When it’s time

It's always so difficult to know when it's "that time."

I suppose we should be relieved for them. I mean, after all, if only humans could choose to "cross over" so easily or had help to do so.

It was one month ago today that this end-of-life journey started with Big Brown - B.B. - and it has been, to use a cliche, a roller coaster. She has fought so hard, my small but mighty Big Brown, and all of the animals here have rallied around her.

A 4-week-old Big Brown, May 2008

Big Brown the day I purchased her at 10 months old

Big Brown as a silly yearling in 2009

I remember my third Midnight Run. It was my best finish in that race, and we had a flawless 75 or so miles completed when B.B. mistakenly turned "gee" (right) onto a snowmobile trail instead of the race trail. When I turned the team around, B.B. and her long-time rival, Cinder, who was a good 8-10 pounds heavier, found an irresistible moment to call showdown. As I pulled B.B. in lead around, she came face-to-face with this arch rival, and ... let's just say it took me a minute to tear those bitches apart! Hell hath no fury...

That Midnight Run...

Arch rival, Cinder

After tending to a laceration on her right front leg and a nasty cut across the bridge of her nose, B.B. wasn't having any of this “stopping” business. Before I could completely clean the blood off her nose, she pounded her harness, the rest of the team screaming to go. She came roaring up the shoreline of Lake Superior, bloodied but no worse for wear, fighting all the way.

Toward the finish of our best Midnight Run. To the right is Lake Superior as we roll into downtown Marquette, Michigan

As far as the classic things that make sled dogs sled dogs - good feet, voracious appetite - well, B.B. has never cared much for all that. Horrible eater. I swear she'd hardly eat the entire race weekend no matter what race it was. By Sunday, I’d become as neurotic as a first time mom, asking the vet teams to check her for dehydration. She was always fine, and I imagined her rolling her eyes at me like a defiant teenager. Whatever, mom.

Stopping to rest as a yearling with her sister, Ruffian

You couldn't bootie this dog either! Hardest damned dog to get boots on! My friends Kathleen and Mike came over from Minnesota to handle for me that year, and it took all three of us to get boots on B.B.'s small feet at the checkpoint!

Nope. B.B. did things her way, always, but when it came to her job in harness or with children at an event or presentation, she did it exceptionally well.

And when all of the other sled dogs in the team rode in the dog trailer, B.B. always rode in the passenger's seat of my car. With me. Because she was special. She was my bomb-proof lead dog and my best friend.

Such beautiful, almond-shaped eyes

Curled up after a 40 mile run inside my cabin in the Upper Peninsula, January, 2013

Illustrating proper "line out" technique from our training grounds in the Upper Peninsula, October 2012

At camp in the U.P., October 2012

Stretched out on my bed

She has continued with that fighting, true-to-herself spirit through these, her last days. Giving her 1 1/2 tablets of Keppra 3 times a day has been tricky. I've mastered the art of setting alarms on my phone for medication reminders, and Elise has also mastered the complicated art of getting a pill down a doggie throat. B.B. is still finicky, although she has enjoyed the grilled chicken breast strips and hamburger quite a lot!

But tonight, she couldn't keep her dinner down. Drooling, panting wildly and whining, she paced the floors, finally expelling the contents of her stomach. I gave her a small dose of Phenergan. Slowly, she fell into the steady, easy breathing of sleep, finally relaxed.

People seem to think because I have a couple dozen dogs that somehow this loss gets easier, that numbers somehow mean I love each of them a little less. As I sit here tonight, typing through tears, I can say this. is. not. true.

Bracing myself for this loss has shaken me. But, like birth, death is a process.

Surprisingly, this journey with B.B. has reminded me of my father's final few hours of life. As we all gathered 'round my parents’ big bed, watching the rise and fall of my dad’s chest, we moved from the frenzied imminence of expectation to a quiet peaceful acceptance. His final hours held a sort of private sacredness like the quiet and immensely personal intimacy of the first few hours of life. As hard as it was to watch my dad die, I was so deeply honored to share in that intensely personal, private moment with him.

