Sunday, I was going to run the dogs to the lower Rosie Creek crossing - now that I knew the banks were passable - and then finally (finally!) figure out the bigger loop from the lightning tree. That was the plan.
This is what happened. I hooked Reese up front at first, because he is a rockstar at holding out the line while I get everyone else hooked up. He just lays down with his tug tight and howls, ignoring everyone and everything else, until we are ready to go. Once I had everyone clipped in, I put Pepper up front with Billie and put Reese back next to Xtra in swing.
I went back to the sled and pulled the hook. Devilfish, Parka, Norrin, Xtra and Reese tore forward. Billie and Pepper sat down and looked back as the train of dogs slammed into them. I stopped, set the snow hook, walked them forward, untangling Reese and Xtra as I went, then tried again. Rewind. Repeat. We were now ten yards down the trail, and Pepper, who had led so well yesterday for a long run with lots of turns and little challenges, was sitting in the middle of the trail looking freaked out and in no mood to budge. I switched her with Xtra, gave everyone pets down the line and went back to pull the hook.
Xtra tugged Billie, who was now hesitating himself, down the trail and in spite of a small bunch up we managed to get everyone strung out and pulling. I was relieved and also very nervous. This was not a good start to what I had hoped would be a nice long, exploratory run.
I made sure to call the left turn early at the bottom of the out-trail, and Billie and Xtra hopped over the berm onto the still very snowy road and headed left immediately. I relaxed. It was going to be just fine. We headed down the road at a good clip. There was tons of snow still, and I didn't have trouble slowing the team down to a reasonable pace as we approached this newish trailhead. I slowed more just before the trail and called Billie and Xtra to turn right. They plowed on. I slowed harder, then stopped. Everyone started barking, pointed straight ahead slamming harnesses, with a huge, wide, broken trail just next to them on the right. Reese looked at me, and then looked right. He saw the trail, a lightbulb went off and he plunged towards it. But he was thwarted by Pepper next to him and Billie and Xtra ahead. They weren't budging.
No problem. I fumbled for the snowhook and set it deep on the road snow, then got off the sled to walk forward and get everyone lined down the trail. We'd done this before. But while I was setting the hook, Reese changed direction and somehow, in swing, bowled Pepper over and then dragged Billie and Xtra back into the middle of the road for a classic u-turn. They were convinced by his confidence and I found myself jumping over lines to avoid losing my footing and diving for the team as they swung around. I got Billie and Xtra, swung them back in the correct direction and then on to the right down the trail.
From where I had set the snow hook, all but the wheel dogs were on the trail, pointed down away from the road. I made sure everyone was untangled and jogged back to the sled. Before I'd reached the handle bars, Billie had hauled the whole team back up to the road and was slamming his harness and barking for some forward give. I sighed, stamped the hook for good measure, and walked back up. By the time I'd arrived, Reese had bowled everyone over trying to u-turn the team from swing and there were tangles all around. I unclipped and sorted out and reclipped and decided that maybe Reese was my best bet after all ... as we were lined out ON A TRAIL and we were less than a mile from the house. I switched him for Xtra. I gave Billie some reassurance and make sure everyone was tight on the line, then headed back to she sled. No. Before I reached the sled, Reese was sprinting up the trail behind me, turning the whole team around and popping the snowhook with their momentum. I barely snatched the sled as it spun around. I stood on the brake and set the snowhook again.
Walked forward. Grabbed Reese and Billie. Walked them in a wide circle back down the road, then back down the trail. I stood with them for a minute, sorted out a couple more little tangles and lines, then walked slowly backward with my eyes on Reese. He stayed put. I reached the sled, stood on the brake, reached down and pulled the snowhook. The second my eyes left him, he lunged to the left, pushing Billie ahead of him, back to the road, all the way around, back the we had come. I held on tight to the sled as it spun, then set the snowhook again.
Less than a mile from the house. I was breathing hard and struggling with growing frustration and an overarching disappointment. We were going to explore! And get some good hills and mileage! The road was snowy, the ice on Rosie Creek was high! It was a beautiful blue-sky day with no wind! And it had been nearly twenty minutes now, and we were less than a mile from the house.
I looked up and saw a person patiently holding his dog at the corner of the road. Waiting for us to move on. But we were doing doughnuts, instead. I had no idea how long they'd been standing there, watching us flounder. Looking the other way, I saw another person struggling to pull their two dogs off the road to give us room to pass (since it now looked like we were headed in their direction.) I started to hook in again, but now the team was frantic to go SOMEWHERE and were slamming hard. Even with all the new snow, I could only dig in so far with the brake bar. We started inching forward. I swallowed and gave up and let them go. As we flew back down the road, I thought we could hit the upper Rosie Creek crossing and do our exploring from there. All was not lost. There was plenty of snow on the road, it would be easy to get there, the team knows those turns and trail heads by now.
We passed the two black dogs and turned to greet their owner and call out thanks for giving us space to pass. I didn't even notice that we had reached the little trail to the house, or that Reese and Billie were making the turn at full speed. By the time I did, the whole team was off the road and I was holding on to the sled for dear life as it launched over the berm. My yells of NO, and ON-BY falling on deaf ears. No. We were headed home. Half and hour after our stumbling, halting launch out of the yard, less than a mile and a half traveled, round trip, I unhooked and unharnessed dogs and sorted out lines and got the sled turned around. I realized, then, then I had totally forgotten about the sheared bolt and bar which had come loose last run and had been dragging for who knows how much of our short misadventure today.
Back in the house, stripping off layers, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. We were back to square one. Perhaps even further back than that. Even on our worst runs so far, we'd made five or six miles at least. I had a whole day off on Monday. I had been planning all week to truck the dogs to a new trail head, one I've been looking forward to trying with this team since I first realized I'd have dogs to run this winter. I've been itching for it - for the time to make the drive, and for team to come together enough to try it. And now we couldn't get out of the yard or much down the trail without headlong u-turns and tangles and panics and no forward progress and the certainty that I was absolutely not in control of my team. Despite our peaceful, heartening runs earlier this week that left me giddy with pride and anticipation, we apparently weren't ready for bigger, better, longer trails at all. We apparently couldn't get a mile from the house.
It didn't happen until two hours later, driving to town for work, but it did happen. I pulled over and had a good long cry behind the fogged up windows of my truck.
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