week.
But I have no idea what we're going to do when we try again.
My biggest concern was my loss of control. Even with all the snow on the road, I was struggling to set the hook and swing the big team around, then taking time to untangle whatever dogs stepped over or around lines or ended up with twisted harnesses. By the time I got back to the sled, the lead dogs were restless and taking things into their own hands - this had been as much true of Billie and Xtra as it was of Reese, although his u-turns certainly took the chaos to another level. I needed more control. Somehow.
I also needed to mentally prepare myself for whatever might happen, be it constant u-turns, a lack of progress, tangles, melt-downs or unplanned trails. I needed to steel myself for infinite patience, or as much as I could muster, being human. I needed to be calm and methodical and gentle and fair. I needed to be in the moment with the dogs on the trail and not let my plans or hopes or expectations weigh on what was happening in front of me.
On Monday morning, I took all but one of the gang line lengths out of my string. I unstrapped my heavy duffel bag of extra winter gear and - for lack of another bolt - strapped the broken bar down with a few zip ties and hoped for the best. I harnessed Parka, Devilfish, Billie and Reese, leaving the rest of the dogs howling after us in the yard. I took a deep breath as we headed down the out trail. There was some powder, but our abortive run the day before had packed it down well and the four dogs didn't have any trouble flying over it, even with the drag mat down.
My stomach sank when the road came into view. The plows had been through that morning and fresh dirt and rocks - and a double-high snow berm - greeted us at the end of the trail. With no other option, I called the dogs to haw early and Reese and Billie scrambled over the berm to the left. I didn't even have time to be relieved or excited, though because as soon as they hit the road they swung around to the right. Parka and Devilfish had made the scramble over now, and I slammed the bar brake into the snow berm, sled with its nose in the air, calling for a left, knowing as soon as the runners hit the ice and dirt on the road all the control I hoped to gain with having only four dogs on the line was going to be long, long gone.
After an eternal few seconds, Reese looked back at me and then pushed Billie over to the left. I scrambled over the snow berm after the dogs and we were careening down the icy road. I cringed as my runners scraped over gravel and rocks. But here we were.
A quarter mile down, as we neared the trail head, my stomach sank again. The plows had ignored the trail and little parking spot completely. There was nothing but berm all the way down the road. I could hardly see the trail myself, and knew there was no way the dogs would be able to see where I wanted them to go when I stopped them. Deep breath. And we were there.
I managed to slow and then stop the sled on the ice, but it was tenuous. Within ten seconds, Reese had the team turned around and was yipping in frustration that I was standing hard on the drag mat and the brake. I tried to scoot the sled over to the icy berm and set the hook sideways, but the berm was powdery and hadn't set yet. The second I let slack off the brake, the dogs popped the hook out and tried to take off back down the road. We screeched to a halt on the ice a few feet further from the trail.
I stood there, Billie and Reese yipping with frustration, Parka and Devilfish looking back at me, tails wagging, intermittently slamming their harnesses to get going, already. What to do? I scooched the sled over a little closer to the berm and tried to set the hook deeper, smashing it into the powder and dirt and ice with my new giant boot. It sank out of sight. I tentatively let off the brake. The hook moved, but seemed to hold. If I could just get my hands on the lead dogs ...
I scrambled forward carefully on the ice, and grabbed the neck line between Reese and Billie. As I suspected, the snow hook was already halfway dislodged. But I've caught a flying sled before. Especially one with just four dogs powering it. I walked Billie and Reese around, back down the road to the trail and carefully over the berm. Parka and Devilfish scrambled over behind us, pulling the main weight of the empty sled and useless snow hook behind them. As I looked back, I realized the mixed blessing of the damned berm: The dogs could no longer see the road! I pointed Reese down the trail and let go. All four dogs took off, and I made a grab for the sled and snowhook as they slid by. And we were moving.
The powder here was deeper than on our out-trail - just a few people on foot had come this way since the main dump of snow over the weekend. I flipped up the drag mat, but still found myself peddling behind the sled to keep our momentum going. Every time the sled slowed in the powder, Reese looked back at me with the gleam of a uturn in his eye. By the time we reached Rosie Creek, I was starting to sweat. We crossed the creek - its ice bulging strangely in the middle - without a hitch and plowed on up the trail. And it felt like plowing. I was kicking and peddling and running behind the dogs. Halfway to the main trail, Reese stopped dead and tried to bring the team around. I let go of the sled and ran up to meet him.
This was my plan. I would not let Reese turn around. Period. With only two dogs between me and the Reese Brain, if I was quick on my feet, I could catch him before he got turned all the way around. With only four dogs on the line and deep powder, I wouldn't even need to set the snow hook. I would stop the sled periodically for no reason and make Reese stay lined out, straight ahead. He needed to learn that stopping or slowing was not, ever, a signal for him to turn around. If we reached a turn, we would not go the way Reese decided to go, no matter now many times I had to hook in and walk up and align the team in the direction I wanted us to travel. I was going to be in charge. And with four dogs, I had a fighting chance.
But I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. The powder was deeper than I'd anticipated, and the trails were all uphill. I continued peddling and occasionally running behind the team to keep momentum going. Whenever I tried to ride the runners to catch my breath, the team slowed and stopped and I ended up sprinting forward anyway to thwart a Reese turn. But Reese didn't manage to get past me, or even much past half-way turned. We continued on up, and up, and up, stopping every quarter mile or so and getting praise for staying lined our or diving to catch Reese when he decided to turn. I had decided, given how winded I was and how hard the dogs were working in the powder, to turn around at the lightning tree. But when we got to it, Reese made the command decision to turn left. I couldn't let him. I set the hook and ran forward, panting as hard as the dogs, pulling he and Billie back to the straightaway. We would have to go a bit further.
It took three tries before Reese gave up and went straight. I was running hard behind the sled, pushing it through the even deeper powder here as much as the dogs were pulling. We were now running on an extremely narrow trail that was terra incognita for me. I had an idea that this trail would eventually connect to the wider logging road we had encountered from the trails closer to the upper Rosie Creek crossing, but had no idea where or when. I figured we must be getting close to the top, though, as we'd been plowing uphill for what seemed like years. I was soaking wet under my shell (which made me nervous, even this close to home) and sucking air at this point, wondering if the warm comfort of my new heavy boots was worth the weight. After two more stop-and-catch-breath-and-hold-Reese-out, we reached a sharp right-hand turn that seemed to be on a wider - if still narrow - road, instead of a trail. I was elated! We'd be coming around the corner to familiar trails and downhill slopes soon.
We continued forward, still in the powder, as the terrain's steepness waned a bit. Then we came around a slight left corner and I realized we had just been on a wide part of a regular trail. This was no logging road. But the corner slowed Reese, and he started to turn, so I ran forward, caught him, caught my breath and determined to keep going ... just a little further. Just to drive the lesson home. The trail widened a bit, and we trudged around another, sharper, left hand corner. Somehow, despite the fact that I had no idea where were, I was sure this turn would open up to a familiarity. Instead, there was the wall of a steep hill towering in front of us with the trail headed straight up. Reese stopped and started to turn. I ran forward and caught him, but I was done. Instead of letting him gleefully bring the team around, I held him out until he stayed there, then slowly, deliberately guided him on a wide around-haw, caught the sled on the way down and rode the runners downhill trying to catch my breath and trying to hope we had accomplished something.
