The day was perfect. Ten below temperatures, a light dusting of new snow over well-set trails, sparkling blue sky and winter-wonderland trees all around. We crossed the creek and headed up towards the main trail system. My plan was to take a right at the T-intersection of the day before, and see if we could loop around to end up at the lighting tree, connecting us to the trails we'd already traversed on the western side of the little trail system.
Over the half-mile or so from the creek to the T-intersection, there are several smaller trails - much more visible now that we were running in full daylight - intersecting our path. I saw Reese hesitate at the first one, but called him "onby" and praised him when he did. At the second, slightly larger intersection, Reese hesitated a little more forcefully. I encouraged him past it, kicking a little behind the sled to ensure we didn't lose momentum but before the sled was past the crossing he'd stopped the team and was making a desperate U-turn on the narrow trail, plunging as fast as he could for the tiny unbroken trail we'd passed. I jumped off the sled before he passed me and blocked his progress, gently but firmly turning him around and lining him back out down the trail. He tried to follow me back to the sled twice before assenting to stay up front. I sighed with relief as the sled began to slide forward. Parka and Devilfish, still full of energy and irritated at this early stop were slamming their harnesses to get us moving again.
Reese ran five yards before turning around on the fly, hauling an increasingly nervous Xtra with him. I caught him again, firmly walked him forward ... and nothing. He didn't try to turn again, but neither would he move down the trail. Parka, Devilfish, Pepper and Norrin surged ahead when I called "Hikeup," and slammed directly into Reese (as Xtra dodged out of their way, trying her tiny level best to move Reese herself.) Reese clearly had no intentions to move on down the trail.
We stopped. I set the snowhook and walked up, giving everyone an ear rub and encouragement as frustration at these early stops mounted. Without taking time to think about it too much, I switched Reese and Norrin, putting my big PTSD boy up front with tiny Xtra. Norrin has lead with some success before, between melt-downs. And I knew Reese needed to be back in team for awhile. Norrin hesitated at first, but with Xtra beside him pulling forward he eventually plunged ahead. We quickly reached the T-intersection, and to my amazement Norrin took the turn on the fly, with just my verbal command, smooth as butter. What was going on? Had I totally misjudged him? We flew up the new trail, following ski-tracks and making two more perfect command-turns, winding first through frozen muskeg and then up gentle, narrow switchbacks into beautiful birch forest. Norrin and Xtra hauled together, Norrin slacking his tug periodically to look back but always surging forward again when I encouraged him. His power was evident as we climbed higher and higher into the hills. Whenever he slacked his tug, the sled slowed considerably and I had to kick to keep momentum, but as long as he was pulling I was able to ride - for the first time in my short mushing career - uphill without having to get off and run behind the dogs.
We came out on what I assume is the logging road we had encountered before at the lighting tree, but at a higher elevation. I peered downhill, but there was no lighting tree in sight. I turned the team uphill, wanting to explore further. In the deeper, unpacked snow they struggled and I ended up kicking behind the sled for awhile to help them plow forward. We were now running along a low ridge, everyone pulling well, Norrin taking my commands to pass a few promising turns back downhill. At about the four-mile point the road began to head steeply downhill, and I determined this would be the best possible time for a turn around. I stopped the sled, and Norrin immediately collapsed up front and started chewing snowballs from between his toes. I gave him a minute, moving forward to give everyone praise and a quick rub-down, including Pepper who, as is her habit, quickly fell to rolling blissfully in a happy explosion of snow and somehow managing to stay untangled in the midst of her lines and harness. I helped Norrin rid his paws of snow pack and then attempted to bring the leaders around so we could head home.
Norrin was not a fan of this move, and balked. His full eighty pound bulk dropped like a mule against my hand. Xtra, always happy to please and to follow, tried to come with me but was thwarted by Norrin's protest. The other four, knowing exactly what was up, began to turn on their own, pulling Norrin backwards by his harness and causing him to drop all the way to the ground and refuse to budge. I unclipped him from Xtra's neckline and grabbed him around the chest, struggling to haul eighty pounds of dead-weight mule forward until everyone was lined out. He lay where I dropped him in the snow, nonchalantly chewing on his front foot and watching a raven wing past overhead. I took a deep breath and walked back to the sled, pulled the hook and called everyone forward. It wasn't until Reese and Pepper slammed into Norrin's prone form that he jumped up and took up his responsibility as relief leader, but with no little slack in his tug.
A mile later, another pile-up. Just before the turn back down the birch switchbacks, Norrin simply stopped, sat down and started chewing on his paws again. This time, I was sure the fresher snow was balling up in his feet. But I hadn't brought booties for him and I am still unsure exactly how to use them as he, unlike the rest of the professional sled dogs, still has his dewclaws. I've been told booties over dewclaws cause chafing and blister the dog's wrists. There was nothing to be done but wait until he was ready to go. When he was finally satisfied with the state of his fuzzy grey feet, we set off again. He took the turn onto our backtrail without a command (thankfully, as I wasn't 100% sure WHICH side trail off the logging road was our back-trail at this point.) We flew down the birch switchbacks, occasionally slamming into trees on the corners as I yelped and eyed the alarming flex of the brush-bow at each blow.
It seemed that no time had passed before we were back on the road. I thought I should switch Reese back up front, since I know he knows the road home. But I was also wary of putting him back up front and Norrin seemed to be pulling just fine. I regretted this as soon as we reached the road. Norrin insisted on taking a left out of the trail, and only when the other dogs pulled him right by the back of his harness did he assent to heading in the correct direction.
I quickly saw that while we were out a snowplow had come through and scraped the previously snowy road down to ice and frozen dirt. We were running way too fast down the road and my brakes were utterly useless. When Norrin decided to take a left-turn up a dead-end road there was nothing I could do but hang on and try to keep the sled from flipping as I careened towards the snow-berm on the ice. I got them stopped after the turn, but there was NOTHING to throw the snowhook into - the snow plow guys had done a very thorough job of clearing the road and I was stuck. I didn't want to let go of the sled - there was NO traction on the road, even if I flipped it, but Norrin went from insisting on heading up the dead end to having a breakdown and laying down on the frozen dirt. Reese, who knew exactly what I wanted, tried in vain to lead the team around but with Norrin anchoring everyone uphill there was nothing Reese could do but slam his harness a few times and then give up.
After some slipping and sliding on my part, I managed to edge the sled over to the snow berm and flip it securely into the pack. I went up and switched Norrin and Reese out again. Up front, Reese took us back down to the main road and had us headed home. Relief. But at the next intersection, where I wanted him to head straight down towards our back-trail to the dogyard, Reese made a hard left. I yelled no, but my brake bounced ineffectively on the newly bare ice and we were heading up our street towards our driveway instead. I was frustrated and fuming as we made the tight turn down the driveway and I finally had some snow to slow the sled for our arrival in the yard.
Unbeknownst to me, Pete had happened to be in the stairwell with his iPhone and caught us coming in:
We made it home in once piece, with eight miles covered ... but what now? After my high and happy four-dog run Sunday night, I felt like we had taken a huge step back. Not only were the roads suddenly unsafe to use to access the trails, but Reese, whom I counted on to at least keep us generally moving forward in the midst of his U-turn obsession, had completely balked just a mile from the house. And Norrin ... could I count on him to lead, or not? Would doing so put us in jeopardy as we explore further and further from home? Back to the drawing board, and a few days at work to puzzle this all out before we try again.
No comments:
Post a Comment