"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

Friday evening, I finished evening chores and was looking forward to relaxing. I showered early and slipped into new pajamas I recently bought when the dog yard erupted.

I ran outside to find my beloved Big Brown - B.B. - in the midst of a grand mal seizure. A mean-looking storm was brewing on the horizon. It was exactly seven years ago that she had one isolated seizure, at this same time of year in the same weather conditions. Otherwise B.B. has lived a healthy happy life. She has been my main gee haw leader and run every race with me since 2009. This month, she and her sister, Ruffian, turn 10.

B.B. (driver's right, spots) and her sister Ruffian (driver's left, white) leading the team during the Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Race

The other dogs barked incessantly as she writhed and convulsed on the ground. I knelt down beside her, talking quietly. Even though those afflicted with grand mal seizures lose consciousness during the seizure, I still hoped my voice would calm her. Finally she came out of it. Once the clarity of recognition and consciousness came back in her eyes, I picked her up, carrying her slowly into the house.

The team returning from a training run

Once inside, I hoped the seizure would be an isolated incident, but almost as quickly as I put her on the sofa, her legs began paddling again as if swimming, her face twitched and her mouth bared teeth in an eerie grimace. Drool foamed into a white froth from her mouth, and she urinated on herself. Her head turned involuntarily to the side and looked like it would spin completely around. This time, the seizure lasted longer.

Once it stopped, B.B. looked mildly surprised to find me cradling her on the sofa. She drank some water and shivered slightly; she looked exhausted. I hoped for a reprieve, but like waves, another seizure crashed in on us, and I held her so she wouldn't hurt herself from thrashing. Again, I hoped this was the last.

B.B. had eight seizures in 30 minutes.

On the ninth, when she hadn't come out of it in a few solid minutes, I gathered her up, still in my pajamas, and began the 40 minute drive to Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital, the 24 hour emergency vet clinic. In the car, she seized violently, continuously for the entire ride. This is called a status epilepticus, and requires immediate emergency care.

If you have not seen a grand mal seizure, let me tell you, it's terrifying. It's easy to understand why, during Medieval and Renaissance times, those afflicted by epilepsy were thought to be possessed by demons. B.B. writhed, the demon that gripped her forcing her mouth open, showing her impressive canine teeth. Drool frothed from her mouth, her eyes twitched back and forth; she urinated on herself again. I felt helpless and honestly feared she might die before we made it to the ER.

Finally, I zoomed into the driveway, picking her up into my arms and ran through the doorway of the animal hospital. It was 10:30 p.m. A code was called and a team of medical professionals rushed toward me from different doorways and took B.B. from me. I ran after and one of them said "Permission to cath?"

"Of course!" I said. They told me I wasn't allowed into the ICU. I stood even more helpless in the hospital and finally broke down in tears.

B.B. greets a participant at one of our presentations this past March at Green Elementary in Logan Ohio

I purchased B.B. in April of 2009. She was nine months old, and I had no clue that she would blossom into the best lead dog I've had the pleasure of growing with. B.B. is also my education dog. She travels to schools and libraries across the state talking about dog sledding and the history of the Iditarod, meeting hundreds of children in her lifetime. Kids are B.B.'s favorite humans.

B.B. looks out over the entire student body of Green Elementary this past March

Because of their athleticism, most Alaskan huskies live extraordinarily long lives for larger dogs. A dog who was my original education dog and came from Eagle, Alaska lived two months shy of her 18th birthday! Although B.B. is retired now from racing at 10 years, she still had a lot of years left for puppy training, education with kids, and as a hiking buddy. I couldn't imagine life without her.

All of these things scanned through my mind as I waited in the small exam room at the emergency vet. I watched the clock close in on midnight, when finally, Dr. Fox entered the room. She said the medical team managed to stabilize B.B. with Valium and some I.V. fluids.

"Did you happen to take her temperature when you were at home?" she asked.

"No," I responded. To be honest, I didn't even think about that.

Dr. Fox's face looked serious. "B.B.'s temperature on admittance was 103.8. 105 is the cut off where we start to get concerned about brain damage from fever."

That explained the shivering.

Turns out, fever is a symptom of persistent seizures according to Dr. Fox. Unfortunately, the fever is an indication of brain inflammation. I was so relieved I decided to bring her in when I did.

Dr. Fox went on to say that it's uncommon for older dogs to have acute "cluster" seizures without a serious underlying cause, like liver or kidney disease or even brain cancer. Despite having one seizure in 2011, Dr. Fox felt she did not have a history of seizure activity. She wanted to do an MRI, but that would cost $5,000 or more, and to what end? If I discovered B.B. had a brain tumor, I wouldn't elect to do chemotherapy.

We decided on a conservative medical plan that included an overnight stay for observation, lots of blood work to check liver and kidney function and, if there were no more seizures, I could pick her up by 10 the next morning.

I asked if I could see B.B. before leaving, and a vet tech led me through a series of doors into the ICU. Six cats sat in separate cages, and several dogs, including B.B. were along the back wall. B.B. was slumped in a stall covered in a blanket. I crawled into her enclosure and sat cross-legged on the floor with her. Her eyes brightened for a second and she lifted her head to look at me, then dropped it again, doped up on Valium.

"Hi, B.B." I said, trying to sound cheerful. "This is just like a checkpoint camp out. You even have a blankie!"

