At the time of this writing, there are still 28 mushers running the Iditarod race trail. There is much anticipation as to who will win Iditarod each year, and each year, there seems to be a fight to the finish among the top five teams. There are lots of stories of drama, challenges and adversity. This year's race certainly outdid itself in that category.
When the winners come in, it doesn't matter what time it is, the crowds gather. Cameras flash, and fans cheer far and wide. Now that 3/4 of the racers have arrived in Nome, it seems things have died down. When those last 28 roll into Nome, do they find the crowds gone?
I personally tip my hat to the back-of-the-packers, for while many if not all mushers face adversity on the trail, often it is those who are last to come in who face the most adversity, who run their own race despite odds and often in solitude. They're the mushers who run their own race without worry about what the others' strategy is or how far they have in lead. They are the ones who, for them, it's not so much a race as it is an experience, a journey with many places to stop and marvel at the amazing life unfolding.
Really, I have no business writing this. I am small potatoes compared to any Iditarod musher, regardless of where they finish.
But this is an homage to much more than the Iditarod. It is an ode to the lifestyle, to those who live outside the lines, those who run their race without thought about whether or not they are good enough. It's a tribute to those who know that just showing up is enough.
It's about setting goals and sticking to them, despite the odds. Those in the back-of-the-pack are often the ones who face the most adversity, who run in solitude having been left behind by faster teams. They are the ones who can face the toughest set backs, like Minnesota's Nathan Schroeder whose father reported that not only was his team sick with a virus and stalled at the White Mountain checkpoint, but Nathan himself was sick and "coughing blood."
It takes a special breed of person to run dogs. As Robert Service said in his poem "The Men Who Don't Fit In":
There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. If you're ever able to attend a dog sled race, stick around to welcome the back-of-the-packers. In doing so, you will welcome some of the toughest people with the most fortitude that you will ever meet. *Update: Nathan and Jodi Bailey came into Nome as I was writing this. Welcome in!
Training a team of sled dogs is not an easy task. It is often chaotic. It requires dedication and is back-breaking and messy. On a recent training run, I kept smelling dog poop. I suspected it was on one of the dog's harnesses or tug lines - something that happens frequently - but every time I checked when we were stopped, I saw nothing. Imagine my surprise when I realized, on finishing the run, that the glob of doggy doo-doo was in my hair! It had flown off the back tire of the four wheeler and flipped up onto my head!
It requires sacrifice. Inevitably, every year, there are nights when, after a long day at work, the last thing I want to do is trade in my heels for Muck Boots and head out into inclement weather for several hours in the night. But as I pass people snug in their houses watching reruns of Seinfeld for the umteenth time, I look up at the stars overhead, or see a pair of glowing eyes watching me from a thicket of trees, and I know where I am is better and that there's no place I'd rather be.
Training a team of sled dogs in northeast Ohio certainly has its challenges. When other mushers are on sleds, I am still on the four wheeler at Christmastime this year. While there hasn't been any snow in northeast Ohio this winter, there has been no shortage of moisture. Mud has become like my second skin. The dog's harnesses are so muddy when we return from training runs that they can practically stand up on their own. I'm so sick of mud, I could scream.
This season has brought a slew of unforeseen challenges in addition to the normal challenges of training a team in Ohio. For one, in October, when training runs are typically kicking into high gear, I was focused on trying to save Mojo and Feist, my two pups who died of parvo. It was emotionally and financially draining, and my training regimen and pocket book quickly became depleted. It seems I have played catch up in both areas ever since.
Additionally, a year and a half ago, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder. Without going into too many boring details, there have been moments this season when I honestly felt my body wasn't going to allow me to do what I needed to do to train up the dogs. I pride myself on having high tolerance for pain, and the ability to function well even with a lack of sleep or in pain and around chaos. But this season, some days have been practically debilitating.
