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.
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