Three pups at the Sleddog Lodge
The Warren Iditarod Shrine
Stiff. That’s what I am when I awaken. Sore is an understatement. My shoulder aches, and even simple chores, like getting dressed, cause me to wince in pain. I am stiff and sore, but not broken. I decide to rest my shoulder by spending the morning visiting puppies and then driving the 60 mile round trip into town for groceries. Tom is out with a 10-dog team before I am even out of my sleeping bag. The dogs who remain look confused, dejected.
The Warrens have several batches of pups: a couple litters who are about 12 weeks old and one litter, out of Raven, who are about six weeks. Jim holds the runt of the litter, telling me how he almost died. Sick with worms and small, Jennifer has become this pup’s surrogate mother – something Jim says might not be best in the long run for the pup.
“Sometimes it’s best to let nature take its course,” he says. “They all can’t make it.”
The pup has wandering into the main dog yard several times, coming dangerously close to death. Now, Raven has become a neurotic first-time mom, ushering all the pups back to their house in the dog trailer if they wander even remotely too far away for her comfort. But the pups are getting bigger and harder to herd; they sass their mother when she tells them what to do, and even the little sickly pup cops an attitude.
Jennifer takes the runt from Jim, cuddling it.
Jennifer with the runt pup
“He smells like snow machine,” she quips.
The pup immediately snuggles down into the warmth of her parka.
“Last night, he ate a little kibble, then fell asleep, then woke up and ate a little more, then fell asleep again,” Jennifer says. “He’ll make someone a really nice pet, but I don’t think he’s going to be a sleddog.”
In town at the IGA, I disclose my out-of-town status through my use of the shopping cart. I have forgotten that the bagboys take groceries out to your car for you here, and quickly start putting bags into my cart. Blonde and youthful, the bagboy looks at me inquisitively.
“Clearly, I’ve forgotten where I am!” I say and grin, allowing him to take the bags back from me. He walks me out, loading the groceries into my truck, and I feel oddly helpless.
I take a back road out of town and find, to my surprise, a truck parked with a snow-covered deer head propped up on the tool box in the bed. The empty black eyes stare forward, the horns of several points are covered with a faint glint of snow.
Later that day, after Tom has returned, we go out to the yard to hook up my team for an eight mile run. I fumble from the pain in my shoulder. “Only,” a big, brown and white husky from Tom’s team, pulls away from me and runs loose in the yard, momentarily taking advantage of my injury. I somehow manage to hook my team up while Tom prepares his snow machine. I am worried I don’t know the trail system well enough yet. He offers to lead me out, but he says teasingly, “I can’t babysit ya forever, ya know!”
I release the snow hook, pull the quick release, and go flying. Tom flies faster, of course, and disappears up the trail and out of sight soon enough. My dogs get into a slow lope, and I have to ride the drag break at first to keep them in control.
At one point, we stop along the trail. Tom walks back to give each dog a pat on the head, then starts back for the snow machine. The dogs know it’s time to go, and like kids who can’t wait for the “go” when hearing “ready, set,” the dogs are off before I’ve gotten on the runners. I hang on to the handle bar, but I can feel myself tipping. I let go, landing hard on my left shoulder – my bad one – again!
I believe it was Don Bowers who said there are three rules in dog mushing: don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go. After zooming off to catch my team on the snow machine, Tom recounts the number one rule in Alaska to me: lose your team, lose your life.
Friday evening, the snow begins falling and the temperature drops. Three inches falls overnight. In the morning, we awaken to a wonderland. After wading through the snow, feeding and dog chores, Tom chats briefly with Jim about breaking trail with the snow machines. Hearing Jim and Tom talking over a map is like hearing another language. Various mushers have given spots along the trail systems unique names: the carrot trail, the cabin trail, the dumpster trail, the burn, Scott’s cutoff, the Gorge. Each trail has a story. The carrot trail was apparently named because Scott, the musher who “Scott’s cutoff” was named after, had dumped a big pile of carrots there for deer baiting, which is legal in Michigan. The cabin trail is named after a tiny little cabin secluded in the wilderness.
I join Tom on the snow machine for the 35 mile loop to break trail. Up far into what’s known as the Gorge trail, we spot the straight dotted line of fox tracks. They follow the trail along for about ½ mile before suddenly veering off left into the thicket.
Later on, when we return from breaking trail, I begin hooking up my team for another run. I can’t wait. I gulp down some hot cocoa, gear up, and head out. When the dogs see me, they begin their howling, barking chant of excitement. I hook up six dogs, and I’m off, this time leading with Tom behind me on the snow machine. I take the first left turn well, and on the first right turn, I notice the trail hasn’t been broken yet. A clean white ribbon of trail leads me through birch and spruce trees. It is quiet. The sled runners sound like the hull of a ship passing through the ocean; they creak and moan through the fresh powder. I hear the chink, chink, chink of the dogs’ tags and their pants and steady trot, which sounds like the steady motion of a locomotive, shush, shush, shush, shush. The boughs of spruce are heavy with snow now. Everything seems bathed in white. It is disorienting, and after a couple more turns, I realize I’ve taken a wrong turn. I’m now on the “outer loop” trail.