I have done what I could, trying to take things in stride. As John Lennon said, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. It is a rookie mistake to set out at the beginning of a season thinking race plans are set in stone. Whenever living creatures are involved, there are always unknown variables, and first and foremost, mushers are taught to deal with adversity and always be prepared with Plan B. At one point, I resigned to potentially sit this year out race-wise.
Plans are fluid. Since I started mushing nine years ago, I have always attended the Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Classic. Unfortunately, because life happens, this will be the first year we will not be at that race since I started this sport. I am behind on training miles with where I would normally be at this time of the year, and rather than pushing the dogs, I have chosen to forego this favorite race in favor of a new race happening at the end of January: The IronLine Sled Dog Race. This will give us more time for training runs and conditioning.
As Christmas Eve rounds the corner and we settle in with family, friends gifts and merriment, it is 55 degrees and raining here in northeast Ohio. More moisture. More mud. Doesn't feel much like Christmas. So I must rely on pictures to help me remember.
Merry Christmas - may the season bring peace and lots of doggy howls (and not doggy doo-doo).
This is a sad story. It is one I debated on even writing, but there are lessons to be learned here, so I decided to share. This is Mojo's story. Mojo is a very special puppy born on July 28, 2014 from Cinder. Even though he is gone, I cannot bring myself to write about him in past tense. His father, Elrond, is a champion lead dog from the home of one of my best friends, Sharon Curtice, up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Mojo is a runt, like his father. I hate that word - "runt." Runt, small thing, weakling, underling. Such a negative connotation. There was nothing small about Mojo. There is nothing small about his father either. From the very beginning, Mojo was special. I called him my little freckled boy.
Mojo at one week
He had the most adorable speckled nose, and seemed to be split with a little stitch from God right down the center, from the middle of his forehead, right down his belly. And he was super relaxed and flexible.
Puppy Yoga, Mojo style
From the very moment Mojo was born, he was different. When I first wormed the puppies at 10 days of age with Pyrantel, a relatively well-tolerated, gentle wormer, he reacted strangely. His belly became distended and he cried and cried for hours. I felt helpless. Finally, he settled down. When his eyes opened a few days later, I noticed something else that was different about Mojo.
Mirage (left) and Mojo (right). His right eye was "off" - puppy "lazy eye"
And yet, he grew and thrived at the farm.
Mojo at two weeks
Mojo at four weeks
Mojo at seven weeks
He still had that "lazy eye" but he was thriving and blossomed into a gorgeous boy who wasn't that much smaller than the others. Suddenly, he was my favorite pup. He had a fantastic attitude, and though he was small, he was always at the front of the puppy pack on our jaunts around the puppy paths. Before long, Mojo quickly stole my heart.
He quickly became Elise's favorite too, and we doted over him, bickering over who would get to hold him. She usually won :)
Handsome Mojo at 8 weeks
I gave the puppies their first vaccinations on September 22. By September 30, I noticed Mojo was off. He had loose stools, and seemed listless, stopping to nap soon after I let the puppies out of their pen. While the other puppies were busy racing around, Mojo found quiet places to rest, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of puppy playtime. I brought him inside, kept him warm, fed him bland foods like rice and chicken. He was still eating well, He would perk up, only to fall into a slump again.
Finally, last Sunday, I contacted friends and race veterinarian husband-wife team, Kathy and Phil Topham. Phil was kind enough to see us on a Sunday morning. I suspected something called coccidia, which usually presents with foul-smelling, sometimes bloody diarrhea and lethargy - Mojo's symptoms. Dr. Topham ran a test for coccidia and it was positive. He opened a can of Prescription Diet A/D and Mojo lapped it up heartily. We left with Albon, several cans of A/D and were relieved, ready for Mojo to be on the mend. Mojo weighed 8.5 pounds.
Only things got worse. He stopped eating almost completely. We began force feeding/hydrating him. After several days on Albon, his condition deteriorated. We switched to Metronidazole.