It’s a perfect circle. A closing. In between the place of life and death, right before the light is extinguished in the soul, there is a sort of silence like I’ve never known ... except in one place: winter.
I don’t know how to let her go.
But in that quiet place tonight, I told B.B. it was okay to go.

Rest In Peace, little B.B.

5/4/2008 - 6/15/2018

We had a damned good run, girl. 

Processing grief: run your race

It’s really difficult to admit defeat. I pride myself on my “grit” and tenacity. Those who know me speak of it and have teased me about my tenacity, and I've developed quite a reputation for fortitude. The Finnish call it "SISU." Perhaps it's just a stubborn inability to stop, a will that refuses to allow things keep me from moving forward, but I pride myself on this reputation. I do not let things get me down. Ever. I learned from my days riding horses that you always get back up on that horse - or the sled runners, as it were. I have been in weather that would make others cringe and not stopped.

But, seven months ago, life handed me a series of sucker punches - quick right/left blows in rapid succession - that left me unable to get my bearings for awhile. I hit the mat, tried to get back up, and was handed another quick one/two punch that caused me to hit the mat harder.

As a musher, one thing we learn is to be adequately prepared. One of the surest ways to disorient someone is to throw a blow when they're unprepared. I was prepared for the first blow when I filed for divorce from a 14 yearrelationship. The next blows - which were much heavier-handed with the loss of my job and the death of my father - I was admittedly unprepared for.

The dogs have taught me that, sometimes, it is necessary to hunker down and simply take shelter. Trying to advance forward prematurely can make matters worse. I tried to advance prematurely at one point, but was handed another blow, so I decided to take a cue from the dogs and wait. 

When my dad died, time suspended. I felt like I was free falling but in slow motion. Everything else fell away. It took the wind out of me. Things that were seemingly meaningless took on great meaning, like a small nail file he used to obsessively file his nails with. Grief and loss - this kind of loss with divorce, job loss and the death of a parent all within two months of each other - changes a person forever. I could never have understood this kind of loss previously. 

These blows and the time that suspended subsequently froze several months. It seems, looking back, as if I was suspended in time, frozen like a still frame trapped within a film. All was silent in that frozen world and yet, life went on in a haze. 

Now, suddenly, it’s been seven months since those events, and I am no longer frozen by grief and debilitating loss. 

The dogs never lost their voices; they did not join me in my frozen stillness, and their life has helped breathe life into me again. They celebrate every day with a cacophony of howls that echo around the hills of the home. Those howls have fed my soul. The dogs remind me of who I am. They remind me of what's important: to hunker down if the storm is too bad, and then move on. Keep moving forward. . 

Slowly, like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, I’ve oiled my frozen joints and started to move. Slowly, I've started gathering up the pieces. Part of gathering up the pieces is thinking hard about this healing process. Some might judge me for writing honestly about my vulnerabilities. But it seems the surest way to show strength is to, in fact, be vulnerable. Sometimes the truest way to show fortitude is through grace.

Grace: unmerited, undeserved pardon;poise and steadfastness in the face of adversity. Finding grace during this storm has been difficult at times. Sometimes we show fortitude through fighting back. I tried that tactic, but the storm grew bigger. I thought my anger would protect me. It did not. I made anger my best friend for a time because it seemed like my only safe ally. I felt justified to my anger and I held onto it. I slept with it, fed it, named it, confided in it, nurtured it, groomed it, and whispered dirty things in its ear to keep it near. But I came to realize my anger was not my ally. It didn’t protect me. My anger only fed my pain and alienated those who truly loved me.