She raised her eyes to look up at me through her lids, then fell away again in repose. I felt so scared for her, but didn't want to let her know, so I kept my voice as cheery and up beat as possible.

This is all new territory for me. For having dogs all my life from the show ring to the starting chute of races, my dogs have all been relatively low maintenance and healthy. Navigating this terrain left me feeling helpless and ignorant to dealing with real health issues.

The next morning, I called the vet and was relieved to hear she didn't have anymore seizure activity overnight. I arrived at 9:45 to pick B.B. up, and as a tech walked her out into the lobby, I could see she wasn't quite herself. She was "wobbly" and seemed almost a bit drunk. She ran into the glass of the door as we attempted to leave. Apparently this "drunk-like" state is normal after a seizure. All of B.B.'s labs and blood work came back completely normal, however - a good sign. We left the hospital with a script for an anti-seizure medication called Keppra (Levetiracetam), which is also commonly used to treat seizure disorders in humans.

My daughter, Sophie, and B.B. at Green Elementary for our dogsledding presentation in March

Here's what I've learned so far.

There are three main phases of a tonic-clonic or "grand mal" (a term that's not frequently used anymore) seizure: the aura, ictus, and postictal state.

In the aura phase, there are marked behavioral changes in a dog, and the dog may become aware that something isn't right. They may act lethargic or nervous, may hide, whine, cling to the owner, shiver or salivate.

In the ictus phase, the actual seizure takes place. All of the muscles of the body contract, and the dog loses consciousness. Other symptoms include violent paddling of the legs as if swimming, grimacing or showing teeth, dilated pupils with a fixed stare, drooling, urinating, defecating and, in B.B.'s case, turning her head in an owl-like attempt at a 180 turn, and involuntary biting anything that approached her mouth.

In the postictal phase, there is often confusion, lethargy, disorientation, restlessness, and can even include temporary blindness.

When we returned home, unfortunately, B.B. had three more seizures that afternoon and one in the middle of Saturday night. Apparently it takes awhile for the proper amount of medication to build up in her system to effectively stop the seizures. So far, there were no seizures for Sunday and as of this writing.

B.B. resting in bed with me on Sunday

If you have experience with canine seizures and know of any homeopathic remedies or any other information that might be beneficial, I am reading voraciously about anything I can and would love for you to reach out. Please send your ideas, links or helpful tips to the comments section below! Thank you!

We're Expecting!

It's been a hot summer, and the dogs have been enjoying their time off with lots of free runs, play time and romps in the kitty pool at the Ranch. We are counting down the days until fall training starts (only about six weeks now!) but before training starts, we are counting the days for something even more exciting: puppies!

It has been three years since Diamond Dogs have had babies, and I decided it was time to expand the kennel once again. I am super excited about the gene pool chosen! 

Cinder, who is 4 years old, came to Diamond Dogs late in the 2012 season but quickly proved herself an amazing athlete. Though she had been off training for about six weeks when I acquired her, she jumped right in with the team, started running and never looked back. She ran lead with my gee/haw leader, Yeti and ran the Midnight Run that season. Last season she ran in the Tahquamenon Sled Dog Race and The Midnight Run. She is a beauty to watch run: smooth, straight gait, and light on her feet, she makes loping look effortless. What's more, she always has a smile on her face and gives everything she has on the line.

Cinder this past spring

Cinder's bloodlines are pretty sweet. Her dad, Hobo, is out of Iditarod and Yukon Quest champ, Lance Mackey's kennel. And her mom, Bruny, is out of Beargrease Marathon veteran, John Stetson's kennel. 

I put a lot of thought into choosing a stud. Despite Cinder's bloodlines, which are primarily distance dogs, she is fast. But I wanted a male who could contribute an added element of speed, preferably one who was a lead dog. After talking with a few mushers, I decided to add the speed of Swingley into Cinder's solid endurance lines. The natural choice was Pete and Sharon Curtice's Elrond. 

Elrond has been a natural leader for the Curtice's kennel since he was a yearling. He was on their winning Midnight Run team in 2006 as a yearling, and ran lead on their 2nd place Beargrease 150 race. And his genetics are impressive. Elrond's mom is leader, Hurricane; his dad is  Ceasar who was also a leader (both Swingley origins). It is interesting to note Elrond is also the grandfather to my last litter, the Reggae Litter. 

I made a quick trip up to visit the Curtice's over Memorial Day weekend where Cinder had a date with Elrond. She should be due around July 26th. She is starting to show, and Elise is super excited to help with puppy socialization. 

Elise helping pose Cinder for a photo

We will be at the Green Branch Library tomorrow, July 9, at 1 and 3 p.m. for a presentation of Backyard Iditarod. If you're in the area, stop by! Hopefully my next post will be about tiny little toes!

A Christmas Story from Diamond Dogs Ranch

My sled runners sound like the hull of a ship parting cold water. At least that's what they remind me of. They creak rhythmically as they part the snow, matching the cadence of the dogs' jingling collars. We fly down the side of County Road 407 and turn sharply into the woods - the first few miles of our 41 are already behind us.

The Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Race is always our first race of the season, and our first test of four months of training. While children anticipate Kriss Kringle's jovial ride down their chimneys, I  anxiously await the first jovial ride on the race runners shortly after, on January 4.  

In preparation for race time, I have been busily preparing many things which made me reflect on all the things required to be a musher besides balance on the runners. Here is a list of occupational vocations mushing has forced me to wrestle with. 