I was soaked through from running uphill in powder. To stay warm on the (much shorter) return trip, I dropped the drag mat to slow the dogs down and ran beside the sled when I started to feel the creeping chill. Following our backtrail, there wasn't a single hitch. We never stopped. Reese never hesitated. There were no wrong turns. We flew down the hills, all of us running.
The sun was setting, and I shaking and still not sure if I'd done anything right. Reese and Billie took us over the first berm after Rosie Creek like they did it every day, but they couldn't see our little home-trail from the road. I struggled to stop them on the icy gravel (still cringing as the runners scraped over rocks) and told Reese to take a blind right over the broad, unmarked berm. Not sure what to expect and with no way to hook in or correct him if he decided to keep going ... or turn around again ... I wasn't sure what to think when he turned right with no hesitation and dove over the berm onto our trail. Had he recognized that we were close? I doubted he was actually following my directions so blindly. Even after all our stopping and starting on the trail, he was trying to pull a u-turn every single time we slowed, all the way out. But at least we had run. The four dogs had worked hard and we had gotten somewhere. I had stayed calm and followed through (with the exception of that last, looming hill) with keeping Reese from making trail decisions. I'll have to live with that much until the next time I can take them out on the trails at the end of the week.
But I have no idea what we're going to do when we try again.
1.08.2012
three ring circus
Sunday, I was going to run the dogs to the lower Rosie Creek crossing - now that I knew the banks were passable - and then finally (finally!) figure out the bigger loop from the lightning tree. That was the plan.
This is what happened. I hooked Reese up front at first, because he is a rockstar at holding out the line while I get everyone else hooked up. He just lays down with his tug tight and howls, ignoring everyone and everything else, until we are ready to go. Once I had everyone clipped in, I put Pepper up front with Billie and put Reese back next to Xtra in swing.
I went back to the sled and pulled the hook. Devilfish, Parka, Norrin, Xtra and Reese tore forward. Billie and Pepper sat down and looked back as the train of dogs slammed into them. I stopped, set the snow hook, walked them forward, untangling Reese and Xtra as I went, then tried again. Rewind. Repeat. We were now ten yards down the trail, and Pepper, who had led so well yesterday for a long run with lots of turns and little challenges, was sitting in the middle of the trail looking freaked out and in no mood to budge. I switched her with Xtra, gave everyone pets down the line and went back to pull the hook.
Xtra tugged Billie, who was now hesitating himself, down the trail and in spite of a small bunch up we managed to get everyone strung out and pulling. I was relieved and also very nervous. This was not a good start to what I had hoped would be a nice long, exploratory run.
I made sure to call the left turn early at the bottom of the out-trail, and Billie and Xtra hopped over the berm onto the still very snowy road and headed left immediately. I relaxed. It was going to be just fine. We headed down the road at a good clip. There was tons of snow still, and I didn't have trouble slowing the team down to a reasonable pace as we approached this newish trailhead. I slowed more just before the trail and called Billie and Xtra to turn right. They plowed on. I slowed harder, then stopped. Everyone started barking, pointed straight ahead slamming harnesses, with a huge, wide, broken trail just next to them on the right. Reese looked at me, and then looked right. He saw the trail, a lightbulb went off and he plunged towards it. But he was thwarted by Pepper next to him and Billie and Xtra ahead. They weren't budging.
No problem. I fumbled for the snowhook and set it deep on the road snow, then got off the sled to walk forward and get everyone lined down the trail. We'd done this before. But while I was setting the hook, Reese changed direction and somehow, in swing, bowled Pepper over and then dragged Billie and Xtra back into the middle of the road for a classic u-turn. They were convinced by his confidence and I found myself jumping over lines to avoid losing my footing and diving for the team as they swung around. I got Billie and Xtra, swung them back in the correct direction and then on to the right down the trail.
From where I had set the snow hook, all but the wheel dogs were on the trail, pointed down away from the road. I made sure everyone was untangled and jogged back to the sled. Before I'd reached the handle bars, Billie had hauled the whole team back up to the road and was slamming his harness and barking for some forward give. I sighed, stamped the hook for good measure, and walked back up. By the time I'd arrived, Reese had bowled everyone over trying to u-turn the team from swing and there were tangles all around. I unclipped and sorted out and reclipped and decided that maybe Reese was my best bet after all ... as we were lined out ON A TRAIL and we were less than a mile from the house. I switched him for Xtra. I gave Billie some reassurance and make sure everyone was tight on the line, then headed back to she sled. No. Before I reached the sled, Reese was sprinting up the trail behind me, turning the whole team around and popping the snowhook with their momentum. I barely snatched the sled as it spun around. I stood on the brake and set the snowhook again.
Walked forward. Grabbed Reese and Billie. Walked them in a wide circle back down the road, then back down the trail. I stood with them for a minute, sorted out a couple more little tangles and lines, then walked slowly backward with my eyes on Reese. He stayed put. I reached the sled, stood on the brake, reached down and pulled the snowhook. The second my eyes left him, he lunged to the left, pushing Billie ahead of him, back to the road, all the way around, back the we had come. I held on tight to the sled as it spun, then set the snowhook again.
Less than a mile from the house. I was breathing hard and struggling with growing frustration and an overarching disappointment. We were going to explore! And get some good hills and mileage! The road was snowy, the ice on Rosie Creek was high! It was a beautiful blue-sky day with no wind! And it had been nearly twenty minutes now, and we were less than a mile from the house.
I looked up and saw a person patiently holding his dog at the corner of the road. Waiting for us to move on. But we were doing doughnuts, instead. I had no idea how long they'd been standing there, watching us flounder. Looking the other way, I saw another person struggling to pull their two dogs off the road to give us room to pass (since it now looked like we were headed in their direction.) I started to hook in again, but now the team was frantic to go SOMEWHERE and were slamming hard. Even with all the new snow, I could only dig in so far with the brake bar. We started inching forward. I swallowed and gave up and let them go. As we flew back down the road, I thought we could hit the upper Rosie Creek crossing and do our exploring from there. All was not lost. There was plenty of snow on the road, it would be easy to get there, the team knows those turns and trail heads by now.
We passed the two black dogs and turned to greet their owner and call out thanks for giving us space to pass. I didn't even notice that we had reached the little trail to the house, or that Reese and Billie were making the turn at full speed. By the time I did, the whole team was off the road and I was holding on to the sled for dear life as it launched over the berm. My yells of NO, and ON-BY falling on deaf ears. No. We were headed home. Half and hour after our stumbling, halting launch out of the yard, less than a mile and a half traveled, round trip, I unhooked and unharnessed dogs and sorted out lines and got the sled turned around. I realized, then, then I had totally forgotten about the sheared bolt and bar which had come loose last run and had been dragging for who knows how much of our short misadventure today.
