"...and miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost

She walks gingerly through the grass, picking her feet up high in a sort of prance, as if the grass contains some substance she detests. She lifts her long slender legs, exposing the shaved ring around her left forearm which betrays her gallant attempt to pretend all is well. That ring tells a story; it hasn't been too long since that horrible night of relentless seizures I thought would kill her. The discharge papers from the hospital said status epilepticus.

That night, as I carried her convulsing body into the hospital, a tech ran toward me.

"Permission to cath?" the tech yelled to me over the chaos. She wanted permission to place an IV line.

Life for Big Brown - B.B. - would change irrevocably that night.

"Yes! Of course!" I yelled back.

We returned home with Keppra, an anti-epileptic medication B.B. would take for the rest of her life, and questions, mainly, why? Why would a 10-year-old dog suddenly have violent grand mal seizures? My suspicions were that things were not good.

Since that night we've returned for more tests and x-rays in a more controlled, less acute and chaotic climate, and my suspicions were confirmed. I've put off writing this post because somehow I thought if I didn't write it, it wouldn't be reality. But it is reality.

B.B. has always been thin, and for a sled dog, a finicky eater. But her weight has held consistent her whole life at 38 pounds. This day, the scales revealed she'd lost five pounds in just 13 days.

Dr. Kaegi met me in the dark x-ray room. 

"Can you see anything?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said as she flipped the lights off "and unfortunately, just as we suspected, it's not good." 

On the screen were two films, one clearly showing B.B.'s ribcage, heart, and trachea illuminated from behind, and the other of her gut. She's had relentless diarrhea since this whole thing started despite my best efforts to alleviate it with over-the-counter remedies, so we elected to take x-rays of her gut to get a clear picture of what's going on inside. 

On the film on the right, in front of the iridescence of florescent light, beside the darkish mass of B.B.'s heart was another, darker mass. This dark mass, a dull cloud in an otherwise normal film, was home to rampant and unchecked cell division. Cells gone to the dark side and run amok. I pictured them as wild, unkempt, unruly children laughing manically. It was undeniable and evident even to an untrained eye.

Cancer.

The film showed three small metastases or "mets" within B.B.'s lungs. About 20 months ago, I discovered a small, quarter-sized lump on her chest. I promptly had it removed within a week of discovery, with clean margins that I'd hoped meant cancer would be gone forever. Breast cancer metastasizes to two places, primarily: the lungs and the brain. 

In the nine days since learning this news, my focus has been on comfort care. We left that office visit with more drugs and probiotics, and I've kept beef, chicken and rice stocked in the kitchen to whet B.B.'s palate. She has good days and not so good days. On good days, she prances in the grass in what's become her trademark high-stepping stride. She eats heartily and goes for car rides. On not-so-good days, she quivers on the sofa, seemingly cold, but simultaneously panting and drooling. On good days, the light is in her eyes and she smiles. On not-so-good days, she seems disoriented, confused, and sleeps a lot.

This last winter, I took B.B. and four other dogs one what would be her last sled run. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. I wonder now if those mutant cells were working to proliferate even then.

As she pranced through the grass today, it struck me that these are the final days of her life. But then I remember what an extraordinary life she's led.

B.B. has become my main education dog, doing presentations and dog sled demos all over Ohio and into Michigan. In March, B.B. attended her biggest school presentation in Logan, Ohio, meeting and greeting about 500 elementary school students as we presented about dog sledding.

B.B. at a library presentation in 2014

With about 500 students of Green Elementary School in Logan, Ohio

My daughter, Sophie, came over from Ohio University to help with the presentation at Green Elementary

I think of all the dogs I've lost over the years for a variety of reasons: Kahlua, Gracie, Foxie, Gwennie, Thelonious, Mojo, Punk, Feist... and all the dogs I've known, trained and worked with - literally hundreds - over the years, and I don't know if I've spent as many solid hours adventuring and working as I have with Big Brown.

She has been with me on almost every single race I've done in my mushing career from triumphs

 and through adversity.

Over the last 10 years, we have spent hundreds and hundreds of hours in the deep recesses of forests in the midwest hiking, camping, running, and racing. She has helped train young leaders...

And shouldered dogs twice her size into turns.

We have grown together, from our humble beginnings...

Punderson Sled Dog Classic. Photo by Nicolas Skidmore

Taquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Sigurd Utych

to larger races...

