It is hard to believe that it was just a week ago Friday that I was following Sepp's bobbing headlamp down a narrow, wooded trail to his cabin. It was about half a mile downhill, and I was bundled up way too much for the mild November night. We came around a corner, and a huge home loomed out of the dark. In the starlight, it was a giant shadow against the snow. As we got closer, I saw that it was only half-built (though beautiful) and on reaching the porch, saw that it was straw-bale construction.
Sepp opened up the conversation by telling me that his dog team had hauled all the supplies here over the last seven years. In the wan light of our headlamps, he showed me the sled he was going to lend me. It was old, several pieces were lashed together with string and duct tape. Two major sections looked like they had been carved out of tree branches with a large, dull ax in the dark. The brush-bow was only attached on one side. Sepp tipped the sled up and tapped the white plastic. "Runners are good. Almost new." I shrugged. "Looks great." Beggars can't be choosers.
We hauled the sled outside and brought a much newer, nicer sled into the cabin for storage while he was out of town. Back outside again, we walked down another trail. I heard dogs bark. "The others are gone. Only two left." There was a black dot against the snow, a butterball of a dog who leapt on her house to give Sepp enthusiastic kisses between suspicious barks at me. This was Rsta. The other dog was on the other side of the yard, a faint movement on white-on-white. Arwyn. She didn't bark, but paced suspiciously and didn't take her eyes off me. He told me he'd be back sometime in March to collect them.
"So ... you'll come back tomorrow morning and take them?"
"Yeah. I just ... I need to find some dog houses."
"Ok. Ten o'clock, I think it is light enough."
"Sure."
"Can you find your way back to the road."
"Yeah." I wasn't sure, but he clearly didn't want to walk back out.
"Ok. See you."
I started walking, kept it uphill, and eventually found the road and my car.
The next morning found Sepp hooking his dogs up to the wreck of a sled and sending me running behind them all the way up the hill back to the road. He put Rsta in front, saying she would do better there, although, "neither of them are leaders." At the road, he gave the station wagon a long look. "They've never been in the back of a car before ... they have hardly seen cars or been around them much. They will be very afraid. So, hold on tight or they will run."
He explained that these two-year-olds had been with him in the Brooks Range on his remote trap lines for most of their short lives. No cars. No houses. No other people. Just Sepp and the mountains and the trail. Everything was going to be new to them.
We got the sled strapped down to the roof of the Subaru and he followed me to our cabin. I wasn't sure if his gentle handling of the sled was due to care for its well-being or concern that it would fall apart. On ensuring that both dogs were secured in our yard, he gave them a quick scratch behind the ears, gave me an imploring look, and was gone. He had a flight to Santiago in three hours. And Chile had an earthquake in it's future.
11.29.2010
11.28.2010
technical difficulties
We did a seven-mile recovery run today along the south-valley trail. The dogs ran great. Pico continued to do well up front and his passing manners are incrementally improving. On the down side, the trail was all ruts and ice and we won't be heading that way again until we get significantly more snow. I also crashed the sled again on that first half-mile of trail coming out of our neighborhood. I didn't go down as hard, but I'm still sore from yesterday's two spills. I am tentatively planning on an alternate start site for tomorrow.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
I took my old, faulty GPS on this run, and it only shorted out on me once. According to the trip calculator, we were averaging around 7.5 mph, with a top speed of 14. I broke down last night and ordered a new(er) unit that should arrive next week. This version, in addition to not shorting out every fifteen minutes, should also allow me to upload my routes onto google earth. I adore maps, so this is an exciting (if a little geeked-out) prospect for me. It will also allow me to gauge our mileage better, and see how different trail conditions change the pace of the run.
Dog sledding is one of the most back-to-the-basics modes of winter travel. There is evidence that humans have been using dogs to pull sleds to travel the northern latitudes for over a thousand years. Although snow shoeing and cross country skiing are the purest forms of back country winter travel, with that kind of history dog sledding can't be far behind. Even today with fast and powerful snow mobiles available, many trappers and homesteaders in the north depend on dogs as a more reliable and safer method of travel in the deep dark and cold of winter. Sepp is one of them, but he is hardly alone.
There is something deeply compelling about whispering down a snowy trail with only the hiss of runners in your ears. The trees whip past, snow mist floats in the air catching the sun, dog's whiskers freeze into beards of ice from their exhaled breath. Miles blend together into moments and moments stretch into hours of trail. Nothing can capture it, not words, not pictures, not video.
Yet I have found myself compelled to pack a camera and occasionally a GPS to track the exact milage of those moments and to attempt to capture some of the fleeting images that make up the hours we are on the trail. I want to share some of those moments, but I find the moments ruined by even the presence of the camera in my pocket. Instead of relishing the trail, I am wondering if I should try to catch it on video or worrying that the batteries are freezing or that the light is off. Instead of focusing on the dog's gait & attitude, I am checking our mileage on (or, more usually, re-booting) the GPS.
Last year, I believe I erred too much on the side of technology. I had a camera in my pocket or a GPS in my hand distracting me from the moment too often. This year, I want to strike a better balance. I want to get footage of new trails, of snow conditions and overflow, of wildlife and (hopefully, eventually) some wild and comic moments of speed and confusion and wipeouts. I want to gauge our mileage and trace the new trails we find. But I also want to have plenty of runs where there are no gadgets to fool with, where I can fully live in every moment with my dogs and learn from them and from the trail as we explore this winter paradise together.
11.27.2010
trail condition
I got home from work this morning to about an inch of snow accumulation. As I was driving home, I saw a competative musher out on the trails with her team tethered to a 4-wheeler. My primary concern with the icy trails is the dog's feet, and if she was taking her racing dogs out on an inch of snow-on-ice, I wasn't going to be far behind.
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
We left the yard fast. Pico was up front with Leo out of the gate for the first time. Leo snapped at him twice as we tore down the street to the trail head. Pico started to pull away and I thought his honeymoon up front was over, but once they both got into their stride and focused on the trail there were no more problems for the whole run. This is the line-up I'm going to keep, I think.
There was a huge snow-and-ice berm left by the snow-plows blocking the trail head. The dogs leaped over it, but the sled flipped and I was dragged down the steep incline with one leg tangled in the drag mat. It was a moment of terror, but ended at the bottom of the drop with no harm done. I made it through two more hairy corners early on, but on the third I caught a runner in an ice rut and did an ungraceful header into the trees. I managed to hang onto the sled, but I hit hard and I felt it for the rest of the run and am feeling it now twelve hours later. This is not the first time I've taken a nasty spill on the first half-mile of trail, and I am begining to wonder if it is worth the risk for the ease of running right out of our driveway.
After that first mile of trail, things evened out. We ran across the re-frozen marshes & the first two miles of the northern east-valley trail. But soon I was considering turning around. Despite the new snow, the warmth and rain had opened up all the early-season ruts again. Man-handling the sled and watching the dogs struggling through pot-holes and rough ice made me think going out today was a huge mistake. Just as I was about to give up and turn around, however, we hit good pack out of the blue. Despite hard ice under the snow, the dogs picked up the pace and the ruts evened out. We ran on, and my mood lifted.
At a particular fork mid-valley, I have always hung right and run the loop across the creek to the south-valley trail. This time, however, the trail wasn't packed down yet. I decided to take the left fork, although it headed up towards a major road. We passed close behind a few cabins and under power lines before the trail ended at right angles to the pavement. Looking over the berm, it was clear the trail continued north across the road. The dogs were running strong, but we'd been out nearly an hour. I walked ahead and eyeballed across the road where trail continued into terra incognita. I was pretty sure this was the Eldarado Creek Trail that I 'd heard about but never found last year. Figuring I could always turn around (oh, the power of inertia) I pulled the snow hook and we crossed Goldstream Road north for the first time.
After a rough quarter mile, the trail turned into a dream. It was the perfect width - just enough room that even tight corners weren't a trap but narrow enough to keep the dogs together. It rolled along the side-valley with enough uphill to keep me working but enough downhill and flat to let me ride. The trees were snow-clad, the creeks were frozen solid, the little overflow we saw was shallow & in small enough patches for the dogs to jump over without a pile-up. We passed two hikers, a skijorer and a snow-biker and Pico's harness aggression didn't cause any major tangles and seemed to be dissipating by the last pass. The people we passed were friendly and helpful and gave me an idea of where the trail goes and what it connects to further up into the hills. We finally hit a creek with open water, and Leo balked. I looked at my watch and decided this was as good a time as any to turn around.
The trail back was everything in reverse. Dream trail, perfect passes .... then decent trail and a minor tangle with a six-dog team coming in the other direction ... then horrid, rutted, ice trail and rising concern for the dog's feet and exhaustion and frustration. But on balance it was a spectacular run. I have no idea how far we went (twelve miles, maybe fifteen?) but my plan for a nice forty five minute jaunt turned into two and a half hours and despite this the dogs finished strong, inhaled their snack of salmon & chicken-baited water that Peter hat waiting for us and have been fast asleep all afternoon. My despair at the ice storm has mellowed as trail conditions prove navigable (even if the ice-base a little unforgiving of spills.)
11.24.2010
drying out
All three sled dogs are inside the cabin, drying out now that the last of the freak midwinter rainstorm has passed. The yard is a mess of ice and the road has been plowed down to dirt. There were a few minutes of elation mid-morning when fat flakes of snow began pouring out of the sky. Elation died when it stopped cold after five minutes, leaving hardly a dusting on the wet porch. The trails are trashed, and what is left of the snow is solidifying into rock-hard pack ice as temperatures drop back below freezing. There is fog, but no snow clouds. We were promised snow tonight and tomorrow, if only a paltry inch, but given how unreliable snow forecasts are in this dry interior landscape, I am expecting stars instead.If I can claw my way out of this pit of despair for a moment, I find it fascinating that a region used to enduring weeks of brutal forty to sixty below temperatures and winters that last from October to April was brought to its knees for three days by an inch of freezing rain. It is also a little heartening, if only from a distance, that this life with dogs forces me to be so tied to weather, the temperatures, the snow pack. Things utterly out of my control.