I tried for a time to find a way to soothe the pain. But, there is no way to alleviate it, no magic elixir to wipe away the devastation or the hurt. It’s uncomfortable and messy and it takestime - sometimes a long time. You have to sit with your pain, and nothing will rush healing. You cannot evict pain before it’s ready to vacate the premises of your heart. You cannot cry it away or fight it away or fuck it away or run it away or push it away. Eventually, I had to accept it and sit with it, not with anger as my ally but with a cold, quiet acceptance and patience.

You can do a lot of things that at first seem unbearable and don't think you can do. The call woke me at 5:13 a.m. My dad was dead. 

I scurried out of the house in my pajamas and slippers and drove west to my parents’ house. He was lying in bed exactly how I’d last seen him. His hands were folded neatly, but his mouth hung open and one eye seemed to peek out of its half-open lid. 

I climbed in bed next to my dad and curled up on the right side of him, resting my head on his shoulder. I remembered as a girl cuddling with him this same way. He’d put his big bear arm around me and I’d feel his curly chest hair against my cheek. He smelled like man, like dad, a mix of Old Spice and sweat. 

Now, his chest was bony, hollow, gaunt, the outline of his pacemaker clearly visible through his paper-thin skin. The curly hairs that rested there were gray and thin. I sobbed, wrapping my arm around his body this last time. I’d lost both of the men in my life - my father and my husband - within two months of each other. 

The men from the funeral home came, finally, after my family grieved around my dad’s small body in the hospital bed in the spare bedroom. They put a thin gurney in the narrow hallway. It didn’t look wide enough to hold an average-sized person, but it was perfect for my dad. As they began removing the blankets that covered his lifeless body, I asked routinely “do you need help with anything?” not expecting an answer. 

Surprisingly, one of the men said, “Yes, in fact,” and asked me to stand at the head of the gurney to steady it for placing my father’s body on it. I did what I was asked. I am the daughter of a Marine, after all.

I stood holding onto the cold metal rail at the head of the thin gurney, bracing myself for him to appear. The hallway and time seemed to stretch, becoming longer, narrower, and my head started to spin. I sobbed in anticipation of seeing him carried out of his house this final time, questioning to myself whether I had the strength for this duty.

And then he appeared. Wrapped in a white sheet, naked except for his t-shirt and an adult diaper, the big man I’d known as my father appeared a gaunt, tiny, frail person in the funeral man’s arms. He carried him like a baby, cradling his head against his arm and chest and walked slowly, carefully toward me. As he lay my father down before me on the stretcher, time seemed to stop, a chasm of black where all sound and everything around me fell away. All there was was my dad.  

I looked down at his face from above and great swells of sobs took hold of me uncontrollably. The funeral man placed a navy blue velour blanket over my dad, pulling it taut up to his chin over the white sheet. I could see his thin legs under the blanket in repose and the knob of knuckles underneath where his hands were folded neatly over his rib cage. He looked peaceful finally as I looked down at him there. His mouth finally closed. 

I pulled the stretcher out of the hallway with the two funeral men, our informal private calling hours now taking place in my parent's living room, and my mom began to wail. 

“I can’t let him go!” she repeated, and leaned down and kissed my dad’s sunken eyes and cold cheeks and forehead. I wrapped my arms around her sobbing body. She shook with grief. I wanted so much to protect her from this pain. But I couldn’t. Grief is a process, and it comes in waves, and the waves crashed hard within my parent’s living room that morning.

I won't lie: while this storm raged, I didn't think I would emerge. But I have. I sometimes have to pinch myself to ensure it's real.

And now, I am thankful. Going through a series of adverse events that you think you can't walk through, you come out the other side having tools you didn't have going into it. There's new wisdom; there's new grace. 

Grace. Amazing grace. How do we come to grace?