I made an appointment with my regular vet for some tests and subcutaneous fluids for Mojo. A test for giardia came back negative, but what I feared the most - the test for Parvo - came back positive. And not just a little positive. The test operates like a pregnancy test, with a bubble turning blue if positive. It was bright blue. In the words of our vet, it glowed.
A blood panel also showed his white count was two, and the vet was concerned he was already septic. He had a heart murmur - something that had developed since Sunday.
Still he fought. We gave him 50 ml of saline fluids at the vet's office, and he sat up and tried to scratch the needle away. We flushed Amoxicillin and B-12 vitamins into the IV to try to jump start therapy. Mojo was down to 7.4 pounds.
We went home with a bag of fluids, lots of needles, and Amoxicillin prepared for a long night.
Only Mojo had other plans.
When we woke at 7:15 this morning, Mojo was gone. His little body could take no more.
Burying a puppy is just ... wrong. And yet, the deeper I get into dogs, the more of a reality it seems. Stuff happens. Life is fragile. Tenuous.
What I know is this: when Googling "Parvo Symptoms," vomiting invariably comes up. This symptom doesn't necessarily have to be present. Mojo's symptoms did not include vomiting at all - only very foul-smelling watery diarrhea, anorexia (lack of appetite), and lethargy.
What I also know is Mojo became sick despite being vaccinated.
What I also know as of the time of this writing is: all nine of Mojo's litter mates are thriving, with voracious appetites and minds full of mischief.
What I also know is, I keep replaying the last two weeks of Mojo's life in my mind, wondering if there was something I didn't do, should have done differently, could have done better.
But what I am left with are sad thoughts of a future lost. Mojo will never get to know what it's like to run with a team of sled dogs on the beautiful snow under the night stars. I'll never get to see him blossom into the leader I had a hunch he would have become. I'll never get to see him grow into his big feet.
I am so sorry, Mojo. You fought valiantly, and I did all I could. I love you.
Elise holding Mojo
For Mojo. July 28, 2014 - October 11, 2014
“When you leave, weary of me, without a word I shall gently let you go.” -- Kim Sowol
Writing about grief is difficult for me. To be honest, I get squirrelly. I learned how to compartmentalize uncomfortable feelings well from working in hospitals for years. It's not necessarily a skill I am proud of, but one of self-preservation - a necessary evil when working around the tragedy of the human experience.
But this is not a tragedy. This is a heroic tale of an amazing canine athlete, one exalted to magnificent heights; indeed, Foxy lived a full and amazing life. I had to take some time away from this subject in order to write a
proper tribute. In the quiet of a rainy post-holiday, it seemed the
perfect time to slip away and lose myself in reflections of Foxy.
She would have been 17 on December 28. Seventeen in dog years is...119 years old. She was born on what I'm told was one of the coldest nights ever in Eagle, Alaska: December 28, 1996.
There are many stories from many people about Foxy and how she touched their lives, but I will start with my own.
I first met Foxy in September of 2006.
She was the first sled dog I bought. Her dense, woolly coat was unlike anything I'd ever seen on a dog; it seemed to almost glisten with an oily sheen that protected her skin and kept her dry and warm. Her huge paws had long tufts of hair growing out from between the pads to protect her feet; the same tufts grew out of each ear. Everything about Foxy made her perfectly equipped for the tundra of Alaska.
She had been transported from her home in Eagle, Alaska by one of the few other mid-distance mushers in Ohio, Tom Roig.When I brought her home after buying her from Tom, I spoiled her in ways she'd never been. She adjusted quickly to life inside, however. ...
I had hoped to use Foxy for at least one season, but when I got her, she was already nine years old, and pretty much done with being a sled dog. And really, she had earned the right to relax on the sofa. After all, she had run 950 miles of the 1,000 mile Yukon Quest sled dog race in single lead for Wayne Hall in 2002, and had literally run thousands of miles in her lifetime to that point.