I am reminded of an experience a friend of mine had this summer. She had planned a trip up into the Alaska Range to do some climbing, a trip that required a ski-plane ride up to Pika glacier. After being weathered in at the airport for interminable days, she and her climbing buddy were finally ferried up to the ice only to be socked into their snow shelter, all climbing thwarted.
In our modern lives, it is only a rare ice storm or blizzard that might alter our plans by hours, and on rare occasions a day or two. But for those that choose (if we are privileged enough to be given a choice) to work and play outdoors the temperature, wind, ice, snow pack, fog & rain play a much bigger role. We can prepare for it with all the gear and training in the world, but until the moment we launch we won't know if the paddle will take three hours or twelve with a headwind, or if the trek will take two days or ten with washed out trails and mudslides, if the wildfire will burn through the village or be damped enough by a sudden passing storm, if the crops will come in or be destroyed by a freak hailstorm too late to replant. In some of the farming first world and much of the rural third world, lives are lived closer to this uncertainty of weather, and of timing, and ultimately of outcome. Perhaps this is why so much is taken in stride there, more than it is here in the world of iPhones and Facebook and ATMs and DOT maintained roads and 24 hour grocery stores.
I find that in spite of all the time I spent in the third world and in the outdoors of the first world I am frustrated and angered and dismayed by the turn of events this week. And I am ashamed of the ferocity of my feelings. On the first day of rain, I fought an urge to pray. I wanted to beg someone or something to make the freak weather system move off. This even though I no more believe that God cares to answer my demands about temperature or precipitation or sunshine than I believe God would fill my bank account if I asked nicely or promised some token of worthy behavior in return. This even though all I will lose (and only if we don't get any more snow before the deep cold sets in) is a little bit of recreation with some dogs. This makes me ashamed, but I think that it also makes me human.
11.23.2010
the rookie moves up
The rain continues to fall and the snowpack continues to melt ...
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
My next day off was full of part-time work and seemingly endless errands in town. By the time I got home, it was pushing three o'clock. Remembering my misadventures from earlier in the week and with six more days of perfect trail conditions and no further work commitments ahead, I decided not to take the dogs out. I frequently ran at night last year, and night runs may be my favorite, but taking everything into consideration (including the fact that it was getting weirdly warm & I had not yet run these dogs at night) I opted for a long late-afternoon nap instead.
Sunday morning dawned warm, nearly thirty degrees. It was a sign of things to come. As soon as the dogs had time to digest breakfast, I hooked them up and we headed across the marshes towards the east-valley trails. When the first big marsh-pond came into view (from the white-knuckle open water incident,) I knew things were going to be a little dicey. The snow on top of the pond was covered in brown melt-water where snow-machines & cross country skiers had blown across. There was a huge star-shaped melt-water spot right on the path we usually use to cross. I swung the dogs left, to run on the edges but they weren't much better. We were running over solid ice, but with two inches or more of brown, slushy snow and water sitting on top. We skirted the worst of it, but my boots and the dogs feet were soaked. Crossing the rest of the marshes, we hit several more soft spots.
I had been planning to run the dogs east along the south-valley trail but changed plans at this point. I didn't want to risk crossing Goldstream Creek with this much slush and water showing in the marshes. Instead, we headed straight across the road on the north-valley trail. I figured we would run as long as the trail was on solid ground, and once it started leap-frogging through the marshes again we would turn around and head home.
Despite conditions on the ponds, the trail was perfect. The snow cover was finally sufficient to cover the ruts and the trail was smooth and packed down nicely. I was elated. As soon as it got cold enough to re-freeze the slush, we could start upping our mileage and head into the hills across Goldstream road - a trail system that I couldn't explore last year with just three dogs and no leaders. About a mile past the road, we ran into a skijorer headed our way. Since smaller teams yield to bigger teams (and machines yield to dogs,) I stopped my team while she scooted off the trail and pulled her dog back to hold him. Once she was secure, we started forward. The three Iditarod dogs passed like champs. Pico, on the other hand, dove across Sawyer's back to take a snap at the terrified skijoring dog.
This is a behavior that I saw once or twice in Pico last year. When he is loose or on a leash, he is a sweet and playful, if a little overeager, dog. However in harness, he seems to become aggressive to other dogs & teams on the trail. This is something I need to address, but I'm not sure how yet. He didn't hurt the other dog, or even make contact, but he got my whole team tangled and scared the skijorer and her dog. I was angry & embarrassed.
Once we got untangled, and despite my frustration, I decided to put Pico up front. Since my first few dog shuffles, I've been running Dottie & Leo up front every day. Dottie continues to look back towards me every few minutes (this breaks her stride & pulls Leo's head around, breaking his stride as well.) I was hoping this would decrease as we ran more and she gained confidence up front, but that didn't seem to be the case. I've also found that most of the time when I need Leo to turn and we're doing anything but a simple on-the-fly trail fork, she tends to get totally turned around & tangled causing us to stop altogether. I had noticed on this run (and the last) that Pico had stopped pulling at a 45 degree angle and was running right next to Sawyer and pulling hard. Since trail conditions were perfect and this trail was wide but not huge, I figured I'd give him a shot up front and see what happened.
He did great. He stayed with Leo for the rest of the run (probably 6 miles, total,) never pulling the neckline or giving Leo any reason to lash out at him. The last half-mile, we ran on a wide snowy road and even with all that room he stayed right next to Leo and kept pulling hard. Dottie, now back with her sister with dogs in front of her to follow, never looked back once. I am looking forward to running Pico up front straight out of the yard.
It was a great run, and although there were winter storm warnings in the paper I didn't realize it was going to be our last for awhile. The sled is stashed under the house and the harnesses, which I had accidentally left hanging out in the rain for the first day, are now drying inside. They are calling for more warmth and rain tomorrow, but even with the last two days worth the snow is almost gone. What is left will freeze into cement as soon as the temperatures drop back down. Even the higher elevation White Mountain trails were rained out. I have no idea when we will be able to run again, and I am trying hard not to focus on that uncertainty.
PICO STEPS IT UP:
PERFECT SNOW & SINISTER SLUSH:
11.22.2010
(facelift)
Peter said the blog needed a little something. He told me that in comic books, when there are a bunch of super-heroes working together (X-Men, The Avengers) there is always a 'who's who' with pictures of each character that readers can refer to as they follow the story. So tonight while the sled dogs are inside to dry their coats out after this awful winter rain, I did a little tweaking ... I hope you like the new sidebar.
command leader
Leo is incredible. He is not only a confidant leader, but he knows his commands well. He doesn't get freaked out when I mess up, he just stands there calmly until I figure it out. Sometimes, if I don't figure it out, he figures it out for me and drags us all back to where we need to be.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
The day after our dusk-disaster run, we did about an eight mile out-and-back east along the southern valley trail. At one point, I jumped the gun and had Leo turn right off the trail thinking I was asking him to turn onto an already established (but unbroken) cut to another trail at a right angle. I was wrong, and in a few seconds it was clear we were bush-whacking through powder and downed trees and not following an established trail. After about fifty feet, we hit a little kettle pond and I called Leo to turn around. He dutifully swung the team around and bushwhacked right back to the trail, turned the way we'd been going and about a minute later we got to the trail I'd been looking for. No panic. No tangles. No problem. This is such a huge change from last year, when I would have had to stop the sled, get a hold of whoever was leading and drag them around and back to the trail, hoping the snow was deep enough to keep the sled from sliding into the wheel dogs who were probably trying to bound ahead of me and the nearly panicking front-running dog anyway. The result was universally frustration, tangles & a reluctant if not totally freaked out team. Now, I can just tell Leo what I want and with a few exceptions (more on this later) he steps to it.
The relationship that I am developing with him is different than anything I've experienced with a dog, and I am beginning to understand the reverence that mushers hold for their best leaders. He is a shy boy and doesn't like petting or affection. He ducks from my hand and only lets me touch him when I've got a harness ready, or when he's in harness and we are taking a break from running. But as we've been running, I can tell he's warmed up to me. The looks he gives me communicate his questions and intentions, and I can see him thinking as we get to forks in the trail or places where I want to turn around. He took us around open water the first day in the marshes, resolutely dragged the whole team away from a flock of ptarmigan on the south-valley trial run, kept them lined out and on the trail when I had to backtrack for the camera ... and I am beginning to rely on him in a way that I've never relied on an animal before. Much less an animal that I feel hardly cares to see me if I don't have a harness in my hand.
lessons in the dark
Everything has come to a standstill. The thermometer is sitting above freezing, and it has been raining since two am. The roads are an ice-slick mess, with cars, school buses, tow trucks and police cruisers sliding into ditches all over town. In the mean time, the heavy coating of snow we got over the last week is quickly melting away.
After a whirlwind of orientation & shifts at my new job, I have several days off to regroup. I was looking forward to spending most of the daylight hours on the trails, but with the trails turning into mush it looks like I'll have a chance to catch this blog up on the last few runs instead.
Two days after Dottie's ingestion incident, I took the dogs out on trails full of fresh powder. We did a six-mile out-and-back that took us across Ballaine Road and out the wide north-side trail heading east along the valley. Although the going was still a little rough with ATV ruts, it was a vast improvement over the previous week's snow cover. The dogs did great, although conditions led to a slow overall pace. They finished strong, and it was clear that even with the trail-breaking and ruts, they could have gone much longer.