Back in the house, stripping off layers, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. We were back to square one. Perhaps even further back than that. Even on our worst runs so far, we'd made five or six miles at least. I had a whole day off on Monday. I had been planning all week to truck the dogs to a new trail head, one I've been looking forward to trying with this team since I first realized I'd have dogs to run this winter. I've been itching for it - for the time to make the drive, and for team to come together enough to try it. And now we couldn't get out of the yard or much down the trail without headlong u-turns and tangles and panics and no forward progress and the certainty that I was absolutely not in control of my team. Despite our peaceful, heartening runs earlier this week that left me giddy with pride and anticipation, we apparently weren't ready for bigger, better, longer trails at all. We apparently couldn't get a mile from the house.
It didn't happen until two hours later, driving to town for work, but it did happen. I pulled over and had a good long cry behind the fogged up windows of my truck.
This is what happened. I hooked Reese up front at first, because he is a rockstar at holding out the line while I get everyone else hooked up. He just lays down with his tug tight and howls, ignoring everyone and everything else, until we are ready to go. Once I had everyone clipped in, I put Pepper up front with Billie and put Reese back next to Xtra in swing.
I went back to the sled and pulled the hook. Devilfish, Parka, Norrin, Xtra and Reese tore forward. Billie and Pepper sat down and looked back as the train of dogs slammed into them. I stopped, set the snow hook, walked them forward, untangling Reese and Xtra as I went, then tried again. Rewind. Repeat. We were now ten yards down the trail, and Pepper, who had led so well yesterday for a long run with lots of turns and little challenges, was sitting in the middle of the trail looking freaked out and in no mood to budge. I switched her with Xtra, gave everyone pets down the line and went back to pull the hook.
Xtra tugged Billie, who was now hesitating himself, down the trail and in spite of a small bunch up we managed to get everyone strung out and pulling. I was relieved and also very nervous. This was not a good start to what I had hoped would be a nice long, exploratory run.
I made sure to call the left turn early at the bottom of the out-trail, and Billie and Xtra hopped over the berm onto the still very snowy road and headed left immediately. I relaxed. It was going to be just fine. We headed down the road at a good clip. There was tons of snow still, and I didn't have trouble slowing the team down to a reasonable pace as we approached this newish trailhead. I slowed more just before the trail and called Billie and Xtra to turn right. They plowed on. I slowed harder, then stopped. Everyone started barking, pointed straight ahead slamming harnesses, with a huge, wide, broken trail just next to them on the right. Reese looked at me, and then looked right. He saw the trail, a lightbulb went off and he plunged towards it. But he was thwarted by Pepper next to him and Billie and Xtra ahead. They weren't budging.
No problem. I fumbled for the snowhook and set it deep on the road snow, then got off the sled to walk forward and get everyone lined down the trail. We'd done this before. But while I was setting the hook, Reese changed direction and somehow, in swing, bowled Pepper over and then dragged Billie and Xtra back into the middle of the road for a classic u-turn. They were convinced by his confidence and I found myself jumping over lines to avoid losing my footing and diving for the team as they swung around. I got Billie and Xtra, swung them back in the correct direction and then on to the right down the trail.
From where I had set the snow hook, all but the wheel dogs were on the trail, pointed down away from the road. I made sure everyone was untangled and jogged back to the sled. Before I'd reached the handle bars, Billie had hauled the whole team back up to the road and was slamming his harness and barking for some forward give. I sighed, stamped the hook for good measure, and walked back up. By the time I'd arrived, Reese had bowled everyone over trying to u-turn the team from swing and there were tangles all around. I unclipped and sorted out and reclipped and decided that maybe Reese was my best bet after all ... as we were lined out ON A TRAIL and we were less than a mile from the house. I switched him for Xtra. I gave Billie some reassurance and make sure everyone was tight on the line, then headed back to she sled. No. Before I reached the sled, Reese was sprinting up the trail behind me, turning the whole team around and popping the snowhook with their momentum. I barely snatched the sled as it spun around. I stood on the brake and set the snowhook again.
Walked forward. Grabbed Reese and Billie. Walked them in a wide circle back down the road, then back down the trail. I stood with them for a minute, sorted out a couple more little tangles and lines, then walked slowly backward with my eyes on Reese. He stayed put. I reached the sled, stood on the brake, reached down and pulled the snowhook. The second my eyes left him, he lunged to the left, pushing Billie ahead of him, back to the road, all the way around, back the we had come. I held on tight to the sled as it spun, then set the snowhook again.
Less than a mile from the house. I was breathing hard and struggling with growing frustration and an overarching disappointment. We were going to explore! And get some good hills and mileage! The road was snowy, the ice on Rosie Creek was high! It was a beautiful blue-sky day with no wind! And it had been nearly twenty minutes now, and we were less than a mile from the house.
I looked up and saw a person patiently holding his dog at the corner of the road. Waiting for us to move on. But we were doing doughnuts, instead. I had no idea how long they'd been standing there, watching us flounder. Looking the other way, I saw another person struggling to pull their two dogs off the road to give us room to pass (since it now looked like we were headed in their direction.) I started to hook in again, but now the team was frantic to go SOMEWHERE and were slamming hard. Even with all the new snow, I could only dig in so far with the brake bar. We started inching forward. I swallowed and gave up and let them go. As we flew back down the road, I thought we could hit the upper Rosie Creek crossing and do our exploring from there. All was not lost. There was plenty of snow on the road, it would be easy to get there, the team knows those turns and trail heads by now.
We passed the two black dogs and turned to greet their owner and call out thanks for giving us space to pass. I didn't even notice that we had reached the little trail to the house, or that Reese and Billie were making the turn at full speed. By the time I did, the whole team was off the road and I was holding on to the sled for dear life as it launched over the berm. My yells of NO, and ON-BY falling on deaf ears. No. We were headed home. Half and hour after our stumbling, halting launch out of the yard, less than a mile and a half traveled, round trip, I unhooked and unharnessed dogs and sorted out lines and got the sled turned around. I realized, then, then I had totally forgotten about the sheared bolt and bar which had come loose last run and had been dragging for who knows how much of our short misadventure today.
Back in the house, stripping off layers, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. We were back to square one. Perhaps even further back than that. Even on our worst runs so far, we'd made five or six miles at least. I had a whole day off on Monday. I had been planning all week to truck the dogs to a new trail head, one I've been looking forward to trying with this team since I first realized I'd have dogs to run this winter. I've been itching for it - for the time to make the drive, and for team to come together enough to try it. And now we couldn't get out of the yard or much down the trail without headlong u-turns and tangles and panics and no forward progress and the certainty that I was absolutely not in control of my team. Despite our peaceful, heartening runs earlier this week that left me giddy with pride and anticipation, we apparently weren't ready for bigger, better, longer trails at all. We apparently couldn't get a mile from the house.
It didn't happen until two hours later, driving to town for work, but it did happen. I pulled over and had a good long cry behind the fogged up windows of my truck.
1.07.2012
demotion
My plan was to run out the same flat westward trail we'd taken on the last run, but try to get a bit further before turning around. I was ready for Norrin to join the team again. I added an extra length
of gang-line for him, and didn't harness him until everyone else was on
the line and ready to go. Once clipped in, he was focused on the trail
and never even tried to reach around and chew his harness.