Seamstress 

To tackle these last couple weeks of training, and because I have been unable to buy dog booties from my normal supplier in the size I need, I launched into bootie-making, with a lot of help from my mom. I obtained a simple pattern from my mushing friend, Jenn, and set out to make a few dozen booties. How hard could it be, right? 

Future dog booties

Mom sewing booties while I cut them

Making booties ended up being a lot more time consuming and labor-intensive than I originally anticipated. Because of several mishaps with my mother's ancient Singer sewing machine, circa 1962, making one bootie took about two hours. The bobbin inside the machine refused to thread properly.

After several unsuccessful attempts at threading, mom, obviously frustrated with the endeavor, tossed the stubborn bobbin aside with an exasperated sigh.

"But mom," I reasoned. "Think of all the memories we are making."

"All this is making me is p*#sed off!" mom said with a laugh.

Finally, we achieved the end result.

The finished product

One down, 35 to go!

Carpenter

Because my former dog-hauling trailer didn't have tires that could sufficiently carry the weight of dog boxes and dogs to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and back without several hundred dollars in repairs, flat tires and tow trucks in October, I recently invested in a larger, more sturdy trailer for the dogs.

The new-to-me trailer in the process of being converted into dog trailer

Anyone unfamiliar with how sled dogs travel to races? This is how. Each dog has a box which mushers typically call "holes." This trailer will be an "eight hole box" - meaning it will comfortably carry 8 dogs safely in cozy little traveling dog houses.

The beginnings of two new boxes, thanks to my friend Greg for helping!

There are so many vocations mushing has forced me to tackle in life: mechanic (trouble-shooting four wheeler problems is a common mushing conundrum); dietitian (balancing proper nutrition for these high-octane beasts is a challenge!); pseudo veterinarian (administering vaccinations, vitamins, medications); guide (navigating 40 miles of trail and having a good trail sense isn't for everyone).

But the most important thing my dogs have taught me is to be prepared for anything, and to have perseverance in the face of adversity. And that leads me to the other vocation mushing has brought to me: story teller.

Sit down, grab a cup of Christmas hot cocoa, and listen to a story about adversity.

The other day during a training run, I took a different trail than normal and came head on with a fairly large downed tree across the middle of the trail. There was a steep drop to my left and a bog to my right; the tree was long and very thick. There was no going over or around it. And the trail was narrow - too narrow to simply turn the team of dogs around.

I had no choice but to unhook the team from the four wheeler, hook them to the tree, turn the four wheeler around by driving over saplings and other thicket, and rehook the team.

This was only eight miles into a 30 mile run. Translation: the dogs were still quite amped!

Unhooking an entire gangline of nine "hot" dogs from a four wheeler while still keeping them on the gangline is a delicate maneuver. A black lab pulling its owner down the sidewalk on a leash has nothing on a team of sled dogs! I unhooked 6 of 9 tuglines (what the dogs pull with) so they couldn't get the leverage to drag me down the trail; they were connected to the gangline by only their necklines. I grabbed an extra tugline I had stowed in the four wheeler for emergencies and wrapped it around the tree; then I secured the gangline to this rope. Once this was done, I had the four wheeler turned around and backed up to the wheel dogs in no time. Easy peasy....

But when I unhooked the line from the tree, the dogs became excited and pulled me down hard onto my butt, dragging me a good 10 feet down the trail in the mud before I managed to stop the team.

Whoever invented Gortex® is a God.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa!!" I yelled.

Ruffian, my inquisitive and ever-in-tune white lead dog turned to look at me, head cocked to one side slightly. Something was amiss with mom, she could tell.

The team on the trail. Ruffian (left) and her sister, Big Brown (right) in lead

I had a few seconds. In the time it took her to process that, I quickly pulled the dogs back and slipped the gangline back into the carabiner on the four wheeler. Now they were reattached to the 500 pound machine with brakes. Whew! I quickly reattached all of their tuglines, and away we went!

I know many people who do not have the patience or tolerance to sort through a situation like that. Making critical decisions quickly, calmly and efficiently is a life skill I largely attribute to mushing.

We leave shortly for our first race. As I wrap up this post, Christmas is officially over. In the last couple days, the dogs and I have logged over 50 miles. This is always our last strenuous training weekend before our first race.

And there, to my team I will give a whistle, and away they will fly like the down of a thistle. And you'll hear us exclaim as we drive out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” ―Benjamin Franklin

My hands are like fine grit sand paper. Cracks, banged up cuticles and swollen fingers. I am a beautician's nightmare; no hand lotion can penetrate this.

Four months of training culminated this past weekend in the Midnight Run. I'm still processing a lot of what happened this weekend, but felt I owed it to some to publish some of the details of our race, what I learned in the hopes that the information can help other mushers, what went wrong, what worked, and what I would change.

Part One: Marquette to Chatham 

This was our second Midnight Run, and we had trained hard from the cabin in the tiny mushing community of Deer Park in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan since October. The dogs had a solid 850 or so miles under their harnesses, and I felt confident that we could improve our standing from last year's next-to-last finish.

My friend Kathleen drove all the way from Minneapolis to mostly observe and learn as much as she could about a check point race; we met at the banquet and I introduced her to many friends I am proud to call a sort of extended family. As the race committee started the bib draw to decide the starting order for mushers, I said to Kathleen, "I just hope I am not first." Almost on cue, my name was called. I would be bib #1 for the 2013 Midnight Run - the first down the trail! Yikes.