She was in a book. She was in a movie. And she became the educational ambassador for my dog sled presentations; as such, she touched the lives of so many. Here are some photos from the many dog sledding talks we've done over the years:
Foxy learned quickly how to "work the crowd" in our talks. She walked up and down the aisles during our talks, stopping to visit each member of the audience for a pat on her fuzzy head. She taught Miles, my current education dog, how to work a crowd too.
Miles at only four months of age during one of my dog sledding presentations
A couple years ago, Foxy developed painful arthritis and retired fully from everything, spending her days sleeping peacefully here at the Ranch and wandering our seven acres.
This spring at the Ranch. A week old hen watches as Foxy walks by
Over the last week of her life, she woke me up crying out in the night - something Foxy never did. Her body was finally failing her after almost 17 amazing years. Her body may have been elderly, but her heart was still strong and refused to give up. Finally, I had to make the painful decision to ease her into the final stage of life.
Mushers
have such a special, unique relationship with their canine friends and team mates. We
spend so much time with them, are responsible for their happiness,
health, and often witness as they take their first breath. But, we also
have a responsibility, I think, to be with them when they take their
last. I am honored to say I was right beside Foxy when she took her last.
Foxy lived a very full life. She touched the lives of so many, first
with her athletic prowess and sharp mind, and later in life, with her
gentle demeanor and patience with all people. I am honored to have had nearly seven years with Foxy, and to know well her life story. I am honored to have worked beside her both when she was in harness and in the classroom. She brought such joy and light to everyone she met.
My eight-year-old-daughter, Elise, bravely came with me to the vet on the final day of Foxy's life. As I knelt beside Foxy crying in the sterile office, Elise said, "don't worry, mommy. I've said a prayer for Foxy."
"What was your prayer?" I asked through my tears.
"I asked God to take away Foxy's pain, and take her spirit up to Heaven where she can run in the snow like in Alaska, forever and ever like a puppy again."
It's not even Memorial Day yet - the official "kick off" of the summer season - and the temps have already been above 90 degrees a few times here at the Ranch. Some may like these temps, but huskies - and really most dogs - do not!
I go to great lengths to keep our doggy family members as cool as possible between May and August. They all have 24/7 access to large buckets of cold, fresh water in each of their kennels or at their dog houses, and we have a kiddie pool that the dogs like to play in on hot days.
Because we live only two miles away from a large state park and lake, I often take a pack of dogs to the beach! Here is a video from our sled dog swimming session this evening. It was 10 month old, Tosh's (all white dog) first adventure in the lake!
Sometimes, something happens that throws even my own story telling abilities for a loop. Lots of people have asked for updates about our first race, and when I sat down to tell the tale, I didn't know where to begin. So, I did what I suggest you do: grab a cuppa joe, sit back, and read on for the harrowing tale of Aspen's get away.
The dogs and I arrived in the Upper Peninsula on Thursday - just enough time for a short 15 mile run to stretch the legs before race day on Saturday. I had been fretting before we left because one of my main dogs - Tak - had come into full standing heat. I decided to bring Aspen, who I had dropped from training for obnoxious behavioral issues like neckline chewing, and turning around on the gangline. Aspen was also coming into heat, but was not as far along as Tak.
Our pre-race run went off without a hitch. The team looked great, and I was only going to take them 10 miles, but they looked so strong, I let them go a little further.
My team stopped on the trails outside of Nature's Kennel
Things seemed beautiful on our short run, with more than adequate snow cover - enough to hook down with snow hooks. When we arrived at the drivers' meeting Friday night, however, we received a different message. Trail boss, Bob Shaw, went over the trail conditions for the race course, warning that there were bare spots and lots of ice in the beginning right out of the starting chute. Conditions up at Rainbow Lodge where the race start is held can be very windy, which was the case the morning of the race start. Wind had apparently blown much of the snow cover off the open parts of the course, and with the mild temperatures and thaw a day or so before the race, and then the freeze again, the start was an ice rink.