At the end of our little out-trail to the road, Reese and Billie decided to turn right despite my directions to turn left. They kept trying to pull us the wrong way, but Pepper, in swing, figured it out and pulled left, hauling the two leaders backwards by their harnesses. When this registered, they both turned and pulled the team to the left and we were off. There were no u-turn issues on the road, but we had an identical stall-out at the trail head with Billie wanting to continue down the road, Reese initially trying for the trail then deciding a u-turn was in order. This took some sorting and untangling and hauling-around, but once pointed the right way they took off down the trail with no further problems.
As we loped west down the wide, flat trail I realized that we'd had two near-tangles already, including a significant hauling-the-team-around directional change and Norrin hadn't had a melt-down once. I had him running alone in team, mostly because I figured his power and size would be better served further back in the line and without a much smaller running partner. It seemed that this had inadvertently made him less panic-prone, as he had more room to maneuver when we turned, and nobody else's lines to get fouled up in. Accidental Success!
I had the team take left (and they did) past a big beaver pond, but soon realized this was a bad idea. The trail was broken but not packed, and we were soon floundering in powder and weaving through some pretty thick lowland willow. We went about a quarter mile, where there was a nice wide spot over a pond, and Reese obligingly turned the team around without a problem. I watched Norrin carefully here and saw him take the turn-around with narry a hesitation. Yes!
Back on the main trail, we passed a team of six Siberian-looking huskies and I was super proud of my team as they few by (especially since the other team balled up) - only Devilfish tried to stop for a meet-and-greet, but when I asked him to move on he obliged quickly. We continued west, but as we neared the six-mile point we started passing suspicious looking flagging and several little foot-paths into the woods. I started to think we were mushing past someone's trap line. My suspicions increased when Reese slowed the team down (so may cross trails! we must try one!) doing his classic unauthorized-u-turn hop-and-glance routine, and almost every single dog's nose went into the air in the direction of some of the flagging. And then again towards some other flagging. I managed to get Reese another half mile before he stopped listening to me and hauled the team around. I didn't catch him in time, and when the sled whipped around I saw the team was perfectly lined out with no tangles and Norrin wagging his tail with his tug line tight, nose straight ahead, I let it go and we headed home.
The only other significant thing from the run was that Norrin, who pulled hard the whole way, flopped down like wet noodle when we returned home. He wasn't breathing hard or distressed in any way - just exhausted. I realized he's only run about two thirds of the miles the other dogs have (they weren't even tired) and I really need to scale back, let his endurance catch up to everyone else, and then keep him in the team from here on out no matter what.
That afternoon, with temperatures finally warmed up to twenty below zero, I went through the yard and clipped everyone's nails. I'm getting better and better at this - and the sled dogs are wonderful, obliging creatures, unlike many house dogs I've had in the past. I managed to clip 132 nails in just a few minutes. Success!
At this point in the season, Pico has essentially been benched from the team. We have never gotten past his (new) unwillingness to pull for more than a couple of miles and the chronic front foot issue that won't go away. More than that, however, is the fact that his awful trail manners make him a liability in harness. With just four dogs to manage, his bad behavior could be worked around but in a bigger team he can cause much more harm trying to take off sideways after an animal, loose dog or another team. I was glad to have him pull on my little starter-teams of three and four dogs for the last two winters, but this year he isn't going to be running with us regularly, if at all. He has been relegated back to the realm of pet, although it breaks his heart when we leave him in the yard I know this is better - and safer - for all of us.
He is only three and still full of energy, though. That night, as he did laps around the house, I decided to walk down to the creek with him and let him burn off some of his restlessness. He was so happy to be tearing around in the woods, sniffing marked trees and following squirrel tracks around spruce. When we got to Rosie Creek, I was in for a pleasant surprise: the creek ice had risen to the level of the banks. The terrifying drop-offs on either side of the creek were essentially gone! We could run this way now, giving us much quicker & safer access to the trail network. I was elated.
Two days later (giving Norrin a break to recover, and all the dogs indoor time in the continuing cold snap) we headed out again. I figured we'd do a repeat run down the flat westward trail but add a few more miles and see how everyone looked. At the intersection of our out-trail with the road, Billie and Reese turned right again. I called them left, but for some reason this time, even though Pepper figured it out first, we ended up with several tangled dogs. I hauled the sled to the side of the road and hooked in, then went forward to sort everyone out. As I did so, Reese started turning everyone around. I pulled him back forward, untangled as I went back ... and as soon as I pulled the hook he gleefully tried to swing everyone around again. We were less than a quarter mile from the house. Stop. Hook in. Pull team back around. On the second try, we started making forward progress again.
But now there was a weird, metallic noise coming from the sled. It took a minute or two to realize that one of the metal stabilizer bars had come loose (for the second time this season - the bolts continue to shear in cold weather and I can't seem to find ones that won't) and the bar was dragging on the road, digging into the snow. As soon as I saw what was wrong, I stepped on the drag mat to slow the team and fix the problem. But as soon as he felt the brake, Reese pushed Billie over to the left for a nice wide u-turn. I pulled the bar up so it wouldn't be damaged, hooked in and walked forward, again, to pull the team around. I got everyone straightened out and walked back to to sled. Before I got there, the team nearly knocked me over, following Reese back the way we'd come. I grabbed the leaders and walked them forward again. As soon as I got the team around and let Reese go, he started to turn again at a dead run. I hadn't even started walking back to the sled!
I was done. I pulled him out of lead and replaced him with Pepper - who had appeared, at least, to take my directions in swing the last two runs. She looked back a few times at first, but gamely ran next to Billie for the remainder of the run.
We passed a truck on a narrow part of the road, just before the trail head. The driver politely came to a stop to let us pass since there wasn't much room, but Billie was afraid to get as close as we needed to and balked. I had to stop and hook in, then go up and hold them out while the truck moved on, calmly reassuring Billie as it passed. Twice on this run we encountered snow machines headed for us on the trail. Billie didn't like these either, but they both gave us a wide berth and he managed to overcome his fear enough (with more success the second time) to get us past the loud monsters without and all-out stop or further tangles. We made it home with Billie and Pepper in lead, a few more miles traversed and in plenty of time for me to shower and get to work.
A couple of other notes from this run: I realized that the snow is finally deep enough - everywhere - for me to secure the snow hook. This has made all the balking and u-turning and mid-run positional switches virtually stress free. It also means stepping off the trail means stepping into knee deep snow, so I need to start carrying snowshoes with us. Also, my Neos overboots came in the mail and I broke them out with my Steger Mukluks on this last run (as well as the hike to the creek.) I ADORE these boots!! My feet were toasty and dry, I felt like I was mushing in (very secure) house slippers, and the traction was superb on loose and packed snow, icy roads and on the runners.
I'm still not sure what to do about Reese. He is certainly my most responsive leader, but the tangles & u-turns - especially just a few hundred yards from the house - are both frustrating for me and stressful for the team. Pepper seemed to do alright up front on this last long run, but I've had trouble with her starting out from the yard in the past. I feel like we've taken a step back, but am hopeful that we're far enough along as a team to keep moving forward.