Tom catches up to me, passing me on the left and patting each dog as he passes by. He stops and asks why I went this way. I tell him I just realized I’d taken a wrong turn. He says, “it’s alright, we can go this way,” and take off in front of me.
I maneuver the turns and hills much better today. I’m getting the hang of this. The hardest thing so far is not getting lost – finding my way through the dizzying array of white-covered trees.
“He smells like snow machine,” she quips.
The pup immediately snuggles down into the warmth of her parka.
“Last night, he ate a little kibble, then fell asleep, then woke up and ate a little more, then fell asleep again,” Jennifer says. “He’ll make someone a really nice pet, but I don’t think he’s going to be a sleddog.”
In town at the IGA, I disclose my out-of-town status through my use of the shopping cart. I have forgotten that the bagboys take groceries out to your car for you here, and quickly start putting bags into my cart. Blonde and youthful, the bagboy looks at me inquisitively.
“Clearly, I’ve forgotten where I am!” I say and grin, allowing him to take the bags back from me. He walks me out, loading the groceries into my truck, and I feel oddly helpless.
I take a back road out of town and find, to my surprise, a truck parked with a snow-covered deer head propped up on the tool box in the bed. The empty black eyes stare forward, the horns of several points are covered with a faint glint of snow.
Later that day, after Tom has returned, we go out to the yard to hook up my team for an eight mile run. I fumble from the pain in my shoulder. “Only,” a big, brown and white husky from Tom’s team, pulls away from me and runs loose in the yard, momentarily taking advantage of my injury. I somehow manage to hook my team up while Tom prepares his snow machine. I am worried I don’t know the trail system well enough yet. He offers to lead me out, but he says teasingly, “I can’t babysit ya forever, ya know!”
I release the snow hook, pull the quick release, and go flying. Tom flies faster, of course, and disappears up the trail and out of sight soon enough. My dogs get into a slow lope, and I have to ride the drag break at first to keep them in control.
At one point, we stop along the trail. Tom walks back to give each dog a pat on the head, then starts back for the snow machine. The dogs know it’s time to go, and like kids who can’t wait for the “go” when hearing “ready, set,” the dogs are off before I’ve gotten on the runners. I hang on to the handle bar, but I can feel myself tipping. I let go, landing hard on my left shoulder – my bad one – again!
I believe it was Don Bowers who said there are three rules in dog mushing: don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go. After zooming off to catch my team on the snow machine, Tom recounts the number one rule in Alaska to me: lose your team, lose your life.
Friday evening, the snow begins falling and the temperature drops. Three inches falls overnight. In the morning, we awaken to a wonderland. After wading through the snow, feeding and dog chores, Tom chats briefly with Jim about breaking trail with the snow machines. Hearing Jim and Tom talking over a map is like hearing another language. Various mushers have given spots along the trail systems unique names: the carrot trail, the cabin trail, the dumpster trail, the burn, Scott’s cutoff, the Gorge. Each trail has a story. The carrot trail was apparently named because Scott, the musher who “Scott’s cutoff” was named after, had dumped a big pile of carrots there for deer baiting, which is legal in Michigan. The cabin trail is named after a tiny little cabin secluded in the wilderness.
I join Tom on the snow machine for the 35 mile loop to break trail. Up far into what’s known as the Gorge trail, we spot the straight dotted line of fox tracks. They follow the trail along for about ½ mile before suddenly veering off left into the thicket.
Later on, when we return from breaking trail, I begin hooking up my team for another run. I can’t wait. I gulp down some hot cocoa, gear up, and head out. When the dogs see me, they begin their howling, barking chant of excitement. I hook up six dogs, and I’m off, this time leading with Tom behind me on the snow machine. I take the first left turn well, and on the first right turn, I notice the trail hasn’t been broken yet. A clean white ribbon of trail leads me through birch and spruce trees. It is quiet. The sled runners sound like the hull of a ship passing through the ocean; they creak and moan through the fresh powder. I hear the chink, chink, chink of the dogs’ tags and their pants and steady trot, which sounds like the steady motion of a locomotive, shush, shush, shush, shush. The boughs of spruce are heavy with snow now. Everything seems bathed in white. It is disorienting, and after a couple more turns, I realize I’ve taken a wrong turn. I’m now on the “outer loop” trail.
Tom catches up to me, passing me on the left and patting each dog as he passes by. He stops and asks why I went this way. I tell him I just realized I’d taken a wrong turn. He says, “it’s alright, we can go this way,” and take off in front of me.
I maneuver the turns and hills much better today. I’m getting the hang of this. The hardest thing so far is not getting lost – finding my way through the dizzying array of white-covered trees.
My, you're getting quite an education up there! We're enjoying reading about your journey, especially since we don't need long johns and coyote fur to partake. hee hee. Your shoulder trials make me wonder- do dogs have a command for "whoa"? And, how good is that emergency brake, anyway? And, shouldn't your mentor be warning you about those sharp turns? hmmmmph! :)
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