After another 24 hour shift and even more snow, I was excited for a good, long run. There is a nine-mile loop through the west side of the valley that I often ran with last year's team. Based on the better snow cover and strong showing of this year's crew, I was sure we were ready for it. It was a cold morning, and I put off running until the afternoon hoping it would warm up. With temps at -10F, we took off at about three o'clock. My first mistake was not checking the quickly changing sunset times before deciding to go ahead leave so late in the afternoon. My second mistake was not throwing a headlamp into my bag. (I don't keep one in the sled bag to prevent batteries from freezing into uselessness between runs.) And with that, you can probably see where this story is going.
The snow-clouds were low, and the light was flat and gray when I left. I couldn't see the sun, and had no idea that it would be below the horizon in less than half an hour. We ran down the road, and hit the fast down-hill trail that ends about a mile and a half later in the parking lot of a local bar. The wide-open parking lot was always problematic for last year's leaderless team, but Leo took my directions and navigated through the cars & gas station pumps next door without breaking stride. The trail had been packed down by a snow-machine the day before, and the going was fast. The dogs were running strong, the trail was good. Things were looking wonderful.
About a three miles into the run, and I was looking for a small trail to the left that would bring us to the back side of my intended loop. I never found it, because nobody had broken it yet this year. As I was looking, I realized that it was getting dark. Fast. With no trail available, we forged ahead and tried to find a more round-about way to the appropriate trail system. Since I wasn't really sure where we needed to be, and no trail was apparent, Leo and I ended up at a confused & frustrated stand-off on a random bike-path for several quickly-darkening minutes. Eventually, he headed the way I thought we should go, but not before a very confused Dottie tangled the lines. Five minutes later, and we were all straightened out and I was sure we had hit the right trail. Ten minutes later, we were running through several inches of powder in gloom of semi-darkness. Fifteen minutes later, the powder-on-packed trail turned into powder-on-powder-on-ruts that nobody had run since the ground froze. And it was dark. Twenty minutes later, pushing the sled over ruts and downed trees and sinking into unpacked snow with every step, watching the dogs slack their lines in frustration as they stepped into holes and got slammed every time the sled caught on something new, sweating through every layer I had on and feeling the coming chill, I knew we should have turned around when that first turn never materialized.
One thing I know about myself is that I have a hard time making myself turn around, in a car (there must be a gas station at the next exit ...) or on a hike (if we just get over this next drainage ... ) or on a dogsled. I need to learn to listen to that little insistent voice when it first starts piping up. I usually only pay attention to it well after the point of no return. That is all well and good in most situations, but at twenty below in the dark with four dogs beginning to question your leadership it can be a little closer to dangerous.
We slogged on for five miles before we hit broken trail alongside Ballaine Road again. With no light now under the clouds, I opted to run home on the bike-path and streets instead of across the marshes & through the even darker woods. It had been over two hours since we left for what should have been a less-than-an-hour jaunt. The dogs were barely moving on the long slow uphill to our neighborhood, and I had given up riding the sled and was shuffling along behind them at a half-run, peering ahead into the dark for hazards. When we finally hit the slick, plowed road and gentle down-hill towards the cabin, the dogs perked up and settled into a nice lope. I hopped on for the ride. To my utter relief, no cars came down the road behind us and we made it to the driveway intact.
After a warm snack and a huge dinner, none of the dogs seemed worse for our misadventure in the dark.
These little lessons in detail and judgement are why I am glad to be running a small team so close to home. The more mistakes I make now, the better prepared I'll be to run bigger teams much further afield later. Humbled after this run, I know I still have a so very much to learn.
After a whirlwind of orientation & shifts at my new job, I have several days off to regroup. I was looking forward to spending most of the daylight hours on the trails, but with the trails turning into mush it looks like I'll have a chance to catch this blog up on the last few runs instead.
Two days after Dottie's ingestion incident, I took the dogs out on trails full of fresh powder. We did a six-mile out-and-back that took us across Ballaine Road and out the wide north-side trail heading east along the valley. Although the going was still a little rough with ATV ruts, it was a vast improvement over the previous week's snow cover. The dogs did great, although conditions led to a slow overall pace. They finished strong, and it was clear that even with the trail-breaking and ruts, they could have gone much longer.
After another 24 hour shift and even more snow, I was excited for a good, long run. There is a nine-mile loop through the west side of the valley that I often ran with last year's team. Based on the better snow cover and strong showing of this year's crew, I was sure we were ready for it. It was a cold morning, and I put off running until the afternoon hoping it would warm up. With temps at -10F, we took off at about three o'clock. My first mistake was not checking the quickly changing sunset times before deciding to go ahead leave so late in the afternoon. My second mistake was not throwing a headlamp into my bag. (I don't keep one in the sled bag to prevent batteries from freezing into uselessness between runs.) And with that, you can probably see where this story is going.
The snow-clouds were low, and the light was flat and gray when I left. I couldn't see the sun, and had no idea that it would be below the horizon in less than half an hour. We ran down the road, and hit the fast down-hill trail that ends about a mile and a half later in the parking lot of a local bar. The wide-open parking lot was always problematic for last year's leaderless team, but Leo took my directions and navigated through the cars & gas station pumps next door without breaking stride. The trail had been packed down by a snow-machine the day before, and the going was fast. The dogs were running strong, the trail was good. Things were looking wonderful.
About a three miles into the run, and I was looking for a small trail to the left that would bring us to the back side of my intended loop. I never found it, because nobody had broken it yet this year. As I was looking, I realized that it was getting dark. Fast. With no trail available, we forged ahead and tried to find a more round-about way to the appropriate trail system. Since I wasn't really sure where we needed to be, and no trail was apparent, Leo and I ended up at a confused & frustrated stand-off on a random bike-path for several quickly-darkening minutes. Eventually, he headed the way I thought we should go, but not before a very confused Dottie tangled the lines. Five minutes later, and we were all straightened out and I was sure we had hit the right trail. Ten minutes later, we were running through several inches of powder in gloom of semi-darkness. Fifteen minutes later, the powder-on-packed trail turned into powder-on-powder-on-ruts that nobody had run since the ground froze. And it was dark. Twenty minutes later, pushing the sled over ruts and downed trees and sinking into unpacked snow with every step, watching the dogs slack their lines in frustration as they stepped into holes and got slammed every time the sled caught on something new, sweating through every layer I had on and feeling the coming chill, I knew we should have turned around when that first turn never materialized.
One thing I know about myself is that I have a hard time making myself turn around, in a car (there must be a gas station at the next exit ...) or on a hike (if we just get over this next drainage ... ) or on a dogsled. I need to learn to listen to that little insistent voice when it first starts piping up. I usually only pay attention to it well after the point of no return. That is all well and good in most situations, but at twenty below in the dark with four dogs beginning to question your leadership it can be a little closer to dangerous.
We slogged on for five miles before we hit broken trail alongside Ballaine Road again. With no light now under the clouds, I opted to run home on the bike-path and streets instead of across the marshes & through the even darker woods. It had been over two hours since we left for what should have been a less-than-an-hour jaunt. The dogs were barely moving on the long slow uphill to our neighborhood, and I had given up riding the sled and was shuffling along behind them at a half-run, peering ahead into the dark for hazards. When we finally hit the slick, plowed road and gentle down-hill towards the cabin, the dogs perked up and settled into a nice lope. I hopped on for the ride. To my utter relief, no cars came down the road behind us and we made it to the driveway intact.
After a warm snack and a huge dinner, none of the dogs seemed worse for our misadventure in the dark.
These little lessons in detail and judgement are why I am glad to be running a small team so close to home. The more mistakes I make now, the better prepared I'll be to run bigger teams much further afield later. Humbled after this run, I know I still have a so very much to learn.
11.16.2010
brief
It has been a crazy few days, and we'll have a few more before things settle down. But for now, Dottie seems to be fine although we are still watching her closely. We seemed to have dodged a point-blank aluminum bullet on this one.
Also, we got two days of good snow over the weekend. The trails are looking much better and the dogs and I had a wonderful, if ponderous, trail-breaking run yesterday afternoon! I'm off for my third 24 hours shift in six days ...
Also, we got two days of good snow over the weekend. The trails are looking much better and the dogs and I had a wonderful, if ponderous, trail-breaking run yesterday afternoon! I'm off for my third 24 hours shift in six days ...
11.13.2010
Crisis
Last last night while I was at work, Pete went out to feed the dogs and discovered that Dottie had eaten her bowl. Her metal bowl. He called me, but said she was acting fine and had eaten her supper. It was nine at night already, and there was nothing I could do.
When I got home at eight this morning, she still seemed fine. She was acting normal, she ate breakfast & pooped. No blood. No bloody gums, even (although Peter said last night her teeth were coated in aluminum.) A few hours later, she drank a whole bowl of baited water with no hesitation. Still no blood, no abdominal distension, no shocky gums. She was acting normally and didn't seem to be in any distress or pain. I didn't know what to do.
Dottie is a working dog at the end of her career. It is unusual for mushers, especially competitive mushers with thirty or more dogs in their kennel racing on shoestring budgets to spend thousands of dollars on medical care for retired dogs. Dottie's owner is in Canada, training her team for the Iditarod and out of cell phone service range. She will be for at least a week. I called my vet, a dog musher himself, and explained the situation. He told me the last dog he'd seen with aluminum ingestion had died when they missed a tiny esophageal sliver after extensive abdominal surgery. But then told me to just wait and watch and see if she gets "symptomatic." So we are now watching & waiting for internal bleeding or sepsis on a dog whose owner I can't get a hold of. I have to leave for another 24 hour shift at 6am.
We brought Dottie inside for a few hours to watch her. She is still energetic and cuddly, but I am sick with what may be going on inside her and with the hard decisions that may need to be made in the next 48 hours.