Midnight Run. Photo by Aladino Mandoli

Tahquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Aladino Mandoli

Midnight Run. Photo by Nace Hagemann

We've run along the shores of Lake Superior...

in fierce blizzards and storms...

And magical places that look like something out of Narnia.

We've run at night...

Copper Dog. Photo by Brockit

We've run alone in the silence only winter can bring.

We've camped out...

And stayed in...

B.B. has met many people, from tiny ones...

To grown ups ...

To people who cared for her...

With one of our favorite members of the Copper Dog veterinary team

We've loved...

And in the end, that's all that matters, right?

Thinking about losing B.B. is so painful I haven't wanted to write about it. I intermittently become emotional at the strangest times. I think of all the adventures I still wanted with her. I owe my entire racing career to this dog... and she is so much more than "just a dog." Mushers spend more one-on-one hours with their dogs than anyone I know. The bond that develops is so, so deep from those hours spent in the woods.

For now, B.B. sleeps contentedly on the sofa as I type. And we wait, cherishing every moment.

CopperDog recap and top 5 mushing myths debunked

I put my sled away today. The dog trailer is cleaned out and put away as well. It would seem the season has come to an end. And I haven't even updated here!

At the very top of a map of Michigan is a wide strip that runs along Lake Superior known as the Upper Peninsula (U.P.). This area of Michigan is confusing to most of the U.S. population and even some Midwesterners. The U.P. is like no other place I've ever been, and has an identity and culture all its own. Separated from lower Michigan by Lake Michigan and the Mackinaw bridge - the "Mighty Mac," - the U.P. is a stones-throw away from Canada. Once, on a pier in Whitefish Point, I walked to the end and my cell phone thought I was in Canada.

If you continue to look at that map of Michigan, and the U.P., you'll notice at the top of that long strip a peninsula, called the Keeweenaw.

Some call Grand Rapids in the lower part of Michigan the "thumb," but the Keeweenaw is the real thumb. Jutting out into Lake Superior, the Keeweenaw is the "thumbs up" of the U.P. - the fat phalange that says "Say yea to the U.P., eh"; the hitchhiker of Lake Superior; the universal symbol of approval. This particular phalange gets quite cold in February. Best bring some mittens.

Snow whirled around in the arctic equivalent of a dust devil on the horizon as we headed across M-28 again for the second time in two weeks. Only this time, it was a balmly 10 degrees. The dogs were tired of riding in their dog boxes - individual wooded dog compartments that, in my case, sit atop a 13-foot flatbed trailer. A traveling dog condo on wheels. We had traveled 582 miles, and still had nearly 200 miles to go to Calumet, the little thumbnail in the thumb of the Keeweenaw, the very tippy-top of the Keeweenaw Peninsula.

Dog races, for me, are a blur of traveling hundreds of miles, scrambling to mandatory musher meetings, gearing up and heading out on the race trail for hours. This particular race - the 40 mile portion of the Copper Dog 150 - is especially blurry. I worked until 5 p.m. Wednesday evening, and left with eight dogs early Thursday morning traveling 760 miles. Our veterinary check was at 11 a.m. on Friday morning, leaving little time for dilly dally. Or sleeping.  Our start time for the race was 8:18 p.m.

It may all sound exhausting from an outsiders perspective. Many have remarked that it sounds "stressful," or "draining." But this is what gives me energy, fills me up and brings me joy. Which got me to thinkin'...

As I drove across the U.P., I thought of all of the things others have said to me about this sport. These mushing myths are so common, I can't begin to recount how many times I've heard them. Aside from debunking the most common myth -- that sled dogs are all Siberian huskies (that only happens in Disney films) -- I thought I'd set the record straight about some of the other myths I hear so often. Here goes.

5. "Do you ever sleep?" I seem to hear this often. I think it's because most of the races I run are at night. Um, yes I sleep. In fact, I guard my sleep time like a proverbial mother bear guards her cubs. And while it might be true that mushers have a higher tolerance for functioning without regular sleep, most mushers I know make up for the sleep they don't get when they're not racing. I prefer running dogs at night, though on this particular race last weekend, my headlamp malfunctioned. Not to worry: mushers are required to carry a spare as part of their "mandatory gear" for just such an occasion. Only my spare was a cheap-o 80 lumen dim flicker I'd bought at a local feed store for $15. Luckily, unlike the Jack Pine two weeks earlier, we ran under the light of a perfect 3/4 moon and clear, star-filled U.P. sky. But I never want to run a race in the dark again! I've already purchased a new headlamp, and I am catching up on sleep - hence the slow blog post.