At the end of our little out-trail to the road, Reese and Billie decided to turn right despite my directions to turn left. They kept trying to pull us the wrong way, but Pepper, in swing, figured it out and pulled left, hauling the two leaders backwards by their harnesses. When this registered, they both turned and pulled the team to the left and we were off. There were no u-turn issues on the road, but we had an identical stall-out at the trail head with Billie wanting to continue down the road, Reese initially trying for the trail then deciding a u-turn was in order. This took some sorting and untangling and hauling-around, but once pointed the right way they took off down the trail with no further problems.
As we loped west down the wide, flat trail I realized that we'd had two near-tangles already, including a significant hauling-the-team-around directional change and Norrin hadn't had a melt-down once. I had him running alone in team, mostly because I figured his power and size would be better served further back in the line and without a much smaller running partner. It seemed that this had inadvertently made him less panic-prone, as he had more room to maneuver when we turned, and nobody else's lines to get fouled up in. Accidental Success!
I had the team take left (and they did) past a big beaver pond, but soon realized this was a bad idea. The trail was broken but not packed, and we were soon floundering in powder and weaving through some pretty thick lowland willow. We went about a quarter mile, where there was a nice wide spot over a pond, and Reese obligingly turned the team around without a problem. I watched Norrin carefully here and saw him take the turn-around with narry a hesitation. Yes!
Back on the main trail, we passed a team of six Siberian-looking huskies and I was super proud of my team as they few by (especially since the other team balled up) - only Devilfish tried to stop for a meet-and-greet, but when I asked him to move on he obliged quickly. We continued west, but as we neared the six-mile point we started passing suspicious looking flagging and several little foot-paths into the woods. I started to think we were mushing past someone's trap line. My suspicions increased when Reese slowed the team down (so may cross trails! we must try one!) doing his classic unauthorized-u-turn hop-and-glance routine, and almost every single dog's nose went into the air in the direction of some of the flagging. And then again towards some other flagging. I managed to get Reese another half mile before he stopped listening to me and hauled the team around. I didn't catch him in time, and when the sled whipped around I saw the team was perfectly lined out with no tangles and Norrin wagging his tail with his tug line tight, nose straight ahead, I let it go and we headed home.
The only other significant thing from the run was that Norrin, who pulled hard the whole way, flopped down like wet noodle when we returned home. He wasn't breathing hard or distressed in any way - just exhausted. I realized he's only run about two thirds of the miles the other dogs have (they weren't even tired) and I really need to scale back, let his endurance catch up to everyone else, and then keep him in the team from here on out no matter what.
That afternoon, with temperatures finally warmed up to twenty below zero, I went through the yard and clipped everyone's nails. I'm getting better and better at this - and the sled dogs are wonderful, obliging creatures, unlike many house dogs I've had in the past. I managed to clip 132 nails in just a few minutes. Success!
At this point in the season, Pico has essentially been benched from the team. We have never gotten past his (new) unwillingness to pull for more than a couple of miles and the chronic front foot issue that won't go away. More than that, however, is the fact that his awful trail manners make him a liability in harness. With just four dogs to manage, his bad behavior could be worked around but in a bigger team he can cause much more harm trying to take off sideways after an animal, loose dog or another team. I was glad to have him pull on my little starter-teams of three and four dogs for the last two winters, but this year he isn't going to be running with us regularly, if at all. He has been relegated back to the realm of pet, although it breaks his heart when we leave him in the yard I know this is better - and safer - for all of us.
He is only three and still full of energy, though. That night, as he did laps around the house, I decided to walk down to the creek with him and let him burn off some of his restlessness. He was so happy to be tearing around in the woods, sniffing marked trees and following squirrel tracks around spruce. When we got to Rosie Creek, I was in for a pleasant surprise: the creek ice had risen to the level of the banks. The terrifying drop-offs on either side of the creek were essentially gone! We could run this way now, giving us much quicker & safer access to the trail network. I was elated.
 |
| Pico isn't sure he likes sharing his couch. |
But now there was a weird, metallic noise coming from the sled. It took a minute or two to realize that one of the metal stabilizer bars had come loose (for the second time this season - the bolts continue to shear in cold weather and I can't seem to find ones that won't) and the bar was dragging on the road, digging into the snow. As soon as I saw what was wrong, I stepped on the drag mat to slow the team and fix the problem. But as soon as he felt the brake, Reese pushed Billie over to the left for a nice wide u-turn. I pulled the bar up so it wouldn't be damaged, hooked in and walked forward, again, to pull the team around. I got everyone straightened out and walked back to to sled. Before I got there, the team nearly knocked me over, following Reese back the way we'd come. I grabbed the leaders and walked them forward again. As soon as I got the team around and let Reese go, he started to turn again at a dead run. I hadn't even started walking back to the sled!
I was done. I pulled him out of lead and replaced him with Pepper - who had appeared, at least, to take my directions in swing the last two runs. She looked back a few times at first, but gamely ran next to Billie for the remainder of the run.
We passed a truck on a narrow part of the road, just before the trail head. The driver politely came to a stop to let us pass since there wasn't much room, but Billie was afraid to get as close as we needed to and balked. I had to stop and hook in, then go up and hold them out while the truck moved on, calmly reassuring Billie as it passed. Twice on this run we encountered snow machines headed for us on the trail. Billie didn't like these either, but they both gave us a wide berth and he managed to overcome his fear enough (with more success the second time) to get us past the loud monsters without and all-out stop or further tangles. We made it home with Billie and Pepper in lead, a few more miles traversed and in plenty of time for me to shower and get to work.
A couple of other notes from this run: I realized that the snow is finally deep enough - everywhere - for me to secure the snow hook. This has made all the balking and u-turning and mid-run positional switches virtually stress free. It also means stepping off the trail means stepping into knee deep snow, so I need to start carrying snowshoes with us. Also, my Neos overboots came in the mail and I broke them out with my Steger Mukluks on this last run (as well as the hike to the creek.) I ADORE these boots!! My feet were toasty and dry, I felt like I was mushing in (very secure) house slippers, and the traction was superb on loose and packed snow, icy roads and on the runners.
 | |
| My new Neos!! My work boots don't seem very big anymore. |
1.05.2012
liquid propane
I also spent the day thinking about hot water. When the temperature drops down close to forty below zero, propane starts to think about turning into a liquid, and liquid propane sinks down to the bottom of the tank and doesn't flow. When one depends on propane for one's hot water, this becomes a problem. And because our propane has to travel down an outside line for a while, the functional temperature of our hot water heater stops just under twenty five below zero. Over Thanksgiving, when we had our last good cold snap, we didn't have running water at all and the propane problem was shelved. This week the water is running just fine but it is all ice cold.
I consulted with a few friends and long-time residents of the interior, and decided to build a propane-tank-sized frame, box it in with styrofoam insulation and hang a light bulb inside to get the temperature up just enough to get things moving. I brought scrap wood & tools inside to thaw, ran (shivering, fogging, shivering, fogging) to Lowes for some styrofoam board and spent the evening on my little luxury project.
The next morning, I set up the DIY propane shed and hung the light bulb. Now it was time to wait.
In the mean time, the temperature had inched up to about thirty below. I was itching for a run, but had pretty limited time as I needed to leave for work around one in the afternoon. Even though I had fixed Norrin's harness, I didn't want to risk a mid-run melt down that might delay us and put me in a rush once we got back. Instead, I left Pico and Norrin howling miserably in the yard and took off for a short run with the other six dogs.