When I got home at eight this morning, she still seemed fine. She was acting normal, she ate breakfast & pooped. No blood. No bloody gums, even (although Peter said last night her teeth were coated in aluminum.) A few hours later, she drank a whole bowl of baited water with no hesitation. Still no blood, no abdominal distension, no shocky gums. She was acting normally and didn't seem to be in any distress or pain. I didn't know what to do.
Dottie is a working dog at the end of her career. It is unusual for mushers, especially competitive mushers with thirty or more dogs in their kennel racing on shoestring budgets to spend thousands of dollars on medical care for retired dogs. Dottie's owner is in Canada, training her team for the Iditarod and out of cell phone service range. She will be for at least a week. I called my vet, a dog musher himself, and explained the situation. He told me the last dog he'd seen with aluminum ingestion had died when they missed a tiny esophageal sliver after extensive abdominal surgery. But then told me to just wait and watch and see if she gets "symptomatic." So we are now watching & waiting for internal bleeding or sepsis on a dog whose owner I can't get a hold of. I have to leave for another 24 hour shift at 6am.
We brought Dottie inside for a few hours to watch her. She is still energetic and cuddly, but I am sick with what may be going on inside her and with the hard decisions that may need to be made in the next 48 hours.
11.12.2010
Backtrail: Unexpected Beginnings
::: I am going to try and write up an account of last year's dogsled adventures on my 24h shift days. I will post-date them to reflect the day I was stuck at work with no internet access. ::
In April of 2009, I brought a five-month old husky mutt home from the pound. I was hoping to turn him into a skijoring dog. Since I know that Alaska isn’t our permanent home, at least not yet, I had not caved into the temptation to start a sled dog team knowing I would have to get rid of the dogs once Peter got into Med school. This single pup seemed like a fair compromise. I spent some time that summer getting the pup familiar with a harness and pulling, but it wasn’t until Thanksgiving weekend that year that there was enough snow to take him for a trail run with skis. My friend Toni went with us to Creamer’s Field, and although it wasn’t a perfect two-miles, Pico figured out right away what was wanted of him and pulled like he was born to it.
After we were done, I drove to a local coffee shop to pick up cup for Peter and warm up a bit myself. In line just in front of me I recognized Sepp, a man I had run into several times when I was a tour guide to Coldfoot & Wiseman up in the Brooks Range north of the Arctic Circle. An old German trapper that makes his living on a dog sled, running hundreds of miles of remote trap line in the all-winter-darkness of the far north, he stood out even in the eclectic crowd of Fairbanks with his generously patched clothes and the ragged fur trim on every item from his home-made boots to his coat lining.
Uncharacteristically, since I was sure he had no idea who I was, I said hello, mentioned that we had met on a couple of occasions at the truck stop in Coldfoot and asked how his trapping season was going. In fact, I was curious as to why he was in Fairbanks at all, as trapping should be well under way. He responded brusquely that the trapping was terrible, snow conditions were the worst in years, and that he was going to Chile to stay with friends for the winter. He turned and shuffled forward with the line.
After a moment, he half-turned back towards me, “In fact, I’m still looking for someone to keep two of the dogs from my team while I’m gone. I am a bit worried, since I am leaving on Monday.”
It was Saturday afternoon. My heart was in my throat. I nodded sagely and let silence hang between us for a few moments while my mind raced.
“I might be able to keep them.”
He whirled around.
“But I don’t have a sled or dog houses at the momenet, and I need to make a few phone calls …”
He was already scribbling his phone number on a napkin. I took it and told him I’d give him a call that evening. And scramble I did. I called every dog musher I knew to see if anyone had a sled I could borrow. Asking to borrow a sled is like asking to borrow someone’s car. Worse, because sleds are expensive and take a beating, it’s like asking to borrow someone’s car for six months and promising to bring it back with plenty of door dings, cracked CV boots and thoroughly misalligned. I got no takers. I called around looking for spare dog houses, too. Nothing. Peter, at least, was supportive if skeptical. I called Sepp that evening, and told him that I would love to take his dogs, but that I had no sled and that without a sled there wasn’t much point.
“Oh, well I have an old sled you can borrow. It doesn’t look like much, but it ran the Iditarod in the ‘90s.”
I started scribbling furiously as he gave me directions to his house. Even though it was after dark, and the instructions involved parking at a dead end and hiking a half mile through the woods, it never occurred to me to hesitate …
11.11.2010
leading
I woke up with residual soreness but no pain. It would have been a relief, but I didn't even notice until it was time to run the dogs. I decided to risk the Goldstream trails again. We haven't had substantial snow, but we've had several dustings and I've seen ATVs and snowmachines out on the trails so I know they are at least packed down.
Leo continues to impress. It was the first time we left from our driveway, and the route to the trail is slick and tricky down our snow-but-mostly-ice covered road. He took my directions and found the trail-head with more finesse than the trapper dogs managed after running the same route every day for a month. When we reached the point in our run when I realized my planned route was going to be impossible to follow, Leo brought the whole team around on a narrow trail like a pro, with zero resulting tangles. My feelings towards him are hard to describe. I don't feel affection for him like I do for Pico, or even for sweet Dottie. Yet is it a kind of affection, and it is certainly tempered by his aloof attitude. Instead, I feel a growing respect for him that is borne out of a sense that I will be able to depend on him when I screw up. I have loved dogs before, but this is the first time I've started to trust one.
Leo continues to impress. It was the first time we left from our driveway, and the route to the trail is slick and tricky down our snow-but-mostly-ice covered road. He took my directions and found the trail-head with more finesse than the trapper dogs managed after running the same route every day for a month. When we reached the point in our run when I realized my planned route was going to be impossible to follow, Leo brought the whole team around on a narrow trail like a pro, with zero resulting tangles. My feelings towards him are hard to describe. I don't feel affection for him like I do for Pico, or even for sweet Dottie. Yet is it a kind of affection, and it is certainly tempered by his aloof attitude. Instead, I feel a growing respect for him that is borne out of a sense that I will be able to depend on him when I screw up. I have loved dogs before, but this is the first time I've started to trust one.
11.10.2010
long, trailless days
I am laying in bed. Peter is at school studying & will be there long after I am asleep. Augie is stretched out next to me, preventing full utilization of the covers. Pico is curled up next to my feet, his head draped over my ankles. Duncan is purring in my ear. I am utterly exhausted. The inevitable strain of adjusting to a new job, the unaccustomed early mornings and long commute on unusually bad roads for this time of year have built up over the last two weeks. My body is still stiff and sore from my fall two days ago, my hip downright painful even with max doses of Ibuprofen eating into my stomach lining. I collapsed into bed when I got home at five thirty, and forced myself to get up and take care of the sled dogs around seven. Although the cold air and brief companionship did me good, tonight it feels like a too much. The trails are still bad, there is no promise of snow, the dogs are restless, and I can barely get it together to fix them dinner.
Yet the thought of having an empty yard, and no sled under the porch waiting ... as tired as I am, that is untenable.
Yet the thought of having an empty yard, and no sled under the porch waiting ... as tired as I am, that is untenable.
11.09.2010
first crash
One thing I didn't mention yesterday is that I had my first sled-flip of the season. We were clicking along fast in the first mile, I was messing with the still-unresolved snow-hook placement issue, the sled hit a rut and suddenly I was in the air with one hand on the handlebar and the rest of me strung out in what I'm sure was a graceful bundle behind the sled. The next instant, I was snow-plowing with my face and body on the frozen ground, screaming for the dogs to stop. The did, and quickly for a team fresh out of the gate.
I shook as much snow as I could out from under my shirt, and we were off again. I didn't think much of it until I woke up this morning just a touch sore. As the day has worn on, my right leg & hip, which took most of the fall and subsequent drag, have stiffened up alarmingly. I am now in bed with a heat pack and a max-dose of Vitamin-I. Hopefully that and some stretching will loosen things up. If not, there may be an emergency trip to the massage-witch on Gilmore Trail in my future. That woman is a miracle worker, and has fixed me after bad falls before. She works out of a spectacular space she's created in the back of her garage, with views of the vast wilderness to the west of town (and a lot of birdfeeders.) She is a retired nurse with a marked shuffle, a wandering eye and more than a knack for finding where your body's protective mechanisms are over-reacting. Last time, after a hip injury from a skijoring accident with Pico left me hardly able to stand up, she put a little pressure on a spot on my hip, which was in agony. There was a sudden release, a shot of heat, and that was it. No more pain, no more stiffness. As I left, she gave me a pair of tickets to see Ira Glass' live show the next weekend (she'd had to change her plans & couldn't attend.)
That show now ranks as the best live performance I've ever been to.
I shook as much snow as I could out from under my shirt, and we were off again. I didn't think much of it until I woke up this morning just a touch sore. As the day has worn on, my right leg & hip, which took most of the fall and subsequent drag, have stiffened up alarmingly. I am now in bed with a heat pack and a max-dose of Vitamin-I. Hopefully that and some stretching will loosen things up. If not, there may be an emergency trip to the massage-witch on Gilmore Trail in my future. That woman is a miracle worker, and has fixed me after bad falls before. She works out of a spectacular space she's created in the back of her garage, with views of the vast wilderness to the west of town (and a lot of birdfeeders.) She is a retired nurse with a marked shuffle, a wandering eye and more than a knack for finding where your body's protective mechanisms are over-reacting. Last time, after a hip injury from a skijoring accident with Pico left me hardly able to stand up, she put a little pressure on a spot on my hip, which was in agony. There was a sudden release, a shot of heat, and that was it. No more pain, no more stiffness. As I left, she gave me a pair of tickets to see Ira Glass' live show the next weekend (she'd had to change her plans & couldn't attend.)
That show now ranks as the best live performance I've ever been to.