4. "Your dogs must love the cold!" While it is true that Alaskan huskies are made for cold weather, not all of them are equipped to run headlong into a blizzard at 30 below. Like people, their coats vary; some of them are shorter coated, have less body fat or just prone to being chilled. In fact, we mushers carry just about as much gear to protect our dogs from the cold and wind as we do for ourselves. We slather goop onto our dog's paw pads and cover their feet with booties to protect them from ice and snow. During the race this past weekend, I ran two of my dogs in custom-made jackets to protect them from the temperatures. And, when it gets really cold, mushers have special covers made to protect a dog's "private parts" from frostbite.

3. "I expected your dogs to be bigger." This is probably the number one thing I hear at sled dog demonstrations, races and from non-mushers. I can't speak for other musher's teams, and the sizes of Alaskan huskies varies, but, in general, the average size of my males is about 55 pounds and 45 for the females. My main leader, Big Brown, is 37 pounds. The dogs were bred for speed and endurance, and the fact is, Malamutes are pretty darned slow! My typical response to this comment is "you don't see many large marathon runners, do ya!"

My tiny main leader, Big Brown, on my bed

2. "You must love this weather!" a coworker said to me as several more inches of snow fell the week before we left for the race. My retort is always the same. There is a Swedish saying "there is no bad weather, only bad clothing." 

Taken during the "storm Neptune" a few weeks ago, do I look thrilled? No. 

Mushers have no higher tolerance to cold than anyone else. And, with back problems and a family history of Rheumatoid arthritis, I feel the cold, lemme tell ya! When you go swimming, you dress appropriately, right? Well, the same is true for mushers - or any other winter athlete. If you're going to spend hours outside in the cold, you dress appropriately. We invest in good gear, and that usually starts with excellent base layers, wool socks, winter parkas and snow pants specifically made to protect against severe winter cold.

So many people seem to shut themselves off to the unique beauty, awesome silence and pristine views of winter. As we ran the last 15 miles of the race last weekend, I turned my headlamp off (trying to reserve some of the battery). Shadows danced with us across the snow-covered forest and on as we ran along a frozen lake. The moon seemed to reflect off of each tiny crystalline snowflake that rolled on into the distance as each tree, bush and rock created long shadows across the white tundra. I thought about how many would never see that beauty simply because they shield themselves off from winter. I want to be open to take in all of life and what it has to show me. In all seasons.

1. "What kind of dogs are those?" This is, by far, the number one remark I hear. Numero uno. The most common myth - that all sled dogs are fuzzy, blue-eyed beasts - is one propagated by Disney. This is not to say that there aren't Siberian huskies at sled dog races; there are. But the more common type of dog is the Alaskan husky, a "mutt" if I'm being honest. Alaskan huskies are not an AKC registered breed. But they have pedigrees carefully traced back to some key recognized players in the sport of dog mushing: Roxy Wright-Champaigne, Doug Swingley, Lance Mackey, Mitch Seavey. Some Alaskans have blue eyes, but some have brown or even gray and gold colored eyes. Some Alaskans have fluffy gray coats, but others have shorter coats that are black, brown, spotted, or any variation or combination in between. Alaskan huskies are a varied breed.

So, to recap, we placed 10th in the Jack Pine in a veritable blizzard the likes of which I've never run dogs in. We placed 14th out of 21 in the Copper Dog in a very fast field of teams. Considering I didn't think I would be able to race at all this season, I am quite pleased with the fact that we were able to manage two races and place solidly in the middle-of-the-pack.

That's a wrap on the 2014-2015 season! Stay tuned for puppy harness breaking! And as always...

True Grit: Copper Dog 2014

Merriam-Webster
grit   noun
    : a hard sharp granule (as of sand);
    : firmness of mind or spirit: unyielding courage in the face of hardship or danger

To me
    : having goals and sticking to them against all odds; follow through; perseverance

In Malcolm Gladwell's bestselling book, Outliers: the Story of Success, the thesis is simple: we put too much stock into what success looks like and not where it comes from. Gladwell argues that successful people have certain traits and qualities that help shape them to become successful.