The next morning at the vet check, I was pleased that all the dogs received a perfect score of health from the vets.

Yearling, Tosh, is checked out before the race. All the dogs receive thorough veterinary care before, during and after the race to ensure they are healthy and happy

Despite my nervousness, we had no problems heading down the starting trail in downtown Marquette. I love running along Lake Superior through the city passed the houses. People came out to support the race, camping by little campfires along the trail, wishing us good luck as we passed and it was cold as the temperature dropped and snow began falling.

I held my team back until we were out of the city and into the darkness of night. Once I let them go and took my foot off the drag pad, the Garmin Forerunner on my handlebar told me we were hitting speeds of 14-15 miles per hour. The trail was fast along the lake, and I put my foot back on the drag mat to hold them at a steady and conservative 10 or 11 miles an hour.

When we turned off into the woods to head for Chatham, the snow picked up. I could hardly see with the blinding snow in the beam of my headlamp. I love this part of the race. It's so fun to see all of my favorite people and their teams running in the woods at the same time and we chat as we pass each other. The dogs worked hard that first stretch, and I worked hard to help them, running up the hills and pedaling whenever we slowed.

I am not a "competitive" musher. All I ever strive for is a respectable middle-of-the-pack status. I beamed as we crossed under the arch into the checkpoint at Chatham far sooner than I expected, finishing the 45 mile leg at 1:58 a.m. We achieved the solid middle-of-the-pack standing I wanted. Click here for the checkpoint summary at the Chatham checkpoint.

My friend Mike Betz, Kathleen and I quickly fed the dogs and had our vet check as soon as we came in. The dogs all looked great and ate and drank well. We spread straw out, jacketed the dogs, rubbed feet and muscles and covered each fuzzy member of the team with a blanket for our five hour checkpoint. Then I quickly crawled into my sleeping bag for some rest. It was nearly 3 a.m.

It was very cold that night, and I didn't take my parka or anything off before bedding down. All the snow that fell during the first leg began to melt and drip onto my face and I suddenly shivered in the cold. I could not sleep. It seemed like I finally drifted off when Kathleen woke me at 6:30 a.m.

We walked some of the dogs to warm them before our take off time at 7:54. They again all drank well and we began bootying each foot. Everyone looked perky and ready as we headed for the chute to start the second leg.

My team leaving the Chatham checkpoint as dawn broke Saturday morning

The difference between our first leg of the race and the last are as opposite as black and white. There are many lessons the trail can teach, first and foremost is humility.

Stay tuned for Part Two: Chatham to Munising...

Musher as coach: the symbiotic relationship between sled dogs and their person

"I don't believe in team motivation.
I believe in getting a team prepared so it knows
it will have the necessary confidence when it steps on a field
and be prepared to play a good game."
    -Tom Landry

I have a very young team this season. Out of the ten dogs in training, six are two-years-old or younger. It's been really gratifying watching them transform from puppies to athletes.

For the last two months, as training runs became longer, colder, and more strenuous, an idea began to surface for me.

There were days on training runs when we were breaking trail and moving so slow that it would have been easy (for me and the dogs) to become discouraged. Wading through knee-deep snow to hook up my 10 dogs seemed to take forever.  But the stamina and enthusiasm of the dogs is admirable and catching. Watching the snow cascade over their backs as they leap into the next drift, barking and clamoring for more despite the extreme effort of breaking trail is something to behold.

They inspire me.

But during those long strenuous runs, my role was also to coach, to inspire, to encourage them.

We have a symbiotic relationship. The energy I put into coaching and encouraging them is the same as what they give back. We rely on each other.

We have spent four months training and preparing for next weekend's Midnight Run. I have chosen the team and here's the line up:

Leading will be the dynamic sisterly duo of Big Brown and Ruffian.

Big Brown, who is neither big or brown, demonstrating how a good leader holds the line tight - even a tiny 40 lb one!

To say Ruffian is intense is an understatement. She is the "get up and go" in my team - a real cheerleader, always barking to go and barking more if we don't go fast enough!

In point are two young, up and coming stars and both young. Dirk, who is an older yearling, and my rising leader, and Cinder, who is two years old; this will be Cinder's first race ever.

Dirk, rising star leader for Team Diamond Dogs; the dogs run a full mile per hour faster when Dirk is in lead. He is young, so doesn't know commands yet, but has been a great trail leader

Cinder, who I acquired late in the season, but who has jumped right into training and become a super special girl in the team. Fantastic attitude, great feet, super eater, and beautiful to watch lope!

In team are yearling brothers from the Tak x Yeti litter, Perry and Tosh.

Always gentle, well-mannered and beautiful Tosh.

Big boy, Perry, is always playful and wagging no matter how long or difficult the run is. He has lead a few times and may have a place as a leader for the team soon

Finally pulling up the rear in wheel will be the backbone, veterans Fiona, who is 5 years old and the oldest dog on the team, and Miles, who is 2.

Fiona who is tireless and just getting warmed up after 20 miles

Miles, all brawn and muscle, and always jumping and barking to go

I have done my best to get this young team prepared so it has the confidence to play a good game. Our speed had been less than stellar from slogging through three feet of snow in the Upper Peninsula during the last month of training. And with this young team, I don't expect to win anything.

But we will enter the Midnight Run on Friday with our best paw forward - entering as mostly yearlings and emerging (hopefully) as seasoned canine athletes.