You come to it sometimes moment by moment, hour by hour, letting the days turn into nights and the nights fade into mornings. You may walk around in a haze for awhile. That’s okay. Keep pushing through. You come to it by loving yourself, even on the days when you feel unloveable. You come to grace by showing up, and that can mean showing up for the little things or the big things: brushing your teeth, going to the dreaded grocery store, getting up out of bed when the alarm goes off, filling out tedious paperwork in some obscure office. And you come to it by being real, and vulnerable and honest. Sometimes that, too, is messy. In fact, that can be the messiest part. Owning mistakes - recharting the course back to that fork in the road when, if you had only done one thing differently, chosen the other fork, life would have been different - is messy and difficult to admit. 

There is a saying oft repeated in mushing. I’ve said it to myself countless times before pulling the snow hook finally to launch through the starting chute of a race, all dog power, butterflies and adrenaline. It is a quiet mantra in dog racing: Run your race. 

What this means is this: do not get caught up with worry about what other people in front or behind you are doing. The mind can play evil tricks when we get caught worrying about what others are doing. Worry about yourself. Take care of your dogs. Race how you train. Focus. Be alert. And most of all, enjoy the ride.

You come to grace when you run your race. 

Ode to back-of-the-packers: run your race

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! 

It's a way of life

During a recent conversation, I had to excuse myself so I could head home. I had been away for nearly six hours, and I needed to get home to tend to the fire.

"You sound like you live like a settler," replied my friend sarcastically.

I guess to some, we do. My house is heated solely from firewood.

Early in the morning before dawn, I emerge from the warmth of my flannel sheets into the cold house and head downstairs to stoke the wood stove. I have no propane, so I can't just turn a dial and wait for my house to get warm. I have to work for it. No matter what the weather, or my mood or health, certain things have to be done. Animals need cared for. Eggs need gathered. Fires need stoked, and firewood brought inside and stacked. I like to think it builds character as well as muscle. 

There is no television as in "cable T.V." We entertain ourselves with books, animals, coloring, games and obviously, the Internet.

The Ranch has become a sort of sanctuary. Without the clamor of television, it's so quiet and the sounds of nature fill the air.  In the evening, we burn candles after dinner, and the dogs fill our seven acres with song; sometimes coyote join in. A neighbor two doors down reported a black bear on his back deck last fall. One evening, across the road in the farmer's field, my daughter and I counted 16 deer. In the evening, we sometimes see half dozen rabbits hopping along in the grass. Foxes bark in the woods around our home. Bald Eagles and Red Tailed Hawks are frequent fliers;  bats swoop in the air at dusk in summer. Field mice scurry across the country road.

We move with the seasons and we never, ever stop.

Somehow living in solitude and in sync with nature grounds me, and I think it grounds my family. Some may see this way of life as difficult; others, desolate. We see it as beautiful.

There is not a day that I miss city life. We have lived at the Ranch almost six years, and I can't imagine ever going back to the suburbs, the luxury of turning a dial for heat or the sounds of traffic filling my ears.

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...

Eben Ice Caves and The Midnight Run - some photos

The day after winter storm Neptune swept dramatically through Marquette, the snow cleared and the sky became beautiful and blue. We decided to stop by our friends, the Curtices, who live in Rumley, a tiny place (can't really be called a "town" because as far as I know, there is only a general store) about 30 minutes outside of Marquette just outside of Chatham. My daughter Sophie and I decided to take a hike with Caitlin Curtice to the Eben Ice Caves, a place I had always wanted to stop but never had been to. The following are some photos from the Eben Ice Caves.

looking up

looking up again

A wall of ice

I also shot some photos of our friends at the Midnight Run....

Joann and Daisy

Larry and Zeus

Martha and Bebop

Another of Martha and Bebop

Mike Bestgen preps lead dogs while Amy is ready at the helm

Friends Mike and Meagan before the race.

Next stop: CopperDog 40! 

When the heart says yes, but the body says no

The snow falls effortlessly, slowly gathering on his gray head as he sits on the roof of his house. It's quiet, save for a dog barking in the distance. He appears stately, as almost a statue, until he slowly raises his head skyward, opens his long mouth and howls.