11.08.2010
the coach's kid
When Peter was following us back home on our first run of the season, he noticed that Pico was a little out of place in the line up. The three Iditarod dogs were running in a straight line, right in front of the sled, their tug-lines taunt and their noses pointed ahead. Pico was off to the side, running sideways, neck-line as tight as he could get it, sniffing the wind and generally not paying attention to what everyone else was doing. Peter later said that it was clear which of the dogs was the 'coach's kid,' "you know, the one on the team that everyone knows is only there because his dad is the coach."
And it is true. We got Pico from the pound a year and a half ago as a gangly five-month-old husky mutt. I had intentions of turning him into a skijoring dog, but mostly picked him for his mellow personality. He is a spectacular pet. For a husky, he is low energy (read: he is high energy but without being destructive*) and he is a sweet, polite house dog. He loves to run, and he loves to pull ... but he didn't grow up running alongside ten or fifteen other dogs with a job to do, so he takes our runs as a lark and not a vocation.
This became even more clear today. I took the dogs back to the ADMA trails to try and find my way around (we got lost again) and give us a good, short run close to town since I didn't have much time to squeeze a run in and there (still!!) isn't enough snow on the trails by our cabin. I started Sawyer up front, but noticed after about two miles that she was constantly letting her tug go slack and looking back at me. I decided to stop and switch her out with Pico. I thought that the shorter neck-line between him and Leo, as well as Leo's crazy work ethic and drive, would literally straighten him out.
When I pulled the snow hook, Pico took off like a racehorse out of the gate - straight and fast at full speed. For about a quarter mile, with the two boys up front, we were flying. The pace slowed a touch, and we ended up turning around a couple of times to get to trails that ended up being the wrong ones. During a few straightaways on flat, open marsh, I noticed Pico trying to pull sideways. Leo gave him a good snap-snarl at twice for it, and it was clear that although Leo and I knew why Leo was pissed (Pico was inadvertently pulling him off the trail) Pico had no clue why Leo kept snapping at him. And it only made him pull away harder.
To prevent a fight (and once we were on a reasonably wide trail) I took the neck-line off of both of them, letting Pico (now very wary of his running-buddy) veer waaaay off to the left. He continued to run off to the side, at more than a 45 degree angle from the rest of the team. Although he never let his tug-line slack, his sideways pulling was irritating and confusing the other three. And it was starting to irritate me, as well. Especially when his distraction and odd angle lead to the first major tangle of the year ... with awful timing. We had just (after being lost, again ... and ending up running on roads, again) turned onto the bike path for a quarter-mile run back to the car. The bike-path is paved under the snow, which meant that we were right next to a major, busy road with tangled dogs and no way for me to secure the sled to anything while getting them untangled. The whole incident took less than a minute to resolve, but it was not a good situation to be in at all and my generally irritated feelings gave way to anger that his lack of focus was putting us all at risk (never mind how my poor navigation skills and refusal to backtrack on trails played into it.)
I am still at a bit of a loss as to who to run up front and what to do about Pico's sideways pull. It seems to me that he feels the need to have as much pressure as possible on his neck-line at all times in order to feel secure ... but what can I do about it? This is (yet another) point at which I wish I had somebody experienced to talk to. This is only my second season running dogs, my first year with a team of four, a lead dog and a half-way decent sled. I know a handful of mushers, but none of them have seemed eager to answer my questions. I keep hearing about how great the mushing community here is, how supportive everyone is of new mushers, but I guess I have yet to figure out my place in it. The mushers I know (granted, none very well) are too busy with their own teams and their own lives trying to support this crazy, expensive habit. The one I'd most like to talk with is our vet, but I feel awkward broaching this with her (even though she helped provide housing for the three loaner dogs) because of that relationship. Maybe I just haven't met the right person yet. Or maybe I need to be more assertive with the few people I do know.
Either way, I hope I can find a good resource sooner than later.
*puppy destruction discounted.
And it is true. We got Pico from the pound a year and a half ago as a gangly five-month-old husky mutt. I had intentions of turning him into a skijoring dog, but mostly picked him for his mellow personality. He is a spectacular pet. For a husky, he is low energy (read: he is high energy but without being destructive*) and he is a sweet, polite house dog. He loves to run, and he loves to pull ... but he didn't grow up running alongside ten or fifteen other dogs with a job to do, so he takes our runs as a lark and not a vocation.
This became even more clear today. I took the dogs back to the ADMA trails to try and find my way around (we got lost again) and give us a good, short run close to town since I didn't have much time to squeeze a run in and there (still!!) isn't enough snow on the trails by our cabin. I started Sawyer up front, but noticed after about two miles that she was constantly letting her tug go slack and looking back at me. I decided to stop and switch her out with Pico. I thought that the shorter neck-line between him and Leo, as well as Leo's crazy work ethic and drive, would literally straighten him out.
When I pulled the snow hook, Pico took off like a racehorse out of the gate - straight and fast at full speed. For about a quarter mile, with the two boys up front, we were flying. The pace slowed a touch, and we ended up turning around a couple of times to get to trails that ended up being the wrong ones. During a few straightaways on flat, open marsh, I noticed Pico trying to pull sideways. Leo gave him a good snap-snarl at twice for it, and it was clear that although Leo and I knew why Leo was pissed (Pico was inadvertently pulling him off the trail) Pico had no clue why Leo kept snapping at him. And it only made him pull away harder.
To prevent a fight (and once we were on a reasonably wide trail) I took the neck-line off of both of them, letting Pico (now very wary of his running-buddy) veer waaaay off to the left. He continued to run off to the side, at more than a 45 degree angle from the rest of the team. Although he never let his tug-line slack, his sideways pulling was irritating and confusing the other three. And it was starting to irritate me, as well. Especially when his distraction and odd angle lead to the first major tangle of the year ... with awful timing. We had just (after being lost, again ... and ending up running on roads, again) turned onto the bike path for a quarter-mile run back to the car. The bike-path is paved under the snow, which meant that we were right next to a major, busy road with tangled dogs and no way for me to secure the sled to anything while getting them untangled. The whole incident took less than a minute to resolve, but it was not a good situation to be in at all and my generally irritated feelings gave way to anger that his lack of focus was putting us all at risk (never mind how my poor navigation skills and refusal to backtrack on trails played into it.)
I am still at a bit of a loss as to who to run up front and what to do about Pico's sideways pull. It seems to me that he feels the need to have as much pressure as possible on his neck-line at all times in order to feel secure ... but what can I do about it? This is (yet another) point at which I wish I had somebody experienced to talk to. This is only my second season running dogs, my first year with a team of four, a lead dog and a half-way decent sled. I know a handful of mushers, but none of them have seemed eager to answer my questions. I keep hearing about how great the mushing community here is, how supportive everyone is of new mushers, but I guess I have yet to figure out my place in it. The mushers I know (granted, none very well) are too busy with their own teams and their own lives trying to support this crazy, expensive habit. The one I'd most like to talk with is our vet, but I feel awkward broaching this with her (even though she helped provide housing for the three loaner dogs) because of that relationship. Maybe I just haven't met the right person yet. Or maybe I need to be more assertive with the few people I do know.
Either way, I hope I can find a good resource sooner than later.
*puppy destruction discounted.
11.07.2010
white mountains, take one
The forecast last night called for two days of snow. This morning the clouds were low and promising, but not delivering. When it started getting light, I packed a duffel bag full of emergency cold weather things (extra socks & layers, a sleeping bag, a fire-starter kit, a hatchet) and threw that in the car along with all the dog bowls and two thermos' full of hot water and a baggie full of chicken scrap. By ten AM, all four huskies and I were on the road with the sled strapped to the roof, headed for the Wickersham Dome trail head in BLM's White Mountains NRA. I was hoping that the higher elevation (2700 ft, the tallest thing anywhere within a reasonable drive of here) would mean more snow and make the two-hour round trip worth it.We hooked up in the parking lot, and Leo once again proved his worth. He held the line out despite Sawyer, Pico & Dottie trying to haul the rigging in every possible direction and around every possible entanglement. I didn't have to untangle a single one of them as we got going. The duffel worked great as a DIY sled bag. It's the perfect size for this sled, with room for even more gear once we go on longer runs further from home, and even though I just tied it down with some webbing from the ratchet straps from the car it didn't budge.
The biggest problem on this trip was technological. The video camera froze after about forty-five seconds, and the regular camera froze after one picture, which was unfortunate because this was just before it got a little big scenic. It was only about 10F, so I'm going to have to rig up some kind of battery-warmer for these guys since most of our runs are going to be solidly in -20F territory. My busted old GPS, which generally shorts out on me after five minutes regardless of the temperature, managed to hang in there for exactly half the run. Since I really wanted to get my mileage right and not overwork the dogs while we get sorted out as a team, the inevitable malfunction timed itself perfectly. We did almost exactly five miles total, and since the last half-mile or so is a gentle downhill, they finished strong and ready for more. I think we could have easily done seven, but at this point I'm glad to have under-shot their capabilities. The trail was also nice, as the rolling hills gave me plenty of opportunity to both run and ride so I got a nice work out, too.
I changed the line-up for this run, putting Dottie back with Pico and letting Sawyer run out front with Leo. Dottie isn't a very confidant dog, and I think some of the uncertainties of the first two runs were a little hard on her being out front. She ran well and pulled better in the back, so I think I'll leave her there for now.
My post-run snack scheme worked, and I was able to mix up a nice chicken-chunk broth for the dogs in the back of the car and spend time giving them all a good rub-down while it cooled (those thermoses are a little too good at keeping things hot.) They gobbled it up, loaded like champions and slept all the way home.
11.06.2010
first wave of lessons
Our second run, on November 1st, was again a mixed bag. With the trails near home too torn up to run and the pond ice still a little sketchy, I decided to try something new. A few miles from our house, the Alaska Dog Musher's Association has a network of trails that they maintain for sprint races throughout the winter. These races (and the trail system) run from three to twenty miles in length, in ever-expanding loops on flat ground north of town. Although there's only as much snow there is at our house, no ATVs are allowed on the trail system in the summer.