I spotted my friends Larry and Joann Fortier parked in the 8 dog pro parking area and walked up to Joann.
"Have you walked the chute yet?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Go walk it. It's scary," she said.
Sure enough, it was every bit what Bob Shaw described. Barren with mostly ice, some rocks, and a big mound of dirt/sand about 30 feet from the starting line.
"Okay, it is what it is," I thought. "We will make the best with what we've got."
Mushers always have the option of not running a race course if they think it is unfit or are worried about it for whatever reason. But, I had driven nine hours for this race, and it is always one of my favorites. Tahquamenon country is some of the most beautiful winter country I've ever experienced on a dogsled. Not running it was not an option.
The Start
I was super delighted to be joined by my friend and supporter, Dennis Waite, at the race site. Dennis has single handedly contributed more to our success this season than any other sponsor.For whatever reason, Dennis believes in me. He says I have "grit." :)
Dennis and me with overstuffed pockets at the race site before the Tahquamenon race
The race site was barren. I wondered briefly if we'd even be able to make it to the starting line, there was so much grass exposed.
Hooking up eight mutts
I was most nervous about the very beginning. But, really, it was clean sailing through the starting chute. It was afterward that things began to get hairy, and it had nothing really to do with the trail initially.
Leaving the starting line
Yeti, my big male leader (on the left in the photo above) has this habit of stopping the team on a dime to poop. When this happens, I have to quickly react with the brake - otherwise, I have a tangled up bunch of dogs on my hands. Ruffian, my other leader (white dog on the right in the photo above) has an equally annoying habit of turning around to look at the team and me when we stop for Yeti to poop. Within the first mile, this scenario happened, except, we were on solid ice - nothing for my brake to grab onto in order to stop abruptly. Before I knew it, I had a tangled mess up front, and no way to stop the team in order to fix things.
I frantically began looking for a tree or anything to hook to, but there was nothing. The eight dog pro class was full with 20-some teams signed up, including Ryan and Erin Redington, and blazing fast competition. While I struggled to find anyplace to hook to, the competition was flying past me and my dogs became increasingly tangled. And furious with each other.
Tangled dogs tend to blame their neighbor for their entrapment. It's like they can't wrap their doggie brains around what's happening and have to lash out at someone in their frustration. This situation was quickly happening between Ruffian, and Gwennie, my point dog just behind Ruffian who were beginning to fight. I desperately needed to right this situation, and fast.
I finally took a chance. I managed to vaguely hook down on the berm along the icy roadside and jumped off the sled, running up to my leaders and whoaing the dogs repeatedly praying to God they didn't take off without me. They were so tangled, however, that they likely couldn't have gotten very far if they had taken off without me. I got my leaders and point dogs untangled, but missed Aspen, in wheel, who had other things in mind.
Aspen's Getaway
Remember I said I had dropped Aspen from training? She had probably chewed through thirty necklines this fall alone. I tried everything - running chains so she couldn't chew for a month, doing mock hook ups to correct the behavior - but as soon as I put a poly neckline back on her, she was back at it, chewing her way through the thin 6 millimeter rope in one snap.
Unbeknownst to me, while I busily untangled the mess I had in the front of my team, Aspen was chewing away like a beaver in the back of my team. In a flash, suddenly, she chomped through her neckline, backed out of her harness, and was gone loping beautifully and freely up the trail without us like some wild and gorgeous gazelle, all legs and flash.
I have to admit, it was a sight to see, watching her loping up the trail next to other teams. She was having a blast! And luckily, I free run my dogs daily, so she comes faithfully when I call her.
Only, this time, she had apparently lost her hearing...or she was just having too much fun to pay attention to me, because she didn't seem to notice me screaming her name.
I hopped back on the sled and off we went, chasing Aspen up the trail.
We chased her for a good mile before we came to a turn off where the trail goes into the trees. Former musher-turned-trail-help Lyle Ross stood at this turn off.
