about face

I added a 40 pound bag of kibble and headed out again the next day. Reese and Xtra were in lead, Pepper in swing and Devilfish and Parka in wheel. My first mistake was trying to get Reese to turn onto the little side-trail at the entrance to the farm. With all the fresh snow, he didn't see where I wanted him to go and decided to pull a U-turn instead. Fine. I braced as the sled swung around and then held the brake down and waited for him to realize his mistake and turn around. No dice. Reese and Xtra were screeching and slamming their harnesses, dead-set on heading back the way we'd come. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. I let them run a few yards and tried to get them to come around again. Nothing. Without enough snow on the road to hook in and bring them around myself, I stood on the brake for several minutes trying to figure out what to do. Eventually, I tipped the sled onto its side and walked up, dragged Reese around got everyone lined up and untangled and headed back to the sled. Just as I grabbed the handle bow to flip it back upright, I felt something at my knee. Reese was rushing past, in the wrong direction, team in tow. The sled spun around and nearly bowled me over. I wedged it in the snow berm and tried again. This time, Reese took three steps forward before swinging us back towards home. I flipped the sled again, walked up and pulled the lead dogs around, lined everyone out and untangled. As if we had never been stopped, Reese shot ahead down the road towards the trail without a second glance back and I nearly missed grabbing the flipped-over sled as it shot past. Hm.

I was already a little bit tense about the hill ahead, but figured we'd go up it and head home by way of the creek with it's concerning but not, perhaps, as dangerous drop-offs. As we came around the corner to the dreaded slope, I could still see the long body-imprint I had made coming down the day before - despite the new snow fall - gouged in dirt and punctuated by jagged branches we'd taken out on the way down. Reese decided to take the switchback up the hill, and this seemed like a better plan to me, too. A third of the way up, the switchback touches back to the straight-up trail. Reese took the turn and headed back down the hill. Before I could stop him, all the dogs were turned around and the sled was wedged in the small spruce trees between the trails. We repeated the scene on the road, now on the hill in foot-deep snow, with me running up and down and up and down after the dogs, lines tangled in bushes and Pepper rolling happily around in the snow between direction changes.

Finally, Reese decided to head up the steepest trail on hill and we were making forward progress again. I was behind the team, pushing the sled and yelping encouragement, my stomach in knots with anxiety that he would turn the team around on the pitch. By the time the team disappeared over the top, I was about to vomit with exertion, frustration and mild hypoxia from all my yelling. As elated as I was that we made it over the awful hill on once piece, I also thought I should stop the sled and rid myself of the breakfast that was threatening. Instead I hung on and rode the brake down the other, less steep side, and down the trail.

Now I was watching carefully for the turn that would take us back behind the farm to the groomed trails. Despite my careful watch, the right-hand trail snuck up on us and Reese missed it. No problem, there was a second turn to the same trail just a few yards down. I stopped the sled. Reese didn't even look to the right, and made a left-sided U-turn instead. Back at the first turn, I dropped the snow hook, walked up and lead him down the appropriate trail. He lined the team out and moved forward, and I ran back to hop on and navigate the spruce trees the way of the sled. The sled got caught, and Reese took this halt to mean U-turn again ... and we were headed back towards the dreaded hill with several littlte green spruce branches decorating the sled, sled bag and my coat. I dropped the snow hook again, and walked Reese back to the correct trail. Spruce navigated, we started to make some forward momentum. Clear trail ahead, team lined out, no tangles, no more intersections for a few miles. I cheered internally, and then saw Reese look back, then pause and then ... my stomach dropped ... spin on the trail and head back towards the sled. I yelled NO and "Hike UP!!!" but to no avail. I dropped the hook and caught him before he passed me, doing my best to calmly walked him back the way were were headed. I was not feeling calm. I looked at my GPS. We had traversed less than two miles in just under and hour. Mostly, I felt like crying.

But suddenly Reese was moving forward, everyone was running, and we were hauling down beautiful snowed in trails, passing the backside of the farm, skimming up and down mellow rolling hills. We ate the next few miles. The few ruts weren't bad, we skipped over them without slowing. We got to the groomed trails, and followed someone's fresh ski-tracks, winding up through snowy birch forest. We came out on a huge intersection with a giant lighting-struck tree, turned and headed home.

The creek crossing was dicey. I slowed the team to a crawl just before the drop-off. The dogs hopped down onto the ice, but the tracks across the creek had been obscured by the overnight snow and Reese had never been this way. A lone set of rabbit tracks shot down the middle of the creek towards open water below the safe crossing. Reese saw them, and followed.

The sideways motion pulled the sled off track halfway down the drop, and the whole thing flipped. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the ice, knee throbbing from hitting a branch on the way down and the team was headed directly downstream to thin ice. I spread eagled with one hand on the handle bow, and, tired after seven miles in powder, everyone stopped. Reese wasn't sure what I wanted, so he just stood there, pointed downstream, tail beating the wind. I left the sled flipped and wedged against a frozen-in tree, and limped towards the trail on the other side of the creek. Parka and Devilfish followed, swinging the flipped sled around with them and breaking it loose. Reese saw their direction, and then saw the trail in the trees, and suddenly the team and the sled were flying past. I dove for the bow, flipped the sled, the dogs scrambled up the opposite bank and we were moving again and nearly home.

Exhausted, sore, frustrated, but still riding off the high of those last perfect miles, I snacked and watered the dogs and collapsed on the couch. Eventually, we had made it. Eventually, Reese had figured out the turns, figured out the trails. I hadn't lost my breakfast. Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.