I wasn't sure if the trails were even open, so I drove by first to see if there were any signs of recent use. As I approached, I saw a musher with a four-dog team and a huge freight sled heading towards his parked truck from the trails. I pulled into the lot and spoke with him for a few minutes. His sled was truly a DIY job. He had bolted a piece of hard plastic between two runners, and bolted a reinforced rectangle at the back of the sledge as a handle bar. The whole thing was done with what looked like lumber scrap from a construction project, and the basket was about six feet long. The brush-bow was essentially square. The whole thing was angles and hard corners and heavy wood and thick bolts. It looked to weigh a couple hundred pounds all by itself. He had four mid-sized freight dogs hauling it, and he looked like he had just run a marathon himself. He confirmed that the trail was firm enough for a small team, and after a polite exchange during which he mostly caught his breath, I high-tailed it for home. Sunset was in an hour.
By the time I had loaded the dogs and the sled and returned to the ADMA trials, it getting on to sunset but with clear skies, not nearly dark. I hooked up and was amazed, again, as Leo took us across the broad field between the parking area and the trail start, taking my directions past several other enticing trails.
The dogs trotted happily at a nice clip down the first mile and a half while I struggled with the snow hook. This giant piece of metal which holds the sled and team like an emergency brake on a car has sharp points and needs to be secured while we are en route. I didn't like the way the previous owner had his snow-hook secured, so I'd been trying different things on the sled. The new placement was not working, and the line between the hook and the dogs kept running up under the runners, creating sudden off-sided drag and making the sled careen to the side of the trail with no warning.
The dogs were looking good, trotting even and fluid on the flat groomed trails we glided down the outbound route. Unfortunately, in my rush to get the dogs hooked up and running before dark, I had neglected to find a trail map. I don't know if I had ever even seen one. I soon realized my mistake when we started passing promising looking but as-yet-unbroken trails crossing ours ... about every minute. I had no idea which one was the three-mile turnaround, and the trails were not well marked and certainly had not been run since the last snow.
Eventually, we hit marshy pond and I decided to use the wider area to turn around and try right-hand turn that I thought would take us back towards the trail head. It took some discussion, but eventually Leo figured out what I wanted and we swung around to our back trail. When we got to the turn I wanted to take, however, I waited too long to call the turn and we missed it. I probably should have just run back on our outbound trail at this point, but I was feeling exploratory and wanted to try the whole loop. Or what I thought was the whole loop.
To make a long story a little shorter, there was a lot more discussion before the team did another near-U-turn to head down the trail I wanted. We got to an intersection and made a left ... and ran ... and ran ... and ran. After several more major intersections that did not look right, I realized we were now running on a snow-machine trail, which meant we had left the ADMA trail system and also meant I had no idea where we were in relation to where we wanted to be. Like the rookie I am, we just kept running. And running. And it was getting dark.
Eventually we hit a road, and I turned them down this until we got to a road-sign. I recognized the road, and figured if we ran up it, we would eventually rejoin the main road to the trail head which also has a snow-covered bike path. With only four dogs to control and the road sufficiently snow-covered to not destroy the runners, we made good on this plan.
I felt bad when we got back to the parking lot for two reasons. First, we had run a lot longer than I had intended. Although six miles isn't much, it was still a lot more than I had intended. I was really worried at first, because Sawyer seemed to collapse into the snow the instant we stopped next to the car. I realized later, though, that this was just her veteran racing-dog kicking in; Hey, we're not running. I'm gonna chill until you're ready to go again. At the time, though, it just added to me guilt at the getting-lost and running-long. Second, due to my rush (and the lack of a routine) I had no snack for them waiting in the car. That's a bit of a breach of contract for these guys.
The discoveries I made on this unexpected detour were 1a) Dottie is just as bad as Pico at trying to play with dogs we pass instead of passing on by 1b) Leo is stronger than Dottie, and Sawyer is stronger that Pico ... so we stayed on the road despite their loud protests in the direction of potential playmates. 2) The adjustments I made to my sled work (more on this later) and it steers like a little race car instead of a last year's school-bus of a sled and (probably most importantly) 3) Leo is a lead dog, and I had no idea how much I was missing out on last year without one. He is the only reason we made it back safely to the car running on roads & side-walks. And I really believe now that we are running, now that he is getting to do what he lives to do, he is warming up to me a little bit more.
Finally, there are a few things I need to work on if we are going to be forced to run trails from the car instead of from home. 1) Come up with a system for snacking & watering the dogs at the end of the run so they don't have to wait to get home for a belly full of warm, meaty, watery reward for a job well done. 2) Find with a better way to control access & egress from the back of the Subaru so I don't end up with loose dogs at the trail head. There is more, but that is plenty for now.
There is still no new snow, and I'm considering a trip north of town to the White Mountains tomorrow. I am hoping there is a little more snow on the trails up there. What I am really hoping is that I wake up to several inches on the ground and more pouring out of the sky ... but I try to have a variety of hopes so not all of them will be dashed by the reality of living in a plenty cold but ultimately very, very dry place.
I wasn't sure if the trails were even open, so I drove by first to see if there were any signs of recent use. As I approached, I saw a musher with a four-dog team and a huge freight sled heading towards his parked truck from the trails. I pulled into the lot and spoke with him for a few minutes. His sled was truly a DIY job. He had bolted a piece of hard plastic between two runners, and bolted a reinforced rectangle at the back of the sledge as a handle bar. The whole thing was done with what looked like lumber scrap from a construction project, and the basket was about six feet long. The brush-bow was essentially square. The whole thing was angles and hard corners and heavy wood and thick bolts. It looked to weigh a couple hundred pounds all by itself. He had four mid-sized freight dogs hauling it, and he looked like he had just run a marathon himself. He confirmed that the trail was firm enough for a small team, and after a polite exchange during which he mostly caught his breath, I high-tailed it for home. Sunset was in an hour.
By the time I had loaded the dogs and the sled and returned to the ADMA trials, it getting on to sunset but with clear skies, not nearly dark. I hooked up and was amazed, again, as Leo took us across the broad field between the parking area and the trail start, taking my directions past several other enticing trails.
The dogs trotted happily at a nice clip down the first mile and a half while I struggled with the snow hook. This giant piece of metal which holds the sled and team like an emergency brake on a car has sharp points and needs to be secured while we are en route. I didn't like the way the previous owner had his snow-hook secured, so I'd been trying different things on the sled. The new placement was not working, and the line between the hook and the dogs kept running up under the runners, creating sudden off-sided drag and making the sled careen to the side of the trail with no warning.
The dogs were looking good, trotting even and fluid on the flat groomed trails we glided down the outbound route. Unfortunately, in my rush to get the dogs hooked up and running before dark, I had neglected to find a trail map. I don't know if I had ever even seen one. I soon realized my mistake when we started passing promising looking but as-yet-unbroken trails crossing ours ... about every minute. I had no idea which one was the three-mile turnaround, and the trails were not well marked and certainly had not been run since the last snow.
Eventually, we hit marshy pond and I decided to use the wider area to turn around and try right-hand turn that I thought would take us back towards the trail head. It took some discussion, but eventually Leo figured out what I wanted and we swung around to our back trail. When we got to the turn I wanted to take, however, I waited too long to call the turn and we missed it. I probably should have just run back on our outbound trail at this point, but I was feeling exploratory and wanted to try the whole loop. Or what I thought was the whole loop.
To make a long story a little shorter, there was a lot more discussion before the team did another near-U-turn to head down the trail I wanted. We got to an intersection and made a left ... and ran ... and ran ... and ran. After several more major intersections that did not look right, I realized we were now running on a snow-machine trail, which meant we had left the ADMA trail system and also meant I had no idea where we were in relation to where we wanted to be. Like the rookie I am, we just kept running. And running. And it was getting dark.
Eventually we hit a road, and I turned them down this until we got to a road-sign. I recognized the road, and figured if we ran up it, we would eventually rejoin the main road to the trail head which also has a snow-covered bike path. With only four dogs to control and the road sufficiently snow-covered to not destroy the runners, we made good on this plan.
I felt bad when we got back to the parking lot for two reasons. First, we had run a lot longer than I had intended. Although six miles isn't much, it was still a lot more than I had intended. I was really worried at first, because Sawyer seemed to collapse into the snow the instant we stopped next to the car. I realized later, though, that this was just her veteran racing-dog kicking in; Hey, we're not running. I'm gonna chill until you're ready to go again. At the time, though, it just added to me guilt at the getting-lost and running-long. Second, due to my rush (and the lack of a routine) I had no snack for them waiting in the car. That's a bit of a breach of contract for these guys.
The discoveries I made on this unexpected detour were 1a) Dottie is just as bad as Pico at trying to play with dogs we pass instead of passing on by 1b) Leo is stronger than Dottie, and Sawyer is stronger that Pico ... so we stayed on the road despite their loud protests in the direction of potential playmates. 2) The adjustments I made to my sled work (more on this later) and it steers like a little race car instead of a last year's school-bus of a sled and (probably most importantly) 3) Leo is a lead dog, and I had no idea how much I was missing out on last year without one. He is the only reason we made it back safely to the car running on roads & side-walks. And I really believe now that we are running, now that he is getting to do what he lives to do, he is warming up to me a little bit more.
Finally, there are a few things I need to work on if we are going to be forced to run trails from the car instead of from home. 1) Come up with a system for snacking & watering the dogs at the end of the run so they don't have to wait to get home for a belly full of warm, meaty, watery reward for a job well done. 2) Find with a better way to control access & egress from the back of the Subaru so I don't end up with loose dogs at the trail head. There is more, but that is plenty for now.