Soon the others emerge from their houses, shaking off sleep and greeting the day. Bright-eyed and eager, they join his lonely song, a cacophony of 16 dogs singing, and they say "let's go." But there is no going for me.  They see me and stop their chorus in unison. They eye me, all looking at me expectantly, waiting. When are we going. There is no going for me, and that is heartbreaking. Heartbreaking beyond what I'm able to convey. Days like today are what mushers - and sled dogs - live for.

I'm not one to let pain stop me. I joke often that my middle name is "tenacious." A very special person once told me that I train and race dogs "against all odds." I pride myself on that.

But sometimes, things happen that force our hand. Like a football player with a sudden injury forced to sit out the season, I now mull over the "should haves" and "if onlys." I should have worn the back brace. Regret is a bitter pill.

A bone density scan showed degenerative disc disease in 2007. I get it honestly. My mother's mother had rheumatoid arthritis, her fingers curved in deformed "S" shapes. Still, she crocheted. My aunt had back surgery when I was young. I remember hearing stories of her in traction. My mother has the tell-tale signs of her mother's genetics as well. And, two years ago, I saw my first rheumatologist.

For the last two years, I've struggled with the glaringly obvious effects of this "disc disease" - what I call the result of a life well-lived. Backpacking, long bouncing rides with my mountain bike, and miles and miles of cross-country running in college undoubtedly jarring tiny fragments into my L5. The last nine years on the back of a dog sled undoubtedly further eroded bone, like water washing away rock. This erosion. Spine turning to dust.

I was in denial. This past spring, I took up trail running again, determined to be stronger for the upcoming dog season. It hurt like hell, but with my back brace - a black nylon support wrapped around my waist - and firmly gritted teeth, I could bite through the pain. I worked up to four mile runs, sweated out sets of crunches to firm my core and stabilize the spine, muscles forming support for bone. I was determined. Tenacious.

Friday, winter finally set in. Excited, I loaded nine dogs in the dog trailer, strapped my sled to the roof, and we headed to Punderson State Park for our first run with the sled. I met my friend Ron there with his dogs. In my haste, I forgot the back brace. I never went without it last season on any sled run.

The trails were gorgeous, and despite the lack of a good base, I hooked six dogs for a 10 mile run, then another.

My six dogs with Ron and his six leading ahead of us

On the second time out, I noticed my sled kept tracking to the right. To compensate, I rode with more weight on my left side. I also noticed during that second run that the area in my back with the herniated disc began to hurt. Our second run was short.

When we returned to the staging area, I hobbled through the pain to unhook, unharness and put the dogs away. I put the rest of my gear away, but mentioned to Ron that I was in a lot of pain. I felt better on the 40 minute drive back home, but as I started to get out of my car once at home, my left leg practically gave out from under me. Breath-taking pain shot through my back and down my leg. I limped inside.

Saturday morning found me in excruciating pain and unable to walk. I ended up at the emergency room where I received injections of morphine and toradol, both powerful pain relievers. I filled scripts for vicodin, two kinds of muscle relaxers and an oral steroid for inflammation, and was on bed rest for the remainder of the weekend.

The best laid plans of mice and men. And mushers.

At the time of this writing, I am still awaiting results from x-rays. But the tech allowed me to take a peek at them after I had them done, and what I saw wasn't pretty. Spinal stenosis - a narrowing of the spine - with a possible fracture on the vertebrae, and undoubtedly, sciatica - a pinched nerve that shoots pain down the leg.

For the safety of my dogs, other mushers' teams and myself, I have withdrawn from my favorite race, the 90-mile Midnight Run. I am able to walk now thanks to medication, and I am still debating on running the IronLine and Copper Dog 40, which are shorter, six-dog class races.

My heart wants to be out there on the trail with them. More than anything. But my body says no. And the argument that has ensued between the two is heartbreaking. 

Where my heart longs to be

Mushing in Ohio: mud and diligence

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).