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...

November: make it or break it

November is the month in fall dog training where, in my opinion, the most growth occurs. November is when we move from the shorter, fun runs of October into longer mileage. The early days of November can still be mild, but by this time in the season, the runs are long, cold, and sometimes tedious.

I have changed my strategy this season. In the past, I've been most concerned with the number of miles accumulated on the team. This season, I've focused on consistent, quality hook-ups and time on the trail rather than the accumulated total miles.

The biggest challenge this season has been training exclusively from the farm in Ohio. I have to run partially on roads, and though I have trained the dogs to run on the berm, we still have to rely on roadways to cross into trails. This can really take a toll on paws and joints, so on almost every run, I have been double-booting the dogs to protect their feet.

This can take a toll on my purse!

These are dog booties. Image courtesy of Katy and Troy Groeneveld of Ten Squared Racing.  

Booties range from $1.50 - $2.50 per boot. I currently have nine dogs in training, and covering back feet is imperative for seven of the 9 dogs I have. That's 28 boots. For one run. Dollar-wise, that's about  $42 in booties. Most of the time, I re-use booties. But often, the outer most bootie can't be re-used.

Then, there are necklines, snaps and rope.

A handful of fresh, clean necklines 

I happen to have a team of sharks instead of dogs. They think necklines and tuglines - the rope that connects the team to the mainline that pulls the sled - are dental floss. I have to babysit them while I am hooking up to make sure they don't chew threw my necklines while I'm hooking the rest of the team. I've gone through more necklines this season than I care to count.

So I had an idea.

Secret weapon against neckline chewing?

A bottle of hot sauce costs about .59 cents. I doused my lines with the stuff in an attempt to prevent the dogs from chomping through them during hook-ups. I thought it was sure to work.

Turns out, dogs think hot sauce is the cat's meow. They were licking my line - and their lips - more than ever.

So much for that.

I am currently looking for sponsors to help offset the cost of booties, necklines, and all the other costs associated with keeping the team healthy and happy. All sponsors receive a "thank you" calendar of your choice of photos from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the beautiful land we train and race in or of the dogs.

If you'd like to make a donation to the kennel, click here








Our first race, The Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Race, is January 4 along the shores of Lake Superior. December will be busy! Stay tuned!

The art of fire

Presume not that I am the thing I was;
For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self
                          -- Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Scene V

I wake and fire is my first thought, whether it is 3 a.m. or 8 a.m.

Fire is a priority. Tonight, it is very cold, with a blustery wind blowing down from the northwest, the wind chill sitting right around 0 degrees Fahrenheit, and a winter storm rolling in. 

I've mastered the art of regulating air in this fairly tiny wood stove to fan the flames of my life source. For awhile, it was a struggle. The cabin was either an 85 degree inferno or 50 degree ice box.

I'm no stranger to wood heat. The furnace at the farm in Ohio is a wood furnace. But it kicks on electronically and with loving regularity once a fire is going, forcing warm air throughout all parts of the farm house. A tiny wood stove in a 16x20 cabin is different. This fire takes patience. It takes attention, and like a devoted lover, my mind never strays too far from thinking about fire.

Tonight, I miss my children. My mother called me up, begging me to return to Ohio. I felt drawn, my focus pulled away from training and racing and to my family.

I gave each of my dogs a few extra flakes of straw tonight with their dinner, then came inside, sat down in front of the small wood stove in the tiny cabin listening to the wind whip around me and did what made sense to me. I lit a candle, made some tea, turned off my phone and deactivated my Facebook account temporarily, and prayed.

Sometimes, the only thing left to do is be quiet and pray.

I came here seeking solitude and a safe place to grieve a failed marriage. I came here to this tiny space to be quiet and listen for how to move forward. And this landscape, with its arid expanse of tiny lakes, tall white pines and wildlife has changed me undeniably.

I went to my friends Ed and Tasha Stielstra's kennel last weekend to photograph a women's expedition/adventure group from Ohio on their first dog sled ride. While having lunch with them, I realized how foreign my lifestyle must seem. They discussed frustrations in their corporate lives, compared manicures, joked about husbands and fussed for twenty full minutes with toe warmers and garb to head outside for a dog sled ride.