See you in Marquette and as always, mush love!

Cold

When it's this cold outside, everything creaks. I swear I hear my truck groan as the engine turns over.

When it's this cold, the floor of the cabin is like an icebox. Last night, I sat a bucket down on the cabin floor that had snow on its bottom. This morning, the snow was still intact on the floor, despite the constant wood stove roaring, preserved by the cold air wafting up through the floorboards from the ground below.

Right now, it is -2 at noon. Tonight it will be -19.

When it's this cold, there's not much difference between -5 and -15. It's just damned cold. I splashed some water on the floor as I was filling my buckets for the dogs, and it froze within five minutes.

Every animal has the ability to adapt to its environment in order to survive in its current habitat. For example, the snowshoe hare changes the color of its fur to adapt to winter's white, and a cactus as well as a camel both adapt to a lack of water in their habitat.

Sometimes, people ask me if my dogs are warm enough in temperatures such as the current deep freeze in the Midwest.  I need only remind them of 7th grade science class - and adaptation - for a reply.

It is imperative that mammals who live in climates where the temperature drops this low adapt or they won't survive. Sled dogs have literally hundreds of years of genetic coding behind them that have enabled them to not only survive, but thrive in arctic temperatures. Although sometimes when the temperatures drop this low, I will bring a couple of my shorter-coated dogs inside, my dogs prefer being outside and pace and wait by the door when they're inside.

A sled dog rests at a Seney 300 checkpoint

Thick fur, calloused tough feet and long guard hairs covering ears are ways sled dogs have adapted to keep them warm in frigid temperatures.

Biologically speaking, maintaining body temperature in mammals depends on the balance between heat production and heat dissipation. We mammals are equipped with some basic ways our bodies create heat, like, for example, shivering. This is an involuntary response to extreme cold that gets us moving in a basic way to increase our body temperature. The basic respiratory rate of mammals also increases slightly when the temperature is cold.

There are a few ways mushers help Mother Nature out with maintaining heat production in our canine athletes. One is through calories. A basic way our bodies produce heat is through the ingestion and burning of calories. During really cold days, I will increase the amount of food I feed my dogs to help them maintain comfort and their optimal weight.

Another way we help our dogs out is with preventing heat loss through body-to-air gradient. Think straw! Lots and lots of straw or wood chips help the dogs "nest." Additionally, the snow packed around their houses creates a sort of insulation, like an igloo of sorts, which keeps the warmth inside their houses and the cold outside.

Sled dogs are quite naturally equipped to handle frigid cold. If anything it is we humans who haven't learned to adapt to climate changes.

The author, gearing up to go outside in negative temperatures!

 

 

 

 Stay warm, and as always...

Lifestyle: ain't nothing but a mush thang

This is my shower in the cabin.

Living with sled dogs is a lifestyle that is often not for the faint - or squeamish - of heart.

Each day, twice a day, meat is brought in and thawed to form a sort of soup for the dogs. Those buckets and cooler are full of this meat broth. Each day, I rise to make a fire and work to keep it going so the cabin stays toasty. Each day I spend many hours outside in weather most would shy away from with my team.

There are often unsavory things lying around in the cabin at any given time, like wet booties hanging on a clothes line I have strung across the entire width of the cabin, wet mittens and boots. When space is a premium like it is in a 16x20 one-room cabin, function precedes fashion.

And then there's unsavory thoughts. 

Like, right now, I am more concerned with the state of my dogs' poop than a first-time mother with a newborn. It is said that the Inuit people have one hundred terms for snow.  I think mushers have one hundred terms to describe various states of poo. I've concluded that my tiny, 10-dog kennel is currently experiencing its first bout with a virus this season. I will spare you, dear reader, from the detailed descriptions of said virus.

Tonight, the snow just keeps falling and the wind howls. It is -3 degrees outside, and there is a fabulous moon dog around the moon - a halo that only appears on very cold nights.

Just hooking up a team in this kind of snow is a work out that might make Jillian Michaels weak. Trudging through knee-deep tundra, harnessing, and hauling rambunctious sled dogs over to the gangline leaves me sweaty despite the frigid temperatures. Today, the dogs and I went out on what was supposed to be a fast 10 mile "fun run." There has been so much snow, however, we ended up slogging through the slowest 10 miles of breaking trail ever!

Non-mushers could never likely fathom the dedication and sacrifices we mushers make for this sport. It is a lifestyle, as they say, not a hobby. It changes you. I've seen some of the most beautiful sights of my life behind the butts of 10 of my best friends, however. It hasn't always been easy, but it has definitely always been worth the ride.

Here is a clip from breaking trail today. Enjoy!

But wait...there's more

The landscape here is transformative. It has, no doubt, changed me this fall and winter. But another element is transformative, too: the sense of community here.

Maybe it is because of this harsh landscape that the people who live here -- the people I've come to know as friends -- are the total opposite of harsh.

I have been humbled by the willingness and generosity of the people I am proud to call a community of friends here. Two such friends are Tom and Scott.

I had stopped the team to rest briefly and to offer snacks, and Tom and Scott - who had been expecting me at Jim Warren's cabin - drove snowmobiles out to where I was stopped and met me there. After snacking the dogs, Tom and Scott led me to the trail that leads to Jim Warren's camp, where I had coffee and warmed up. And, at 7:30 that night, in an almost total white out, they led me with snowmobiles down the trail to M-414 where I was back in familiar territory.