There is still no new snow, and I'm considering a trip north of town to the White Mountains tomorrow. I am hoping there is a little more snow on the trails up there. What I am really hoping is that I wake up to several inches on the ground and more pouring out of the sky ... but I try to have a variety of hopes so not all of them will be dashed by the reality of living in a plenty cold but ultimately very, very dry place.
11.05.2010
powerless
Six days, and still no snow. It was supposed to snow all night last night. It didn't. It is supposed to snow every day until Wednesday. So far, it's clear skies and beautiful stars so close you can touch them. I have never been so upset by a beautiful sun-soaked winter day, or so disappointed by a northern milky-way night.
11.04.2010
first run
There was not enough snow, and I knew it. But there was some old snow, and some new snow. I reasoned that with only four dogs it couldn't possibly be that bad. The dogs had been sitting in the yard for two weeks, Leo would hardly let me touch him, and they were as restless as I was. Plus, I had a brand-new sled to try out. A sled I had spent the past month working over and tweaking without a test-drive.
I had Pete drop us off (and help wrangle dogs, since my dog truck is currently the back of my subaru) at the Ballaine Trailhead. The difference between the mountain-raised trapping dogs from last winter and the Iditarod Veterans was immediately apparent. I clipped Leo in first and walked back to the car, and he held the line out straight until everyone else was in place ... although he did start yelping in anticipation about about a minute. Last year, someone had to hold Rsta in place (though often I tied her where I needed her to stay) and even then there was usually a major tangle to get fixed by the time we were ready to go. Hook-up often involved her circumnavigating the sled several times at various angles, dragging dogs and line with her. Having Leo hold the line out like a pro was a dream come true.
Once I pulled the brake, we headed towards the trails and everything went swimmingly for about a hundred yards. Once we crossed Goldstream Creek, I realized that NOBODY had been on these trails yet this year. No trail was broken and the dogs were running straight ahead because they didn't know what else to do. When we got to a spot where there was a cut-across trail into woods-trails last year, I called "gee" experimentally. Leo and Dottie dove into the snow & weeds to the right, looked back for confirmation that they were headed where I wanted, then plowed through the trail-less, frozen marsh until we hit the trail in the woods on the other side. Power Steering!! Amazing!! I wanted stop and feed them a huge steak dinner right then and there.
Then we hit the "trail." It became immediately clear that this was going a rough run, and that I wasn't going to be doing any "riding" at all ... not only was the trail not broken at all, but the ground had been torn to pieces by ATVs over the summer, and it was impossible to keep the sled going straight - or going at all, without nearly carrying it along behind the dogs. I ended up running behind or beside it, constantly steering around & over huge ruts and downed trees & generally manhandling it through the mess. I was instantly glad I've been hitting the gym hard this month, but within 100 yards it was clear the gym time wasn't nearly enough. The dogs were confused at the constant jerking behind them, and kept looking back wondering what on earth was going on back there. A few times, Leo thought my cursing at the trail was close enough to a command that he plunged off into the woods.
After an eternity, we made the loop back around to Goldstream road. I was exhausted and soaked in sweat, and we had barely gone a mile. There were no cars in either direction when we got to the crossing, but Leo & Dottie thought we were supposed to follow this big inviting asphalt trail instead of cross it. They pulled straight out into the road, then swing hard right. I called them left, and they immediately swung ALL THE WAY left. I had the sled brake on, stopped in the last little bit of unplowed snow on the side of the road with the dogs in the middle of the road swinging back and forth in a 180 degree half-circle from left to right to left to right as I yelled and pointed. Back & forth. Left & right. Over & over. In the mean time, traffic was piling up in both lanes. Once I was sure the cars were stopping for our little four-dog circus, I started laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. Eventually, Dottie realized there was a trail in FRONT of them, and started towards it, dragging Leo with her. I let the brake go, and whooped at them all, and we shot across the road and onto the real trail like a rocket. Things were great for about ten yards ... then we hit even worse rutted trail.
My plan had been to run all the way home on our usual trail from last year, but it became clear that the destruction and lack of snow was too much work for all of us (it was 5F, and I was pretty sure I could have worn a t-shirt.) I called Peter and asked him to meet us where we would get close to a road again and haul us home.
After about half a mile of horrible trail, we started to cross marshes, and when we hit flat frozen water the dogs picked up the pace and I could ride a little bit. Leo was still being a true professional, taking my directions to veer left or right across some of the trackless marsh to where I knew a trail would open up on the other side. Finally, we hit a packed snow-machine trail, and the dogs really kicked it up. Things were looking good. Just before the last big pond between us and our destination, the snow machine tracks turned the wrong way. I called Leo "haw" and we headed out across the perfect unbroken snow. I was taken again by the wonder of having a real lead dog out front ... for about fifteen seconds. Then I saw the open water. There were little holes in the ice where the pond was still freezing up. I froze on the runners and listened hard. No sound. No ice cracking. I looked at the dog's feet. No water, no soft spots sagging under them. Time slowed. I looked around and saw more and more pockets of open water. I realized Leo was taking us through the maze, steering directly between each dark spot. I whooped for speed and held me breath until we got into the cattails on the other side. I didn't look back.
We ran up the big, sloping farm field at the top of which Peter would be waiting. Now, though, with smooth trail under us, the dogs were running strong and fast and looking happy. We got to the car I realized there was enough snow on the roads to keep going, so I stopped long enough to tell Peter we were going to run home on the road, and to just follow us back. We were flying now, the Iditarod dogs in a solid lope on the packed road snow. I wanted to give them some fun speed so they wouldn't internalize the frustrating, slow, rutted trail from the beginning of the run. They made the first right-hand turn perfectly. For some reason, Leo decided to try to take EVERY SINGLE right hand road before we got to the road home. Instead of correcting himself, Leo just kept swinging right ... so we ended up doing doughnuts in the middle of the street to get pointed in the right direction again with Peter stopped behind us in the Subaru laughing. When we finally got to the CORRECT right-hand turn, we flew down the road and Dottie hauled the team left and into the driveway on command. Perfect.
The outside dogs got big bowls of hot chicken soup & went to bed. Pico passed out downstairs by the heater. I plugged in the power drill battery to make some minor adjustments to the sled and stripped out of my soaked clothes. Despite the awful trail, the first run was a rousing success.
The difference between these dogs & the trapper dogs is incredible. Last year, our first run was barely a mile, full of frustrating tangles - and that was on good, packed trail in December. This year our first run was more than three miles on the worst trails I've ever seen, without a single tangle or major incident and the dogs weren't ready to stop when we got home. Last year, it wasn't until late January that I could ride up the hill next to the farm-field instead of running behind the sled pushing with the dogs. This year, on our very first run, I never left the runners, and only had to kick a couple of times to steer. These 12 year old dogs, with easily over 80,000 miles between them, getting close to retirement, are stronger and faster coming out of summer break than the spry two-year-old trapping dogs were after a month of training. I have a feeling we will be pushing 20 milers by Christmas. This is going to be awesome.
I had Pete drop us off (and help wrangle dogs, since my dog truck is currently the back of my subaru) at the Ballaine Trailhead. The difference between the mountain-raised trapping dogs from last winter and the Iditarod Veterans was immediately apparent. I clipped Leo in first and walked back to the car, and he held the line out straight until everyone else was in place ... although he did start yelping in anticipation about about a minute. Last year, someone had to hold Rsta in place (though often I tied her where I needed her to stay) and even then there was usually a major tangle to get fixed by the time we were ready to go. Hook-up often involved her circumnavigating the sled several times at various angles, dragging dogs and line with her. Having Leo hold the line out like a pro was a dream come true.
Once I pulled the brake, we headed towards the trails and everything went swimmingly for about a hundred yards. Once we crossed Goldstream Creek, I realized that NOBODY had been on these trails yet this year. No trail was broken and the dogs were running straight ahead because they didn't know what else to do. When we got to a spot where there was a cut-across trail into woods-trails last year, I called "gee" experimentally. Leo and Dottie dove into the snow & weeds to the right, looked back for confirmation that they were headed where I wanted, then plowed through the trail-less, frozen marsh until we hit the trail in the woods on the other side. Power Steering!! Amazing!! I wanted stop and feed them a huge steak dinner right then and there.
Then we hit the "trail." It became immediately clear that this was going a rough run, and that I wasn't going to be doing any "riding" at all ... not only was the trail not broken at all, but the ground had been torn to pieces by ATVs over the summer, and it was impossible to keep the sled going straight - or going at all, without nearly carrying it along behind the dogs. I ended up running behind or beside it, constantly steering around & over huge ruts and downed trees & generally manhandling it through the mess. I was instantly glad I've been hitting the gym hard this month, but within 100 yards it was clear the gym time wasn't nearly enough. The dogs were confused at the constant jerking behind them, and kept looking back wondering what on earth was going on back there. A few times, Leo thought my cursing at the trail was close enough to a command that he plunged off into the woods.
After an eternity, we made the loop back around to Goldstream road. I was exhausted and soaked in sweat, and we had barely gone a mile. There were no cars in either direction when we got to the crossing, but Leo & Dottie thought we were supposed to follow this big inviting asphalt trail instead of cross it. They pulled straight out into the road, then swing hard right. I called them left, and they immediately swung ALL THE WAY left. I had the sled brake on, stopped in the last little bit of unplowed snow on the side of the road with the dogs in the middle of the road swinging back and forth in a 180 degree half-circle from left to right to left to right as I yelled and pointed. Back & forth. Left & right. Over & over. In the mean time, traffic was piling up in both lanes. Once I was sure the cars were stopping for our little four-dog circus, I started laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. Eventually, Dottie realized there was a trail in FRONT of them, and started towards it, dragging Leo with her. I let the brake go, and whooped at them all, and we shot across the road and onto the real trail like a rocket. Things were great for about ten yards ... then we hit even worse rutted trail.