"Did you see a loose dog?" I yelled at Lyle
"Yea," he said nonchalantly. "There are people at the first road crossing. They'll catch her."
We turned the sharp left into the trees. I saw Aspen two teams up still loping along joyfully. Then, she stopped abruptly, looked at me, and then suddenly darted into the woods. I feared the worst. If she didn't come back to me, I would be disqualified. Worse yet, I didn't want her loose in those woods, which are populated with wolves.
I began to get a bit angry. I thought, "if I catch Aspen, I am dropping her at the first dog drop! That's it!"
But then I remembered my own mantra: they're just dogs.
It wasn't Aspen's fault she was causing such chaos. She was having fun cavorting about with her fellow doggie friends. She was just being her silly, flirtatious, fun-loving doggie self.
We turned the curvy, winding trail and I continually stopped to attempt to hook down. In vain. I thought if I could just stop the team and call her, she would come to me and I could hook her back in the team. Meanwhile, teams kept passing me. Once, while I attempted to hook down, Bruce Magnusson, winner of the 8 dog pro race, suddenly came up behind me and his leaders necklined the back of my knees. He apologized profusely, but I felt bad too as if my dog wasn't loose, I wouldn't have been trying to hook down in the first place!
Finally, after at least 45 minutes of attempting to hook down in vain, my friend Liza Dietzen came up behind me. She passed me and asked if I was alright. I explained briefly that my dog was loose, and just then, Aspen appeared on the trail. Liza and I somehow managed to hook down - me to a tree and I'm not sure how Liza stopped. Liza reached down and gently grabbed Aspen's collar, and I ran up and grabbed her. I thanked Liza, telling her I owed her one, and she was off.
In seconds, I had Aspen back in harness, a new neckline attached to the mainline, and had her back in the team. I hupped the dogs, and around this time, we headed into the trees where the trail was more normal for this time of year in the U.P. Aside from a little bumpy ride at the first road crossing, and a little icy section through a logging yard, the trail was gorgeous, and everything I remembered. We had a fairly uneventful rest of the 42 mile course. Before I knew it, we had reached the road crossing back that marked five miles left of the race. And for all of the craziness, I had a blast.
A beautiful photo by my friend and fellow photographer, Aladino Mandoli, of my colorful team running down the race trail
A little bumpy ride at the first road crossing leaves me looking a bit nervous :) Another beautiful capture by Dino - thanks Dino!
Red lantern
No matter how long I'm out on the trail, I don't ever want our runs to end. I started running dogs thinking 10 miles was long. We gradually moved into 20 and 30 miles because I just couldn't get enough. I can honestly say, at the end of this 42 mile race, I didn't want it to end.
I said when I started this journey six years ago that I wanted to eventually run the U.P. 200 - a 240 mile checkpoint race and Iditarod qualifier. I have also said I had no interest in ever running the Iditarod.
But, for the first time, not only can I see that goal of running the U.P. 200 becoming a reality, I am not opposed to doing a super marathon like the Iditarod. Someday...
I don't care where we place in our standings. I knew going into this race that the competition was fierce, and that we would likely be at the back of the pack. I don't race to hurry through and get to the end, never seeing the beauty all around between the start to the finish line.
We ended up finishing the 42 mile race course in 4 hours, 58 minutes and some seconds, and winning the red lantern. But I am super proud of my fur kids. They held a steady pace, and finished tired but happy and healthy, which is all I could ask for. And five hours out on that beautiful trail wasn't possibly enough, so after a day off, we headed out for another 20 mile run :)
And, maybe I shouldn't even race, because really, I just love being out there in solitude with my dogs in the woods. It's the ride I adore, not the end point.
My huskies love water. Seven and a half month old, Miles, was apprehensive of the water, however. Thanks to his older mentor, Kerouac, Miles gets the hang of the water pretty easily.
It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Stay safe! Enjoy summer!
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