As I listened to them, I realized I could not go back to that life. That life.

I cannot go back to the chaos of my former life, cannot go back to the woman I was before. There has to be a place in the world for simplicity like this. I deny emphatically a world that says I have to be something other than what I am. I have not once longed for a television here. All fall and winter I hear occasionally of epidemics of flu or crimes and they shock me, so insulated am I in this tiny vortex of life. It is as if the world goes on somewhere else, and this community here along the shores of Lake Superior is isolated from it.

I am exceedingly thankful for things like the beech trees that heat this cabin at night, the sound of the wind through the white pines, the ocean-like Lake Superior, great friends who have made this season tolerable and my amazing dogs who have made it an adventure.

Tonight, the wind and the snow swirl outside. And I throw another log on the fire, and wait.

Am I a musher?

The dogs and I returned to the farm in Ohio late Monday evening. It was warm - 47 degrees when we pulled in - and things looked barren and different, yet familiar and for that, comforting. The giant oak in the front yard stood naked against the late December sky. When I pulled out of here two months ago, the leaves were still on the trees.

The last two months have been a blur of "cabin-time." Days run together; I can't decipher one from the next. "Cabin time" seems to seal me off from "real time." Life in the eastern U.P. feels different than life anywhere else. It's as if the little community of Deer Park/Newberry is a dark hole, insulated from the rest of the world, like some Faulknerian hamlet.

I used to think I wanted to live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. After being there for not quite two months straight, now I'm not so sure. The area along the Lake Superior shores near Grand Marais must see the least amount of sunlight of any place on the planet at this time of the year. Combine that with the isolation, the longing for my children, as well as the lack of nearly any kind of employment, I know I could not ever live there permanently.

Oh Thoreau, going to the woods to live deliberately is good...for awhile. After a couple months, though, I craved things like...dare I say... Stabucks®, a television, a Target®. Oh, and a cell signal.

Life is difficult, but it seems more difficult there, in the isolated area between Newberry and Grand Marais. Things take longer: driving to town and back is a 50 mile round trip and takes half a day. If it's snowing, it takes longer. Days are dark. The silence is deafening.

There is more drama in a place the size of a shoe box than anyone could ever imagine. I've heard stories about poached bears, family feuds, love affairs and scandalous encounters enough to create the label Days of Our Lives, the Deer Park Edition.

There are so many Catch-22s in this sport. In order to train dogs effectively for races like those I run, one must live far away from populated areas in order to have adequate trail access and so as to not aggravate the neighbors.

However, caring for dogs and operating a kennel is expensive, and jobs aren't plentiful in remote areas with adequate trail access.

Likewise, in order to afford this sport, one must have a good job; however, it's near impossible to train the dogs the way one needs to train and maintain a normal 40 hour work week.

I digress.

Coming back to the farm and to my kiddos after two months away has been an overwhelming, emotional experience. I am at a crossroads, and I don't know what the future holds for me or this sport. It seems mushers and mushing are a dying breed. It's just not practical - and seems downright silly if you think about it - to spend so much money and time training a bunch of dogs to pull a sled for hundreds of miles simply for one or two...maybe three races a year. So much is sacrificed. For the first time ever, I'm left wondering if it's all worth it.

“In order to be open to creativity, one must have the capacity for constructive use of solitude. One must overcome the fear of being alone.” ― Rollo May

Here’s what I’ve learned about myself as a writer and artist: my creative energies open up when I am in solitude. Perhaps this is why, whenever I have been in the U.P., my writing flows so easily.

Sometimes the silence here is almost deafening. It wakes me in the night; it reverberates inside my heart, shaking loose its secrets. The silence is a hum that bounces off my soul and allows me to better hear simple truths. My simple truths. 

There is never a time when I feel the fullness of solitude as when we run at night. Sometimes the only thing the U.P. has to offer is solitude and stillness.

As the dogs and I trekked through the woods last night, I stopped to water them and snapped this picture. Right after, I walked back down the line of dogs, 10 of them, all wagging and barking to go. I shut the engine of my four wheeler off and tried to imagine we were on snow and the team was hooked to my sled. 

Ruffian, my intense white leader, barked and called everyone to attention.