We parted ways at the intersection of M-414 and M-410. It was 8:30 when Tom bid me adieu and I ventured off with the team in the blinding snow. My eye lashes were popsicles and I could hardly see passed my wheel dogs, the snow pelted into the beam of my headlamp with such force. At one point, I turned the lamp completely off and ran by the light of a half moon.

My sled runners sounded like the hull of a ship parting cold water. At least that's what they reminded me of. They creaked rhythmically as they parted the snow, matching the cadence of the dogs' jingling collars. Even familiar territory can seem unfamiliar in a night time snowstorm, and it is easy to miss a turn. We flew down the side of County Road 410, finally turning sharply into the woods to head for home.

About three miles from the cabin, as the snow continued to fall in that stillness, I heard a low howl in the not so far off woods beside Seven Mile Fire Line road. This was not the howl of one of the sled dogs from the kennels in the distance. This was a different howl, a lone howl, deep and guttural.

The trail leading to the cabin is a quick 90 degree turn off Seven Mile Fire Line road. The dogs know it instinctively because it leads to home, and never fail to take it, even when I don't want them to. As the low howl in the distance became louder, we came upon the turn off for the trail to home.

Normally my leaders fly into that turn. Not this time. They passed it.

"Whoa," I called out to my leaders and gave a sharp "Gee!" command, telling them to turn right for home. Again, they refused. Their ears perked up, and the hackles raised on their backs.

The howling in the distance stopped in an eerie silence. My dogs insisted on going straight ahead up Seven Mile Fire Line, and for once, I didn't argue with their judgment.

Later that night, back in the cabin, I woke at 3 a.m. from the distinct sounds of coyotes yipping just outside. Big Brown, my lead dog who has become "cabin dog" woke from a dead sleep too and went wild, jumping for the door to see out the window. The mirthful-sounding coyotes seemed to be laughing outside as the snow piled up around us.

Ever mindful of the fire, I rose briefly to add another log, then retreated back into my fleece sheets for slumber, safe and warm in this quiet Heaven.

"The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty yes to your adventure." Joseph Campbell

The dogs and I headed out yesterday for what I intended to be a routine 35 mile run/camp out. I had planned to run 17 1/2 miles over to a neighboring sled dog cabin owned by Jim Warren, let the dogs rest for an hour or two, and then head back. It had been six years since I had run the trails that lead to Jim's cabin, however, and last summer, a huge fire, known as the Duck Lake Fire, wiped out much of the wildlife on the trails between the cabin I stay at on M-407 and Jim's, transforming the landscape into something almost totally unrecognizable to me.

A good musher is a prepared musher, and I have learned to always pack in case of an emergency. Before any long run, my sled bag always has the following in it: sleeping bag, camp pillow, fire starter, waterproof matches, emergency blanket, axe, bolt cutters, compass, map of the area, water, one meal/snack, one cup per dog of dry kibble plus chopped meat blocks and dog bowls for the dogs. I also never leave without my cell phone (even though I very rarely get reception anywhere up here), and GPS. I also always travel with a multi-tool, two snow hooks (anchors that stop the sled), a snub line (a rope to secure the sled to a tree or other stationary object), extra booties and necklines/tuglines for the dogs and my sled, just in case.

As I headed out yesterday, I was packed for an emergency, but have never actually considered I would ever be in an emergency. I had a hand-drawn map a friend had given me the day before to help guide me to Jim's cabin, and the first ten miles of the route is a system of trails the dogs and I are quite familiar with and have traveled all fall and winter. It all seemed very simple. Right?

I turned left onto M-414 and headed toward M-435. All was going as planned. But somehow, I missed a very subtle turn off about 12 miles into our run. I ended up on M-423 toward the Rainbow Lodge, a main site of decimation from the Duck Lake Fire last summer.

This is not where I needed or intended to be.

It is exceedingly easy to become disoriented in the labyrinth of trails along the Lake Superior shores. This particular day, it was even more so. The wind was blowing fiercely from the northwest off of Lake Superior in 25-35 mile per hour gusts. The temperature was about 10 degrees, and with the wind, it was below 0. And it was snowing heavily - so heavily, that my tracks were all but covered by drifting snow shortly after passing through an area of trail, and at times I couldn't see for the snow.

I found myself in the middle of the area that had been burned in the Duck Lake fire, on M-423, a dirt-based, seasonal road that was a solid sheet of ice. The juxtaposition of the ice next to the barren landscape that had been charred only six months prior was eerie; I felt like I had entered an entirely different country.

I had turned off on several trails and roads, and realized I had completely disorientated my sense of direction. The wind was blowing across the barren and desolate landscape in a way I had never experienced. It was already 3:30 p.m. I had to consider my options. If I continued on, I would undoubtedly become more lost. I decided the best thing would be to turn around. Most lead dogs are excellent and following a scent trail, especially when it leads back the way they came, and my leaders are no exception.

The only problem was, I was on a solid sheet of ice, in a barren land. There was nothing to either hook a snow hook into or tie a snub line to in order to turn the team around.

I came to an area beside a large pile of stacked lumber. This provided a little break from the wind and I stopped the team and searched for something to hook to briefly. I took my big over mitts off, threw my snow hook in between two giant logs in the wood pile, said a quick prayer, and headed up to the front of my team toward my leaders.