We turned left down the road this time, and my intention was to run down to the trail head just past the Quist farm. There is a straight-away trail there that heads west along the valley. I figured a nice fast, flat run would be perfect for the time we had. And regardless of my own time constraints, the temperature was still sitting around thirty below. I didn't want to be out long in my old Baffins.
I wasn't sure how Reese would do on the road past the Quist farm. This was the first time we'd run this way since his frustrating and constant obsession with turning the team around on the road. I watched him carefully as we approached his trouble spots, but he never slacked his lead. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then we got to the trail-head. The road keeps going here, and the trail veers off to the right. It is very wide, and looks almost like a driveway. In fact, for most of the fall I thought it was a driveway to someone's cabin. The last several runs this way, Reese had taken this right turn at full tilt, never hesitating. When I called for the right turn, Billie pulled to the left. Reese tried to turn right for a stride or two, then followed Billie, then quickly bowled Billie over in his eagerness to get us all turned all the way around and headed back down the road. Apparently the Reese Brain was back in full force. I hooked in the sled and walked everyone back to the trail. Once in place, Reese and Billie stayed lined out in the right direction and when I called for them to stay left at the initial trail intersection Reese - who had taken the right on the fly the last five or so times we'd come this way - never even glanced at our usual trail. A perfect stay haw thirty seconds after a u-turn tangle. I was at a loss.
We ran down the flat, fast trail, passing lots of right-turn intersections that looked like they headed back towards the Rosie Creek trails. On one straight-away, Reese started slacking his tug and hopping up and down, looking back at me. I have no idea what triggered this hesitation. We were on a long straightaway with no wide spots for a turn and no intersections in sight. I tried to get him to give up and keep running, but instead he stopped, turned INTO the team and started trying to thread the needle, pulling Billie back between Xtra and Pepper and then around the sled. I quickly hooked in and got them sorted out straight, and once pointed ahead again, Reese continued on at full tilt as if nothing had happened.
We continued west for about four miles, then turned around and headed home. This u-turn was a repeat performance of the needle-threading earlier, and it took a couple of minutes to get everyone sorted out. In the chaos, the sled ran over the snowhook and dislodged it. I saw it while I still had a hold of the gang line, but had just gotten the tangles sorted out enough that forward momentum was possible again. It was a nerve-wracking few seconds as I carefully made my way back to the sled, one hand on the lines, gently saying "whoa" to the dogs, hoping they wouldn't lurch forward and pull everything out of my hands.
But I made it back to the sled and snagged the now-upside down snow hook as the dogs took off for home. The return trip was beautiful and cold and happily uneventful. I had a new neck gaiter that my parents got me for Christmas that was keeping my face both warm and dry - a novelty! And I managed to get a nice shot of us running into the yard from our little trail. Apparently my iphone does much better in the cold than the flip, but the narrow video images leave something to be desired ... at least for me. Also, I have to take my gloves all the way off to use it which is brutal thing for hands at thirty below. At any rate, we made in home with just enough time to get the dogs snacked and loved on, get the yard shoveled and get myself a hot shower (the lightbulb worked!) before heading out to earn my paycheck.
1.01.2012
the weather outside
The day we left for Texas, I spent a lot of time outside working on getting the dog yard ready for the house sitter. I did all my chores in a t-shirt and jeans. It was about 25 degrees that afternoon - which felt dangerously close to the melting point of snow, to me - and after the early cold snap, I was totally comfortable as long as I was working and moving. I have found that temperature really is a relative thing. I've felt colder in Texas on a humid, 50 degree day with a stiff breeze than many below-zero but dry and windless days here.
In Texas this year the temperature ranged from nearly 80 to 40, and although one morning my dad swore it was below freezing outside I spent the entire holiday encountering ice only in tall glasses of southern iced tea. While we were gone, snow continued to accumulate back in Fairbanks. And just before I boarded the plane for the return trip, the temperature at home started to drop. And drop.
It didn't take long to remember that hadn't packed gloves or a coat, waltzing out of Fairbanks in tennis shoes and a light fleece. By the time my flight landed after midnight on Thursday, thermometers around town were registering somewhere in the negative thirty to thirty five range. The friend who picked me up from the airport generously brought an extra parka of hers, but it only took the quick run from the doors of the terminal to her truck for my hands to go numb. Time for some very intentional re-acclimatization.
The dogs were happy to get some love and attention that night, but Pico seemed oddly unenthusiastic. He wasn't interested in a good ear scratch or belly rub, and lay down on the couch the minute he was let in instead of getting constantly underfoot in our tiny house as I unpacked and got reoriented. I was so tired after twelve hours of travel, however, that I just let him be and went to bed. I woke from a dead sleep an hour later to that rhythmic, almost hollow mechanical sound that all dog owners know and dread - the sound of a dog getting ready to vomit. And Pico did so, about every half hour, in every conceivable spot both upstairs and down, until nine the next morning. Ah, welcome home.
I waited till a reasonable hour before calling the house sitter, but she assured me that he'd eaten a full meal the night I arrived, played with her for a while after dinner and had shown no signs of odd behavior or illness when she last saw him. All the other dogs looked great - happy, healthy and ready for some trail time. But Pico refused to eat breakfast or any of the people-food treats I tried to tempt him with and would hardly get up unless forced. I checked him for signs of shock and listened to his belly hoping for a hint, but to no avail. Cleaning up after his night of gastric over-activity, I noticed that more than one pile contained a little too much pink froth for my tastes. My paranoia for dog disaster was running pretty high to begin with, since a good friend lost her otherwise young, healthy lab quite suddenly to an bowel obstruction this fall. And we were heading into a long weekend. My pup didn't look too sick yet, but he has never in his three years with us refused food. I took a deep breath and called our vet.
They got me in within the hour, but after his exam the vet felt we should wait the weekend out. I felt a little silly - I normally would have sat on a vomiting dog for much longer, but circumstances being what they were I didn't feel like I could make that call. He sent us home with an anti-emetic, some doggie-nexium and his cell phone number.
While we were in town, the temperature had peeked up above thirty below. I decided it was plenty warm enough - and a beautiful day - to take the dogs for a little shake-out run. I made Pico a chickeny rice mush which he wouldn't even sniff, then kenneled him inside, made a nice warm slop snack for the team to enjoy when we returned, bundled up and started digging the sled out from under two weeks of intermittent snow. I decided to take all seven dogs, since as far as I know none of Norrin's PTSD triggers are on this particular trail from the house and our last run had been relatively tangle free. I added an extra length of gang-line, tug and neck line for him just in front of the wheel dogs and got everyone harnessed and ready to go.
The dogs were yelping and yipping with excitement, Norrin performing his classic half-gainer spins on the end of his chain. He was so enthusiastic that I decided to go ahead and put his harness on at the same time as everyone else. Earlier this fall, I'd bought him a brand new harness at Cold Spot. I harnessed him for a bikejor outing as soon as we got home, and he had chewed through the X-strap before I even knew he could reach it with his teeth. After I had a chance to calm down, I fixed it with some heavy duty fishing line, a tapestry needle and some hockey tape and subsequently never put his harness on until I was ready to walk him to the line and hook him in.
