bridge work

Pete arrived back just in time to take care of the dogs & house while I went to work for a couple of days. I was with him for about four hours between picking him up from the airport and heading out, and most of those four hours I was trying hard to get some sleep. While at work, the temperatures rose to a balmy zero degrees but my heart sank when I saw the forecast: the warm spell would last about as long as my two-day shift.

When I arrived home, however, it was still only ten below zero although the bottom was slowly dropping out. I fed the dogs and Pete and I bundled up and ran our busted up little Ford station wagon in to a mechanic in town. We bought the thing for $900 five years ago from a girl I met at yoga, and it has run - with a few major tune-ups here and there - like a well oiled machine ever since, come gravel roads and snow and ice and brutal cold and many long, long Alaskan road miles. This time, however, the usual noises and rattles seemed a little more ominous. Gripping the clunking and shaking steering wheel, I limped the wagon into town and pulled in to the oddly deserted mechanic shop with Pete in the truck right behind me. On the window glass of the office, written hastily with a sharpie, were the words: Moved to Van Horn Road, across from Northern Power Sports. Not even an address. I guess we hadn't been here in a while. I consulted with Peter, then started to back the station wagon out of the parking lot. No dice. The engine revved, but the gears clunked and cracked one last time and didn't engage. The deserted mechanic shop was as far as it was going to go. At least we'd made it into town, and into an out-of-the-way parking lot. Fearing the worst, we pulled out all the extra oil & anti-freeze bottles, jumper cables, sleeping bags, gloves and blankets and called a tow truck to take it the rest of the way.

Back home, we quickly loaded dogs and the sled in the truck and headed for the Goldstream trails. With the roads plowed back to ice and trails not yet opened up over the berms, I didn't want to run from home. Now that I had Peter to help, I figured we'd have a nice long run in the valley and I'd be able to continue my Reese re-training with a bigger team and some company. We set out at a good clip with Reese and Billie up front and Pete in the basket. It wasn't a quarter mile before Reese was slacking his tug and looking back at me. I yelled NO and peddled behind the sled a bit. I yipped encouragement for all the dogs to speed up. He never quit looking back at me, every few steps. It wasn't long before he made his move, and before Pete could jump out or I could run forward he had enacted the most incredible tangle of lines I have yet seen. Lead dogs were tangled with wheel dogs and the team was so wrapped up that I had to completely release every single dog in turn, sometimes holding two dogs' harnesses in one hand while fumbling with impossible knots with the other, to get everyone sorted out. Despite the constraints on her lines and all around chaos, Pepper managed to dive off the trail into a snowdrift and completely disappear in the powder for a moment before returning with a gleeful, explosive shake. No matter what I did with him, Reese continued to dive back towards the sled, threading through as many lines as possible, every time I got him sorted out.  Finally, I let him go and had Pete hold him away from the team. All of this, and we were two thirds of a mile from the truck.

Not sure exactly what to do, but sure this was the last straw for me letting Reese run up front, I considered my options. I still wanted Norrin alone in team, but I didn't want Reese in swing where he could still influence the leaders and cause more disastrous tangles. In the end, I decided to move Xtra up to run with Billie in lead, and brought Devilfish up from wheel to run with Pepper in swing. Although Parka is a better fit for size and stride with Pepper, she sometimes has issues with other female dogs and I didn't want to add an altercation to today's list of run difficulties. Reese, for his part, was demoted to wheel. Finally sorted out and lined up, we got moving again. We've done this out-and-back several times now, and I was confidant that Billie and Xtra could hold their own around the familiar turns and cross trails.

The next big obstacle we faced was the dog-eating bridge troll under the Goldstream Creek bridge. I was hoping that a week's worth of positive, solid runs in his new tangle-free solo-team position had instilled some confidence in Norrin. But it was just a wild hope, and the one-on-one bridge-therapy I was thinking about doing had never happened. So our strategy was this: we would run up to the bridge as usual. If Norrin balked before we reached it, I would quickly stop the sled, unclip Norrin and let Pete take the team across without us. Then I would firmly and calmly walk Norrin across alone (hoping that having the team safely on the other side would motivate him to keep moving) clip him back in and we would keep running as if nothing had happened. I wanted to strike a balance between avoiding positive reinforcement (positive attention, praise or a break from running) for fear-behavior and yet not make facing his fears traumatic, solidifying the problem. Ultimately, I need Norrin to trust me when I ask him to do something, and do it even if he is afraid.