Gladwell also asserts that one has to spend about 10,000 hours at anything to become truly gifted at it. "Achievement," writes Gladwell, "is talent plus preparation. The problem with this view is that the closer psychologists look at the careers of the gifted, the smaller the role innate talent seems to play and the bigger the role preparation seems to play."

You gotta love something an awful lot to spend 10,000 hours doing it. As I drove up I-75 north toward Michigan's Upper Peninsula this past Thursday for the second time in two weeks, I tried to calculate how many hours I have spent behind dog butts in the last eight years. I've certainly spent 10,000 hours in the last 8 years driving hundreds of miles up I-75. But how many hours have I spent driving dogs?

Michigan is a blur of snow and rest stops. Lake Michigan fades into Lake Superior. Miles go by and eventually I arrive at Keweenaw Bay. I've gotten so good at these road trips up I-75, I can practically do them in my sleep.

It has taken me eight years to even know how to begin to get serious about this sport and how to train competitively. A rookie erroneously puts too much stock into simply hooking dogs, running them and accumulating training miles. This vastly over-simplified way of training dogs is inadequate. This season, I changed my way of thinking about training dogs, focusing on not quantity of runs/miles/hook ups, but quality. While training, I focused on speed bursts later in the season; while racing, I focused on keeping our speeds consistent throughout an entire leg. Sometimes, my training runs might have been short, but I consistently hooked up at least four days a week, and sometimes five. I was more consistent in my training than ever this season.

My dogs are talented athletes. But without the proper preparation, that foundation would fall short. It is my job as trainer and musher to provide them with the best preparation.

The Race

Many have said I'm crazy for driving as far as I do just to jump on a sled for a race. And maybe I am. But, back to those qualities that make successful people, I come from a family of grit, and I think sheer determination is a backbone to success.

I was nervous at the start of the race, I admit. I had never run the Copper Dog 40 and I knew, among other things, that there were 20-some road crossings along the way and the last 10 - 15 miles was full of hills. At the last minute, I changed my dog choices because my main leader was coming into heat. I left the chute with Big Brown and Ruffian in lead; Tosh and Fiona in point behind the leaders and Perry and Wailer bringing up the rear in wheel.

But right away, I began having issues. About two miles out of the start, Ruffian kept looking back at Tosh, balking and slowing the team way down. I'm not sure what she was thinking, but after stopping and trying to get her to focus several times, I decided about three miles into the race to hook down and switch leaders out.

This was risky. Tosh, who is two years old, has only led a handful of times on shorter training runs and never on a race, where there is far more pressure. It was risky also because Big Brown was coming into heat.

As soon as I put Tosh in lead, however, we flew. He kept his head despite the many road crossings staffed with people and the girl in heat next to him. It was the best decision I could have made.

I really have nothing else to report about the race! The trail was fast and beautiful. I saw more stars than I've ever seen in that part of the country. It was very cold this weekend. I turned off my headlamp at one point, hoping to see the Northern Lights, but did not. On the drive up Thursday night, my dashboard thermometer hit -25.

We finished the 42.6 miles from Calumet to Eagle River in 4 hours, 31 minutes and 30 seconds.

I am told by several people that I have grit. My Marine father was more tenacious than anyone I knew growing up, and his legacy has certainly carried forward with me. And, although my mother was a home maker until I was 13, she also cared for seven kids. She could put her feet firmly in the sand and not budge an inch if she chose to. I had no choice but to have grit.

I want to harness this feeling. There is nothing more rewarding than working so hard for something and watching it come to fruition. Success is less about intelligence as it is about perseverance, less about status as it is about culture.

I am not saying I am successful, but I have grown more this season as a musher - and I think as a person - than any other season prior. Mushing has taught me what I am made of, shown me that I am stronger than I think I am. I had a feeling the team could place in the top 10 in this last race of the season, and they did. And I am in love with my dogs. They run for the joy of running and pull their hearts out, all for me and for love of the trail and what's around the next corner. I have no idea how many hours we have spent at this, but I put more miles (we hit just over 900) on the team this year than ever. That's a lot of hours shared between my furry friends and I.

Here is a video I made of the race start and switching leaders 3 miles in. What a fabulous way to end a season. Our best season yet.