Today, however, I was sure his focus on hook-up would prevent a repeat performance. After all, his previous harness destruction had been way back in October. But apparently old habits die hard, even in sled dogs. I hooked Reese up front, and was halfway to the line with Pepper when I saw Norrin out of the corner of my eye, bent in the middle and working out his excitement on the webbing. I yelled and let Pepper go, sprinting for Norrin's circle. It wasn't until I was on top of him that he let go, and the damage was quite thoroughly already done. I took off the harness, trying hard to stay calm and not let my frustration and anger (as much at myself for letting down my guard against a known issue) come out on Norrin. As calm as I tried to be, however, he knew I was upset and lay down on his belly as if trying to sink into the snow. I threw his harness back towards he house, put Pepper and Reese back and took the extra gang line back off the sled. Norrin wasn't going anywhere until I fixed his harness. He had chewed himself out of a run.
That minor disaster over with, hook up went quickly and the dogs tore out of the yard with all the pent up energy of the last two weeks. They didn't tear for long, though, because two weeks of snow was blocking their previously well packed trail out from the house. The plowed onward, however, and we were out to the road and then onto the trail system without a hitch.
Just before the Rosie Creek crossing, I saw a couple of loose black dogs through the trees. I yelled "TRAIL" as loud as I could to warn their people (if there were any) that someone was coming. Apparently, they didn't hear me because when we came flying around the corner a woman threw up her hands and screamed. Her two kids both jumped off the trail and I slammed on the brake. She made a dive for one of the two loose dogs, and the other ran straight for Billie and Reese, stopping between them for a good butt-sniff. There was nothing I could do but stand there, holding the team back while one of the kids came and retrieved their dog. As soon as the dog was out of the way, I called my dogs to onby and without a sideways glance they headed on down the trail as if nothing had happened. I was beaming.
Unfortunately, I was a little too focused on being proud of them and didn't notice that they were pulling me onto very slick refrozen overflow that had crept up the trail in our absence. We weren't ten feet past the little family before I was sprawled out on the ice, elbow throbbing, trying to scramble and right the sled. Always make a memorable first impression, I guess. Now my face was burning with embarrassment instead of pride, but it was cold enough that my blush didn't last long either.
Just past Rosie Creek, Reese started doing his little turn-around dance. I tried telling him NO, and then encouraging and peddling hard, which seemed to stop him in Goldstream earlier in the month. But for some reason he really, really wanted to turn around. Right there, right then. This was, incidentally, the same spot we'd had issues in on a previous run this way where I ended up switching him out with Norrin when he absolutely refused to move forward. On our run just before the trip, though, he had lead through the section of trail without any significant hesitation. I was mystified as what was triggering this urgency, and his hopping, pausing and half-turning lasted for nearly a quarter mile. He even stopped dead in the trail at one point, nearly causing a tangle and confusing the heck out of Billie who was still trying his best to keep his tug tight. But at some point with no help from me (that I could tell) whatever itch got into his brain passed, and suddenly we were running full tilt again with tight tugs and noses ahead.
The rest of the run was without further incident. Now that we'd been around this loop once and I know where the intersections are, I made an extra effort to anticipate and call turns a little earlier. In doing so, we totally avoided wrapping around the lone little birch at the T-intersection towards the end. Nobody even glanced to the right as we made the turn. The winding section of overflowed trail was just as slick heading back, but this time I was prepared for it and managed to keep my feet on the runners. Barely.
Back home, I saw that the temperature was sitting at about twenty eight below for our run. I was toasty, but I knew my toes would have gotten cold if we'd been out much longer. My coveted Neos Overboots had come in before we left, but I'd somehow misjudged the sizing and had to send them to be exchanged. The new ones haven't yet arrived, so I was stuck with my less-and-less-effective Baffins for this run.
The lesson that keeps being driven home for me this winter is that the weatherman will break your heart, every time. The last day of 2011 was supposed to be the coldest of the snap. It was reasonably cold - about thirty five below - and with so much to deal with after travel (wood needs chopping, straw needs distributing, dog snacks need making, bags need unpacking) and Pico still only eating a bite of food here and there with not a tail wag to be coaxed out of him (and, I discovered, no hot water to be had after we hit thirty below) I decided not to run the dogs on New Year's Eve. New Year's Day was supposed to be warmer - similar temperatures to Friday's run - and I figured we'd do a nice long romp exploring some of the westward trails to celebrate the new year. I brought Xtra inside, and she spent the day snoring with startling volume and soaking up heat from the woodstove.
Instead, the new year dawned with the thermometer pointed down below the negative forty mark. I went to the window every half hour all morning, but it never budged. Sunrise was beautiful, pink-and-blue light fracturing in the crystalline air, flakes of moisture suspended, dancing in the stillness, refracting light and giving an ethereal quality to everything through the windows. But the air itself was searing cold. I fired up the woodstove, fed dogs and started instead on endless projects that always need doing while constantly checking the thermometer. But the day dawned and stayed clear, and the temperature didn't start rising until long after nightfall.
Pico's status did shift, however. New Year's morning he scarfed every kibble he could find like the starving dog he pretends to be and brought me his ball, tail wagging, as soon as I came in from the yard. His sudden and thorough recovery was a complete relief.
I'm off to work in the morning and hoping hard for temperatures closer to twenty below when I get back. But after the last two days, I won't resting any plans on the predictions the weatherman sends my way.
In Texas this year the temperature ranged from nearly 80 to 40, and although one morning my dad swore it was below freezing outside I spent the entire holiday encountering ice only in tall glasses of southern iced tea. While we were gone, snow continued to accumulate back in Fairbanks. And just before I boarded the plane for the return trip, the temperature at home started to drop. And drop.
It didn't take long to remember that hadn't packed gloves or a coat, waltzing out of Fairbanks in tennis shoes and a light fleece. By the time my flight landed after midnight on Thursday, thermometers around town were registering somewhere in the negative thirty to thirty five range. The friend who picked me up from the airport generously brought an extra parka of hers, but it only took the quick run from the doors of the terminal to her truck for my hands to go numb. Time for some very intentional re-acclimatization.
The dogs were happy to get some love and attention that night, but Pico seemed oddly unenthusiastic. He wasn't interested in a good ear scratch or belly rub, and lay down on the couch the minute he was let in instead of getting constantly underfoot in our tiny house as I unpacked and got reoriented. I was so tired after twelve hours of travel, however, that I just let him be and went to bed. I woke from a dead sleep an hour later to that rhythmic, almost hollow mechanical sound that all dog owners know and dread - the sound of a dog getting ready to vomit. And Pico did so, about every half hour, in every conceivable spot both upstairs and down, until nine the next morning. Ah, welcome home.