To our astonishment, Norrin ran right over the bridge as if crossing bridges was his singular specialty. His tug was tight the whole way across and his steady, ground-eating trot never faltered. Although I had hope that my theory about instilling confidence through other, all-positive runs would prove out, I was still holding out final judgement for our return. Norrin's bridge freak-outs have always started earlier and been much worse on the gentler, longer approach from the far side.

We ran around the valley under the power lines for a little over five miles, then turned the team around. Pete drove on the way back, and I settled into the basket. It was the longest either of us has ridden as a passenger, and by the time Pete took over driving he was quite chilled. He warmed up quickly once he was on the runners, but I found that as as comfortable as I was nestled in the basket with my giant boots and hood ruff tightly around my face, my hands - which had sweat through two layers of liner gloves dealing with the giant tangle, but had stayed plenty warm while I was driving - were getting colder and colder. On a long straightaway a few miles into my ride, I realized they weren't getting warm on their own and I needed to do something about it. And pretty quickly. I didn't have an extra pair of liner gloves with me, but I did have a pair of heavier over gloves that were still perfectly dry. I pulled the liners off my right hand first, and as I did so I realized they weren't just damp. They were soaking wet. I winced when my hand hit the cold air and quickly fumbled to shove the stiff fingers into the dry over-glove. At that moment, the sled plunged off the trail into powder on the side of the trail and flipped on its side. The gloves went flying and my now bare-and-wet hands dove deep into the snow.

There is a moment when the cold in extremities goes from being painful to critical. Circulation truly starts to shut down, and the body sends an emergency burst of adrenaline that can help get you past whatever pain or numbness is present to fix the issue, but also carries an edge of panic. My hands were, of course, in no danger. We were just a few miles from the truck on a windless day, and I had dry gloves in my pocket and giant over-mitts available in the sled. Peter, with perfectly warm and dry hands, was right next to me. However after my gloveless spill into the snow, my wet hands briefly reached that point of cold where there is only weird numb pain, a general loss of fine motor movement and an undercurrent of panic. We righted the sled and I quickly shook the snow out of my sleeves and shoved the big gloves over my stiff fingers. Pete held the team while I hopped around, swinging my arms to restore circulation and warmth. After a minute, I slid back into the basket and we were off.

My fingers were perfectly warm in a minute or two, but the quick transition from a little cold to unusable reminded me once again that I have to be aggressive about keeping my hands dry. The liners get wet quickly when I'm working with the dogs - either hooking up or sorting out tangles - and I need to be on top of changing out wet gloves for dry ones before my hands have a chance to get cold at all.

We watched Norrin carefully on the approach to the bridge. From this side, the bridge is visible for about fifty yards before you reach it, with a gentle approach that allows Norrin to get worried and then totally freak out and sit down in the middle of the trail well ahead of the structure itself. Again, we watched closely, looking for any sign of panic. And marveled as Norrin ran across the bridge like he did so every day of his life.

Just past the bridge, we passed two skijorers being pulled two dogs each. It was the first time Pete had made a pass while driving, and because of the angle of the bridge and our focus on Norrin, we didn't see the skiers until we were on top of them. They'd had a chance to move to the side a bit, but not pull their dogs all the way off the trail. Normally, I'd have stopped the team to let them clear well off the trail before attempting to get past. Our team passed perfectly despite their lunging huskies, though I know it was a bit close for comfort.

Over the last three winters, I've been impressed with the excellent trail etiquette around here. The general rule is that machines yield to muscle powered transportation, and that smaller teams or individuals yield to bigger/faster teams or travelers. On straight stretches with lots of time to see an approach (from ahead or behind) and plenty of snow to stop and yield, this works great. However on narrow, curving trail passes can start happening before either musher is aware that there is another team in their midst. Back when Pico was running in the team, I lived in terror of running into other trail users, knowing that his frantic screeching attentions and eagerness to interact and follow and chase would both freak out whoever we encountered and probably cause a tangle or worse, even with our then-little team. Now, having a team that acts as if there isn't a thing on the trail worthy of their time as they fly by, that feeling of dread is long gone. I no longer have to run on weekday mornings or late at night to avoid other trail users. Despite all the other troubles the team has had this winter, this confidence and the freedom it brings is wonderful feeling to carry down the trail.