My plan had been to run all the way home on our usual trail from last year, but it became clear that the destruction and lack of snow was too much work for all of us (it was 5F, and I was pretty sure I could have worn a t-shirt.) I called Peter and asked him to meet us where we would get close to a road again and haul us home.
After about half a mile of horrible trail, we started to cross marshes, and when we hit flat frozen water the dogs picked up the pace and I could ride a little bit. Leo was still being a true professional, taking my directions to veer left or right across some of the trackless marsh to where I knew a trail would open up on the other side. Finally, we hit a packed snow-machine trail, and the dogs really kicked it up. Things were looking good. Just before the last big pond between us and our destination, the snow machine tracks turned the wrong way. I called Leo "haw" and we headed out across the perfect unbroken snow. I was taken again by the wonder of having a real lead dog out front ... for about fifteen seconds. Then I saw the open water. There were little holes in the ice where the pond was still freezing up. I froze on the runners and listened hard. No sound. No ice cracking. I looked at the dog's feet. No water, no soft spots sagging under them. Time slowed. I looked around and saw more and more pockets of open water. I realized Leo was taking us through the maze, steering directly between each dark spot. I whooped for speed and held me breath until we got into the cattails on the other side. I didn't look back.
We ran up the big, sloping farm field at the top of which Peter would be waiting. Now, though, with smooth trail under us, the dogs were running strong and fast and looking happy. We got to the car I realized there was enough snow on the roads to keep going, so I stopped long enough to tell Peter we were going to run home on the road, and to just follow us back. We were flying now, the Iditarod dogs in a solid lope on the packed road snow. I wanted to give them some fun speed so they wouldn't internalize the frustrating, slow, rutted trail from the beginning of the run. They made the first right-hand turn perfectly. For some reason, Leo decided to try to take EVERY SINGLE right hand road before we got to the road home. Instead of correcting himself, Leo just kept swinging right ... so we ended up doing doughnuts in the middle of the street to get pointed in the right direction again with Peter stopped behind us in the Subaru laughing. When we finally got to the CORRECT right-hand turn, we flew down the road and Dottie hauled the team left and into the driveway on command. Perfect.
The outside dogs got big bowls of hot chicken soup & went to bed. Pico passed out downstairs by the heater. I plugged in the power drill battery to make some minor adjustments to the sled and stripped out of my soaked clothes. Despite the awful trail, the first run was a rousing success.
The difference between these dogs & the trapper dogs is incredible. Last year, our first run was barely a mile, full of frustrating tangles - and that was on good, packed trail in December. This year our first run was more than three miles on the worst trails I've ever seen, without a single tangle or major incident and the dogs weren't ready to stop when we got home. Last year, it wasn't until late January that I could ride up the hill next to the farm-field instead of running behind the sled pushing with the dogs. This year, on our very first run, I never left the runners, and only had to kick a couple of times to steer. These 12 year old dogs, with easily over 80,000 miles between them, getting close to retirement, are stronger and faster coming out of summer break than the spry two-year-old trapping dogs were after a month of training. I have a feeling we will be pushing 20 milers by Christmas. This is going to be awesome.
11.03.2010
starting
It's hard to start writing about things that have already started, but they have. So I will start with tonight.
Tonight, it is warm. Too warm for November only two hundred miles south of the arctic circle. The snow on the roof of our cabin has melted and dripped onto the stairs, and there is standing water pooled in the ice there. I have just arrived home from my first day at a new job. I am overwhelmed by it, although I am trying to trust this will fade with time and familiarity. I was there for ten hours today, and it is an hour from our home. Twelve hours gone. And there are dogs to feed.
Sawyer, under the trees across from the porch, greets me with a single yip and a dance at the end of her chain. She is full of energy tonight. She wants to run. I can barely walk. I go inside and change, carefully hanging my uniform high out of range of dog hair, start the kettle to boil. Now in jeans and muck boots, I take the steaming kettle to the porch and mix three bowls of dog food with the hot water. They yelp when they hear the sound, but settle down to wait. I leave it to cool and soak, and head down to the dogs with a shovel and a bucket.
Scooping the day's leavings takes hardly five minutes, even though I have to search behind Leo's house to find where he left his. I am still unsure of how he gets back there, but the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Food soaking and chore done, I turn off my headlamp and head back into the trees where Leo and Dottie wait. Leo, for the first time since he arrived, doesn't shy away from my hand. Instead, he pushes gently into it and lays down on the soft, melting snow, almost relaxed. In the deep silence, I wonder what has changed. I carefully wrap my hands around his head, finding the hard-to-scratch places, gently, slowly. This is a moment of asked-for contact I didn't expect, after weeks of shying and flinching. But it doesn't last. After a minute, he tires of the contact and jumps up to begin pacing and watching the sky. He is bursting with energy, and with hope after two days this week of running badly rutted trails on soft, punchy snow. They were bad runs, but they were runs and that is what he lives for. He is coiled for it, waiting. It is too warm tonight to give him what he needs. And there are no trails safe enough to run at night, not yet. But there will be, I promise him. There will be night runs soon when you forget everything but the trail and the stars and the wind. I try to have hope, myself. Because it is warm, and there is still hardly any snow. It is hard to have hope when the snow is melting in November.
I move to Dottie, kneel on the hay that has spilled from her house. She butts her head into my chest and lays the weight of her body across my knees. She collapses into me in a full body cuddle that I have only ever experienced in the embrace of an Alaskan husky. Watching Leo pace over my shoulder, I rub Dottie down and scratch all her favorite spots. She licks my chin, burrows under my arm, wags her tail softly across the unfrozen ground. I sit in the dark under the trees and the weight of the long day away from home, of the newness of the job, the length of the drive, the myriad of new faces to remember and protocols to follow and schedules to arrange fade into the soft snow and the stars and the still-shedding coat of the soft creature burrowing into my arms, and they fade also into the dark, powerful shadow pacing next to us, into his deep need for the woods and the trail ahead. His need and my need, but that is a longer story.
Sawyer is next, and she tolerates my advances but her eyes are on the food still soaking on the back porch. She is a spring, pacing, watching. She gives me a quick kiss, but makes it clear where her priorities lie. I bring her dish first. Leo and Dottie howl in protest. Almost before I am done dolling out food, it is gone and they are settling in for the night. Each of them outside their houses, laying on straw under the stars. It is too warm to sleep indoors they say as they circle and paw and settle down for the lengthening night. And I agree.
Tonight, it is warm. Too warm for November only two hundred miles south of the arctic circle. The snow on the roof of our cabin has melted and dripped onto the stairs, and there is standing water pooled in the ice there. I have just arrived home from my first day at a new job. I am overwhelmed by it, although I am trying to trust this will fade with time and familiarity. I was there for ten hours today, and it is an hour from our home. Twelve hours gone. And there are dogs to feed.
Sawyer, under the trees across from the porch, greets me with a single yip and a dance at the end of her chain. She is full of energy tonight. She wants to run. I can barely walk. I go inside and change, carefully hanging my uniform high out of range of dog hair, start the kettle to boil. Now in jeans and muck boots, I take the steaming kettle to the porch and mix three bowls of dog food with the hot water. They yelp when they hear the sound, but settle down to wait. I leave it to cool and soak, and head down to the dogs with a shovel and a bucket.
Scooping the day's leavings takes hardly five minutes, even though I have to search behind Leo's house to find where he left his. I am still unsure of how he gets back there, but the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Food soaking and chore done, I turn off my headlamp and head back into the trees where Leo and Dottie wait. Leo, for the first time since he arrived, doesn't shy away from my hand. Instead, he pushes gently into it and lays down on the soft, melting snow, almost relaxed. In the deep silence, I wonder what has changed. I carefully wrap my hands around his head, finding the hard-to-scratch places, gently, slowly. This is a moment of asked-for contact I didn't expect, after weeks of shying and flinching. But it doesn't last. After a minute, he tires of the contact and jumps up to begin pacing and watching the sky. He is bursting with energy, and with hope after two days this week of running badly rutted trails on soft, punchy snow. They were bad runs, but they were runs and that is what he lives for. He is coiled for it, waiting. It is too warm tonight to give him what he needs. And there are no trails safe enough to run at night, not yet. But there will be, I promise him. There will be night runs soon when you forget everything but the trail and the stars and the wind. I try to have hope, myself. Because it is warm, and there is still hardly any snow. It is hard to have hope when the snow is melting in November.
I move to Dottie, kneel on the hay that has spilled from her house. She butts her head into my chest and lays the weight of her body across my knees. She collapses into me in a full body cuddle that I have only ever experienced in the embrace of an Alaskan husky. Watching Leo pace over my shoulder, I rub Dottie down and scratch all her favorite spots. She licks my chin, burrows under my arm, wags her tail softly across the unfrozen ground. I sit in the dark under the trees and the weight of the long day away from home, of the newness of the job, the length of the drive, the myriad of new faces to remember and protocols to follow and schedules to arrange fade into the soft snow and the stars and the still-shedding coat of the soft creature burrowing into my arms, and they fade also into the dark, powerful shadow pacing next to us, into his deep need for the woods and the trail ahead. His need and my need, but that is a longer story.
Sawyer is next, and she tolerates my advances but her eyes are on the food still soaking on the back porch. She is a spring, pacing, watching. She gives me a quick kiss, but makes it clear where her priorities lie. I bring her dish first. Leo and Dottie howl in protest. Almost before I am done dolling out food, it is gone and they are settling in for the night. Each of them outside their houses, laying on straw under the stars. It is too warm to sleep indoors they say as they circle and paw and settle down for the lengthening night. And I agree.
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