I waited till a reasonable hour before calling the house sitter, but she assured me that he'd eaten a full meal the night I arrived, played with her for a while after dinner and had shown no signs of odd behavior or illness when she last saw him. All the other dogs looked great - happy, healthy and ready for some trail time. But Pico refused to eat breakfast or any of the people-food treats I tried to tempt him with and would hardly get up unless forced. I checked him for signs of shock and listened to his belly hoping for a hint, but to no avail. Cleaning up after his night of gastric over-activity, I noticed that more than one pile contained a little too much pink froth for my tastes. My paranoia for dog disaster was running pretty high to begin with, since a good friend lost her otherwise young, healthy lab quite suddenly to an bowel obstruction this fall. And we were heading into a long weekend. My pup didn't look too sick yet, but he has never in his three years with us refused food. I took a deep breath and called our vet.
They got me in within the hour, but after his exam the vet felt we should wait the weekend out. I felt a little silly - I normally would have sat on a vomiting dog for much longer, but circumstances being what they were I didn't feel like I could make that call. He sent us home with an anti-emetic, some doggie-nexium and his cell phone number.
While we were in town, the temperature had peeked up above thirty below. I decided it was plenty warm enough - and a beautiful day - to take the dogs for a little shake-out run. I made Pico a chickeny rice mush which he wouldn't even sniff, then kenneled him inside, made a nice warm slop snack for the team to enjoy when we returned, bundled up and started digging the sled out from under two weeks of intermittent snow. I decided to take all seven dogs, since as far as I know none of Norrin's PTSD triggers are on this particular trail from the house and our last run had been relatively tangle free. I added an extra length of gang-line, tug and neck line for him just in front of the wheel dogs and got everyone harnessed and ready to go.
The dogs were yelping and yipping with excitement, Norrin performing his classic half-gainer spins on the end of his chain. He was so enthusiastic that I decided to go ahead and put his harness on at the same time as everyone else. Earlier this fall, I'd bought him a brand new harness at Cold Spot. I harnessed him for a bikejor outing as soon as we got home, and he had chewed through the X-strap before I even knew he could reach it with his teeth. After I had a chance to calm down, I fixed it with some heavy duty fishing line, a tapestry needle and some hockey tape and subsequently never put his harness on until I was ready to walk him to the line and hook him in.
Today, however, I was sure his focus on hook-up would prevent a repeat performance. After all, his previous harness destruction had been way back in October. But apparently old habits die hard, even in sled dogs. I hooked Reese up front, and was halfway to the line with Pepper when I saw Norrin out of the corner of my eye, bent in the middle and working out his excitement on the webbing. I yelled and let Pepper go, sprinting for Norrin's circle. It wasn't until I was on top of him that he let go, and the damage was quite thoroughly already done. I took off the harness, trying hard to stay calm and not let my frustration and anger (as much at myself for letting down my guard against a known issue) come out on Norrin. As calm as I tried to be, however, he knew I was upset and lay down on his belly as if trying to sink into the snow. I threw his harness back towards he house, put Pepper and Reese back and took the extra gang line back off the sled. Norrin wasn't going anywhere until I fixed his harness. He had chewed himself out of a run.
That minor disaster over with, hook up went quickly and the dogs tore out of the yard with all the pent up energy of the last two weeks. They didn't tear for long, though, because two weeks of snow was blocking their previously well packed trail out from the house. The plowed onward, however, and we were out to the road and then onto the trail system without a hitch.
Just before the Rosie Creek crossing, I saw a couple of loose black dogs through the trees. I yelled "TRAIL" as loud as I could to warn their people (if there were any) that someone was coming. Apparently, they didn't hear me because when we came flying around the corner a woman threw up her hands and screamed. Her two kids both jumped off the trail and I slammed on the brake. She made a dive for one of the two loose dogs, and the other ran straight for Billie and Reese, stopping between them for a good butt-sniff. There was nothing I could do but stand there, holding the team back while one of the kids came and retrieved their dog. As soon as the dog was out of the way, I called my dogs to onby and without a sideways glance they headed on down the trail as if nothing had happened. I was beaming.
Unfortunately, I was a little too focused on being proud of them and didn't notice that they were pulling me onto very slick refrozen overflow that had crept up the trail in our absence. We weren't ten feet past the little family before I was sprawled out on the ice, elbow throbbing, trying to scramble and right the sled. Always make a memorable first impression, I guess. Now my face was burning with embarrassment instead of pride, but it was cold enough that my blush didn't last long either.
Just past Rosie Creek, Reese started doing his little turn-around dance. I tried telling him NO, and then encouraging and peddling hard, which seemed to stop him in Goldstream earlier in the month. But for some reason he really, really wanted to turn around. Right there, right then. This was, incidentally, the same spot we'd had issues in on a previous run this way where I ended up switching him out with Norrin when he absolutely refused to move forward. On our run just before the trip, though, he had lead through the section of trail without any significant hesitation. I was mystified as what was triggering this urgency, and his hopping, pausing and half-turning lasted for nearly a quarter mile. He even stopped dead in the trail at one point, nearly causing a tangle and confusing the heck out of Billie who was still trying his best to keep his tug tight. But at some point with no help from me (that I could tell) whatever itch got into his brain passed, and suddenly we were running full tilt again with tight tugs and noses ahead.
The rest of the run was without further incident. Now that we'd been around this loop once and I know where the intersections are, I made an extra effort to anticipate and call turns a little earlier. In doing so, we totally avoided wrapping around the lone little birch at the T-intersection towards the end. Nobody even glanced to the right as we made the turn. The winding section of overflowed trail was just as slick heading back, but this time I was prepared for it and managed to keep my feet on the runners. Barely.
Back home, I saw that the temperature was sitting at about twenty eight below for our run. I was toasty, but I knew my toes would have gotten cold if we'd been out much longer. My coveted Neos Overboots had come in before we left, but I'd somehow misjudged the sizing and had to send them to be exchanged. The new ones haven't yet arrived, so I was stuck with my less-and-less-effective Baffins for this run.
The lesson that keeps being driven home for me this winter is that the weatherman will break your heart, every time. The last day of 2011 was supposed to be the coldest of the snap. It was reasonably cold - about thirty five below - and with so much to deal with after travel (wood needs chopping, straw needs distributing, dog snacks need making, bags need unpacking) and Pico still only eating a bite of food here and there with not a tail wag to be coaxed out of him (and, I discovered, no hot water to be had after we hit thirty below) I decided not to run the dogs on New Year's Eve. New Year's Day was supposed to be warmer - similar temperatures to Friday's run - and I figured we'd do a nice long romp exploring some of the westward trails to celebrate the new year. I brought Xtra inside, and she spent the day snoring with startling volume and soaking up heat from the woodstove.
Instead, the new year dawned with the thermometer pointed down below the negative forty mark. I went to the window every half hour all morning, but it never budged. Sunrise was beautiful, pink-and-blue light fracturing in the crystalline air, flakes of moisture suspended, dancing in the stillness, refracting light and giving an ethereal quality to everything through the windows. But the air itself was searing cold. I fired up the woodstove, fed dogs and started instead on endless projects that always need doing while constantly checking the thermometer. But the day dawned and stayed clear, and the temperature didn't start rising until long after nightfall.
Pico's status did shift, however. New Year's morning he scarfed every kibble he could find like the starving dog he pretends to be and brought me his ball, tail wagging, as soon as I came in from the yard. His sudden and thorough recovery was a complete relief.
12.25.2011
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 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.
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