Just then, Big Brown and Yeti, my two lead dogs, saw me and, on their own, turned the team around and headed toward me! Quickly, I ran back toward my sled so the force of their turn wouldn't snap my hook, but before I could get back on the runners, the hook popped and the team started back down the road of ice. I hooked my left arm into the handlebar of the sled, catching it just in time, and rode on my knees down the ice for a few seconds before righting myself on the runners.

So we were headed back, but without my favorite Outdoor Research over mitten - the left one. I had dropped it on the quick about face my leaders managed. My cheeks burned in the blowing snow and wind, and my left hand, which was now exposed, burned as well.

As we headed back, my trail already covered by blowing snow, I thought to myself about why it is I live for this.

This is fun to me. This is what gets my blood pumping: to be outside in the elements, far, far away from "civilization" and "society," in solitude where anything can happen and to be self-reliant. I am thankful for what my dogs have taught me, for even in the blowing snow and bone-chilling wind, they never faltered; they simply leaned into their harnesses, put their heads down and trudged on. They do not wonder why, even as their faces are covered with an icy mask of snow.

I celebrate the ability to deal with adversity and patience necessary to think fast here. I have a healthy respect for this landscape. It is harsh and indifferent, and so remote, there is a real threat of becoming lost here.

Perhaps I am a thrill seeker.

Here is one of my main leaders, Big Brown, who is neither big nor brown, enjoying some much deserved rest in the cabin after a hard day's run!

Here is a video clip of the wind and my team trudging along M-423.

As always...

Winter?

The cabin is like a sauna.

Outside, it's as if spring has come in January. The beautiful snow we had for the Tahquamenon race has all but melted. It was 42 degrees and raining here today. I was quite down yesterday when the snow began melting for numerous reasons, and not just mushing dogs. It seems like winter is getting harder and harder to come by. Those who depend on winter for their livelihood in places like this are suffering.

I've learned so much these last three months.

I landed a job at a local restaurant/bar waiting tables and tending bar the week before last. But without snow (and snowmobilers) I only worked three days before receiving a text that the owner didn't need the extra help after all.

As I type, rain falls on the tin roof of the cabin. The trails have turned to pure ice. The dogs have been off for four days because of risk of injury when running on the icy trails.

I spent some time during these mild days traveling up to Grand Marais with a couple dogs to watch the sun set over Lake Superior.

Miles (right) and his girlfriend, Cinder

So much depends on the weather, still, for some people and ways of life.

Winter

Winter has finally arrived. 

Two days ago, I sat on the porch of the cabin barefooted writing; today the temperature has dropped 20 full degrees and keeps dropping. Snow covers everything. It is a blustery, frigid cold, with the kind of wind that knocks down trees. Yesterday, the dogs and I almost turned right onto a trail, but some part of me decided against it. As we drove past, a large part of a tree crashed down loudly onto the forest floor. It sounded like a gunshot as it bounced indifferently off the very trail we narrowly decided against going down.

Days seem to slip away from me. A trip to town for straw and then strawing dog houses and keeping a fire going in the wood stove encompassed most of today.  

I think some primitive part of my brain kicks in up here. I seem to think about two things often: warmth and food. Things like showering and how I present myself to the outside world take a backseat to simple survival. Chopping firewood, making and keeping fires going, chopping meat, strawing houses, hunkering down...

Thursday, we celebrated Thanksgiving with Mike and Cathy, who own the cabin I am renting. This afternoon, neighbors Jim and Denise invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. Their cabin is simple and functional, with a steep slanted roof for snow to easily slide from. It is warm, with one main room and a wood stove. Like most of the cabins here, the wood stove is the central focal point in the room. 

I am continually impressed with the frugality and inventive functionality of mushers’ homes. Function precedes aesthetics. Here, Gortex bibs and snow clothes hang from PVC piping dangling from the open beam ceiling, along side of pictures of the star athletes (the dogs) in racing action. Next to a coffee pot (a mushing necessity), a clothesline might be draped across the room with dog booties or wet gloves pinned up to dry.

I’ve eaten meals and slept in quite a few homes of people who’ve opened their doors to me having not known me an hour previously. During training and race season, their humble homes turn into dens full of tired mushers snoozing haphazardly in random places, like bears content during a winter’s nap.

There is lots of cabin hopping going on since winter’s arrival. The cabins of several key mushers in the area are stopping points in an elaborate system of trails linking this cabin to the next. I suppose this is how people survive these long winters.

Last evening Michael and I traversed through the wild, windy frigid night along back roads with the intent of heading to the McMillan tavern popular among the handlers at the Stielstra’s – The Shanty. We stopped quickly at Al Hardman’s cabin to see if aspiring musher, Danny Glen and her husband Bill wanted to join us for drinks. A few beers and good conversation found two hours gone. It seemed much cozier to stay in Al’s cabin around the wood stove than head back out to The Shanty.

I think winter is here to stay. We are all blanketed in a cover of white, not only from the snow, but also the gray-white expanse that is the U.P. sky. The sun is replaced by gracious hospitality of those who live here.

White ground, white sky...

I am thankful for my mushing family – for friends who I feel more akin to than most of my own family. I am thankful for the hospitality of those who live here and only hope I can return their kindness some way.

Brake

Brake: A device for slowing or stopping motion, as of a vehicle, especially by contact friction. 2. Something that slows or stops action. v. braked, brak·ing, brakes. v.tr.