"Ready?" I asked, and Ruffian barked again in response.

"I was born ready!" she seemed to say.

The wind blew through the white pines and the dogs looked like dancing horses - all loping in perfect harmony. As we dipped down on the trail, the air seemed to cool and the dogs picked up their already swift pace, moving like a well-oiled machine. We reached 15 miles per hour on the cold stretch, winding in between the birch and spruce and aspen.

ghosts in the woods

Some don't like running at night, but I do. The darkness seems to magnify the solitude. I never feel afraid or alone when I'm out with a team in the night. Solitude is a place I visit often.

Tonight, I walked out of the tiny cabin under the stars. The moon was a hazy sliver in the sky. I looked up and thanked God for this opportunity - for helping me be true to myself. I am no longer living a lie.

Some may not like the words I have to say or the truths I have to speak, but I have spoken the hardest truths in the last six months, and I will always honor myself and those truths now.

Falling in love...on election day

I have fallen in love with birch trees. 

While trekking down the trail this morning with the dogs, I thought of birch trees. 

So, after running the dogs, while the rest of the country squabbled over politics and stood in long voting lines, I grabbed my camera, hopped on the four wheeler and drove deep into the woods.

The sky was a whitish-grey, overcast and cold, seconds away from snowing all day. I drove down to what I call “Pretty Pond” on the far side of the “woods loop” of our training run route.  When I turned the four wheeler off, the silence filled my heart like a drum. I walked down an embankment blanketed with pine needles to the edge of Pretty Pond.

Freeze up has begun.

The aqua-bluish-green water that fills Pretty Pond has begun to slow down, grown dense, hushed by the silence of winter’s approach. A thin skin of ice covers the surface of the pond; random shards jet out along the top. Underneath, all is still. Lilly pads and foliage are locked in ice; I look for signs of life under the water’s surface, but can see none aside from the plants. Hoof prints dot the edge of the water, some thirsty ungulate – a deer – pawed at the surface of the pond for a drink in vain. 

As I hiked away from the frozen pond, I spotted a long thin felled birch. I thought it would be perfect for a curtain rod in the rustic little cabin. I rode back to the cabin with it, like some weird jockey riding with an earthy javelin.  

So many textures in the woods today. 

I'd much rather be here than in the voting booths. But thank God we live in a country where we can exercise our rights and express our opinions through democracy! I am thankful for that...and the woods!

 

"O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?" William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

It is pouring rain as my headlights part the darkness along county road 407, a small paved road that snakes through miles of Jack Pine forests and connects Newberry to Grand Marais, Michigan in the eastern Upper Peninsula. I am still in shorts and a t-shirt from an unseasonably warm Ohio day when I arrive at the cabin, and I curse myself for my lack of forethought. I've already broken one cardinal rule of the great north woods: always be prepared.

I scramble onto the porch of the cabin in a futile attempt to evade the cold rain. The wooden door squeaks open, and I peer inside, flicking on the light switch but nothing happens. The power has been knocked out by the storm. Along with my warm clothes, my headlamp is also lost somewhere inside the labyrinth of boxes in the back of the Uhaul trailer. Along with the rest of my life. Luckily, I find a smaller headlamp in the console of my truck, strap it to my head and dart back onto the porch.

The small cabin smells like a familiar mix of burning wood and propane. It is only one room, 16x20, and made entirely of giant logs pulled from Hiawatha National Forest. The rain falls steadily on the tin roof, making the darkness feel even more lonely. There is a bed, a small wood stove, a simple table and chair set, a stove and fridge and a tiny bathroom. I sit down on the naked mattress, happy to have arrived after the ten hour drive.

This will be my home for the next five months.

I think of my children who are back in Ohio. What is it that makes a person feel at home in such a remote place? What is it that led me here to this tiny cabin near Lake Superior?

The wind picks up outside as the rain falls more intently on the tin roof. I snuggle up with my small spaniel/lab mix, Gracie, and try to sleep, but I am haunted by the things and people I've left behind and those yet to come.

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming  
That can sing both high and low;  
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,  
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—          
Every wise man’s son doth know.  
  