It's difficult to believe as I sit in the cabin typing that a winter storm is coming. The days have been mild and spring-like with unseasonably warm temperatures - around mid-50s most days this week.

The dogs and I have resorted to running only at night under the cooling shroud of darkness because of the warmth. This can make for quite an adventure without a means of stopping.

Yes, it's true: I have been training all this fall without much of a brake to speak of on my four wheeler.

Some commands are more concrete to sled dogs. Like, for example, gee. Two nights ago, about five miles into our run in the quiet night, we came to an intersection in the trail. I called "Gee," and Yeti immediately perked up his head and turned sharply right down the connecting trail. No problem.

Other commands are more ... fluid in meaning to sled dogs. Like, for example, whoa.

Behind every sled dog is perhaps hundreds of years of breeding churning them forward. Their momentum is not to stop; their very DNA says go! Stopping is, therefore, counter-intuitive to their core.

Mushers in the area joke about my braking system. I carry a large piece of triangular firewood on my four wheeler and throw it under the front tire when we stop. Occasionally my "brake" flies out of the basket on the front of my four wheeler.

My "brake"

I bought new pads for my four wheeler, but before I left Ohio, found out that the drum was worn down so the new pads didn't even make a difference in stopping. And by that time, I didn't have time to do full repairs on the four wheeler. So I have winged it. Good practice for a sled, right?

During a 15 mile training run the other night, I stopped on a hill to water the dogs. It was still humid and warm - about 42 degrees - and when it's that warm, I carry water and stop along the trail to cool the dogs down with a fresh drink. Like clockwork, I chucked the "brake" under my front wheel which was also turned sharply to the left. I walked up the line of 10 dogs, patting heads and giving praise for a job well done, and threw the bowls down to begin watering, starting with my leaders.

Ruffian is my most intense dog, and young leader-in-training, Dirk, is close behind her.

By the time I set the bowls down in front of my wheel dogs, Ruffian and Dirk decided they were ready to go. They began hammering in their harnesses and barking intensely.

Before I knew what had happened, they pulled the quad over the "brake" and were hauling it up hill. Instinctively, I grabbed the gangline and yelled "whoa!" several times. I even called out Ruffian's name and told her "no!" sharply.

To no avail.

Don't worry. This story has a happy (but painful) ending. I ended up stopping the four wheeler ... with my body. I have a large, black painful welted bruise on my right hip to show for it. But I managed to hop on the seat, aggravated, but no worse for the wear.

my right hip. Ouch!

I saw Bob Shaw today. He stopped at the end of the driveway and asked how my adventures are going. I told him this little story.

He chuckled and said, "always an adventure with you!"

Yup. Always an adventure with these crazy dogs!

“It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance . . . I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.” – Annie Dillard

I do some of my best thinking while making necklines. 

Some have been critical of my decision to take this sabbatical in the woods. They

ask when I’m going to stop “hiding out in Michigan,” or offer (mostly unsolicited) advice and suggest gently that I consider if I am “running away.”

What they don’t know is that I have been running away from myself for the last ten years, searching for peace outside of myself: through a marriage that didn’t work, through a job that didn’t last, through pretending to be something I am not.

Here in this cabin, I am no longer “hiding out.” I am authentic.  I am more completely and contentedly my self here than anywhere. I have little, and yet, I feel more grateful and satisfied with my life than I ever did when I was climbing some proverbial corporate ladder. When you strip away the clutter, gluttony and overabundance of life in America in 2012, you see the beauty and grace in simplicity. The less I have, the more complete I feel.

But, what I miss the most – what hurts the most – is the space between my two girls and me.

 

Last night, while weaving the black six millimeter poly rope into the small “O” shaped tethers that will attach to 10 of my best friend’s collars on the gangline, I thought about my children. My human children.

In June of 1999, I spent most of my days (and nights, it seems) walking the floors of my apartment on the backside of the Teton Range in Victor, Idaho with an intolerant, wailing infant Sophie.  I sometimes held her to my breast for hours just to have some quiet from her incessant crying. 

My Sophie Queen is now 13 1/2 and has blossomed overnight into a beautiful young woman who I am proud of. She is funny, sensible, smart and beautiful. 

Sophie's summer portrait, 2012

In May of 2004, Elise was born,  and she's always been my spunky, fiery little strawberry blond. My girls are totally different, but both beautiful and make me proud.

Elise's fall portrait 2012

I am a lot of things, including a mother. Why is it sometimes the things we are conflict with one another?

  

Sometimes it is necessary to heal ourselves before we can be good parents, role models, and providers.

I pray every night that God keeps my girls safe and happy while I am away. I do not take this time lightly. I am using it to get strong, realign my soul with my life, and come clean from ten years of running. Stopping here in this cabin in the woods, I am cracked open by God’s grace, and have come clean from pretense.

Those who criticize or judge I have no use for. Be my friend, or be nothing at all.

*                                    *                                    *                                    *                        *

Today is ridiculously warm. The sun emerged from its nest of clouds and warmed us up to 62 whopping degrees. It’s been a lazy Sunday. I spent time sitting out in the dog yard beside each dog singing to and loving on them and relaxing in the mild temperatures. 

Nova play bowing with me

We did a hard, slow run on Friday and the dogs felt it the next day. Tomorrow we're back on the trail. 

With love from the U.P. - I miss my girls! Love you Sophie and Elise!