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;  
Present mirth hath present laughter;  
What’s to come is still unsure:  
In delay there lies no plenty,—          
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,  
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

"Adventures are funny things. They offer dark, uncertain times, forks in the road, and choices between comfort and peril. And in such times, heroes can be made or undone."

The dogs and I are about to set off on an adventure. 

We set off on adventures every time we go on a run. But this is a different kind of adventure.  

A few weeks ago, when I was in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my most excellent friend Emily Wade, we began planning. Scheming. Plotting.  

Whenever two mushers get together, there is inevitable "dog talk" - discussions of all things dog: diet, training routines, race plans, stories from the past. But aside from the normal dog talk, Emily and I began discussing seriously joining forces this season and becoming kennel partners. 

Emily has 13 racing Alaskan huskies, and I have 12. There are advantages to partnering up - especially for small kennels. If one of our dogs is injured, we can borrow a dog from the other. We will travel the same racing circuits together this season, cutting down on costs because we will share expenses. 

But how will we do this if she is in Skandia, Michigan and I am in Diamond, Ohio? 

Ah, dear reader. You are sharp. I can't pull anything over on you. 

The short answer is: the dogs and I are moving to da U.P.

Thanks to Emily, while I was in the U.P., I connected with a guy who owns a cabin in Chatham, about twenty or so minutes from where Emily is staying. He had used it only as a snowmobile haven, and was casually looking for a renter. He works in construction, and was completely renovating this little cabin.  He has access to fork lifts and backhoes and other heavy machinery and has offered to put a connector trail right off of the cabin onto some of the best dog training trails in the U.P. He's even willing to leave a snow machine for me to break trails with in the snow. 

I certainly hope that this fork in the road doesn't lead to peril. I don't have all the answers, but I have faith in the direction. I am excited, but also scared with a fear I haven't felt in a long time.

But I have learned that when the first few steps of something feel daunting and scary, this is even more reason to embark on those first few steps.

As always 

 

Upper Peninsula dog transfer and beautiful weekend

The days are just beginning to get noticeably shorter as August slips into focus. This summer has been a sweltering mess, and fall can't come fast enough for the huskies or me!

But, I had a bit of a reprieve from the incessant heat and humidity of an Ohio summer last weekend when I traversed up to Paradise, Michigan to take my Siberian, Jack, to his new home. On a long stretch of quiet road that meanders along the Lake Superior shoreline sits the modest cabin of Cheanne Chellis and her partner, wilderness writer Len McDougall.

Several years ago, while training at another local musher's cabin, I tried in vain to find Cheanne, aka "the wolf lady." She has two wolves who live on her property in a huge enclosure. Well, this time, there was no mistake. I found Cheanne and her wolves...or rather, one found me. He practically goosed me - something I am told is a compliment in wolf speak.

Goosed by a wolf. Leave it to me to wear a mini-skirt to meet a wolf

The wolves not only allowed me into their enclosure, they didn't spook when I shot a few photos of them.

Look at the feet!

The trip to Cheanne and Len's was bittersweet, for I was bringing them my six year old Siberian, Jack. You can read his story here.  I'd had Jack since he was 10 weeks old, but because he couldn't keep up with the rest of my team, had decided recently to rehome him to a recreational mushing and pet home.

Jack took to the place right away. Cheanne and Len have several recreational or retired Alaskan huskies and Jack is very friendly, so I knew he would have a ball getting to know everyone. We first gave Jack a chance to get to know his own kennel and Cheanne.

Jack and Cheanne

Then he was reintroduced to a Seppela Siberian, Willie, who he'd met back in 2009 at the home of my good friends Joann and Larry Fortier. Willie had been pulled from a local shelter and Joann kept him until he found his forever home at Cheanne's.

Willie (left) and Jack (right) have the same bi-eyes

Len and Cheanne with some of their recreational sled dogs. The center of the enclosure is open so the dogs can mingle and play with each other.

Leaving Jack was difficult. But I know he's in a better place where he can get more one-on-one attention.

Today I heard from Cheanne. She said, "Jackie boy is doing great. Spoiled. Last night during the storm Len brought him in cause he was crying (I was sleeping). He has warmed right up to me and Len. This morning he jumped right up on my bed and rolled over for a belly rub then he did a bit of free running with the others. He was a well-behaved boy."

After leaving Paradise, I headed west to visit with some friends and trek around some of my favorite places in the Upper Peninsula. The temperatures were awesome and the weather gorgeous. 

Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore in Munising, MI

Miners' Falls, Munising, MI

Boats beside a small harbor outside of Munising, MI

My great friend, Emily Wade and I had a chance to do some yakkin' on Lake Superior - something I've always wanted to do! It was quite choppy and a little cloudy when we went out, but still so beautiful. 

Emily yakkin' it up on the great Superior!

Five days in the great north woods is never enough for me. Now that I am back in Ohio, I am anxious for cooler temperatures and fall training to start. It will be here before I know it!  


A few weeks ago, I wrote my "official plans" for the season, fearing admittedly that they would change. They already have! In fact, I'm not even going to breathe a word about the plans, except to say I will be teaming up with Emily and the fabulous dogs of Powderhounds Racing! 


Stay tuned, and as always...

Stay tuned for images from the annual fall rig session in the Upper Peninsula

Scene from a junkyard in Frederick, Michigan

Missing Michigan

I’m at work, listening to Sufjan Stevens’ "Come on! Feel the Illinoise!" album on my ipod when it hits me. Despite the sound of the copy machine and sitting in my cubicle writing press releases, I am missing Michigan. Not only that, I'm missing training and winter.


County Road 500

I'm immediately transported to the winding two-lane highway of M-123. I am driving toward Tahquamenon Falls, through the tiny town of Paradise, to Whitefish Point, where it’s always fairly cold, even in July. I hear the waves lapping the edge of the coast of Lake Superior (summer), or, in winter, I hear the sounds of dogs, smell the cold chill on my nose, the friends I’ve made there and their hospitable kindness.


Our good friend Jan Shaw with Sophie


"Tug Party" - last season, making tug lines at Sled Dog Lodge


Talking Dog during a Seney 300 checkpoint at Al Hardman's cabin

I miss the snow, riding the sled through the hardwood trees. I miss simple pleasures.



I am sad and lonely for Michigan. My spirit calls to me to go north, where it’s slower, colder, friendlier. I need a campfire, a beer and hours of dog talk!

To all of my Michigan friends, I can't wait to talk dog with you soon! Until then, listen to some Sufjan Stevens that reminds me of driving on M-123 and makes me miss you.

A final fling: unfazed by the weather

Big Brown (foreground), who is named after the 2008 Kentucky Derby champion Thoroughbred, is our newest addition to the kennel. She is Ruffian's (who is also named after a champion Thoroughbred race horse) sister.

Spring. A time of renewal, birth and sunny days. For mushers, spring means movement. After moving hundreds of miles through fall training and winter's racing season, spring finds us moving equipment and dogs. It seems mushers never stop moving.

Tuesday morning, when northeastern Ohio was blasted by what will likely be a final winter storm, we headed north. In a last minute decision guided by the luxury of spontenaity I have been blessed with over the last year and a half, I made a final winter trip to Michigan to see my good friend Joann Fortier, have some fun, and bring home a new pack member, Big Brown.

You see, Odessa is expecting a litter of pups next month. So Joann had to make room in the kennel for their upcoming new additions.


Joann gives some lovin' to one of her top dogs, Odessa, who is expecting a litter of puppies next month. Ana looks on in the distance.

This meant another long car ride to northern Michigan.


But the girls sure have a blast when they're up north! I think they're yooper girls at heart.


Sophie bonds with Big Brown


Unfazed by the weather, Sophie and Ana played in the snow, along with Elise, who was out back "digging for treasure" in the snow!

The girls wore themselves out playing.

Sophie and Elise loved Ana



And when the girls finally fell asleep, Joann and I stayed up until 1:30 a.m. drinking wine, watching Iditarod videos and talking dog. Joann is like my soul sister. We think alike, want the same things, love the same things. We both have girls who are four years old, and have a lot of the same viewpoints on life.

So many people I've met in Michigan have become my second family. I know the sounds of their voices in my mind, the smells of their homes, and know I'd be welcome on any of their sofas anytime. I am always happy to head north, and always sad to leave.


Joann Fortier and me squinting in the bright sun as Sophie snaps our picture