I look in the houses as I pass at the televisions glowing in the dim light through picture windows. People warm in their houses watching The Office. I could be home watching television. Instead, I'm out here.
Smoke hangs in the boggy recesses from distant wood stoves. The dogs alert me to things in the woods before I even notice them other wise. My leaders' ears perk up, alert, searching the thicket. Two green dots glow in the woods, something watching me, us. I look over, and the pale beam of my headlamp parts the darkness and finds a lone doe standing, staring at what must seem like a startling spectacle on the trail. A girl and 9 dogs in the night.
I'm tired. After teaching all morning, working for my other job at the medical school, zooming home to be there for Elise when she gets off the bus, and dealing with dinner, it's sometimes difficult to find the motivation to head out into the night and hook up nine screaming huskies hell bent on miles to a line and go.
But once I'm out there, under the stars breathing that cool, crisp air, I'm wide awake.
The dogs chug along, puffs of steam rising from their mouths like tiny train engines. I look up at the stars; it seems like there's a billion visible out here in the night. I think about the upcoming winter.
Mushing is not for those who need instant gratification. It takes perseverance and dedication in training to build up to a place where dogs can go miles and miles once the snow flies. Hours are logged behind dog butts to get to that point, build endurance and good habits and muscle. Keeping perspective is essential. I must remember always what the end goal is. My friend Joann Fortier has a saying for those nights when we don't feel like hooking up the dogs: you just got passed. Consistent hook ups are crucial. Even on nights when we might not want to.
I think of Kerouac and one of my favorite lines: "there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rollin' under the stars."
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.
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.
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.
Sometimes, something happens that throws even my own story telling abilities for a loop. Lots of people have asked for updates about our first race, and when I sat down to tell the tale, I didn't know where to begin. So, I did what I suggest you do: grab a cuppa joe, sit back, and read on for the harrowing tale of Aspen's get away.
The dogs and I arrived in the Upper Peninsula on Thursday - just enough time for a short 15 mile run to stretch the legs before race day on Saturday. I had been fretting before we left because one of my main dogs - Tak - had come into full standing heat. I decided to bring Aspen, who I had dropped from training for obnoxious behavioral issues like neckline chewing, and turning around on the gangline. Aspen was also coming into heat, but was not as far along as Tak.
Our pre-race run went off without a hitch. The team looked great, and I was only going to take them 10 miles, but they looked so strong, I let them go a little further.
My team stopped on the trails outside of Nature's Kennel
Things seemed beautiful on our short run, with more than adequate snow cover - enough to hook down with snow hooks. When we arrived at the drivers' meeting Friday night, however, we received a different message. Trail boss, Bob Shaw, went over the trail conditions for the race course, warning that there were bare spots and lots of ice in the beginning right out of the starting chute. Conditions up at Rainbow Lodge where the race start is held can be very windy, which was the case the morning of the race start. Wind had apparently blown much of the snow cover off the open parts of the course, and with the mild temperatures and thaw a day or so before the race, and then the freeze again, the start was an ice rink.
I spotted my friends Larry and Joann Fortier parked in the 8 dog pro parking area and walked up to Joann.
"Have you walked the chute yet?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Go walk it. It's scary," she said.
Sure enough, it was every bit what Bob Shaw described. Barren with mostly ice, some rocks, and a big mound of dirt/sand about 30 feet from the starting line.
"Okay, it is what it is," I thought. "We will make the best with what we've got."
Mushers always have the option of not running a race course if they think it is unfit or are worried about it for whatever reason. But, I had driven nine hours for this race, and it is always one of my favorites. Tahquamenon country is some of the most beautiful winter country I've ever experienced on a dogsled. Not running it was not an option.
The Start
I was super delighted to be joined by my friend and supporter, Dennis Waite, at the race site. Dennis has single handedly contributed more to our success this season than any other sponsor.For whatever reason, Dennis believes in me. He says I have "grit." :)
Dennis and me with overstuffed pockets at the race site before the Tahquamenon race
The race site was barren. I wondered briefly if we'd even be able to make it to the starting line, there was so much grass exposed.
Hooking up eight mutts
I was most nervous about the very beginning. But, really, it was clean sailing through the starting chute. It was afterward that things began to get hairy, and it had nothing really to do with the trail initially.
Leaving the starting line
Yeti, my big male leader (on the left in the photo above) has this habit of stopping the team on a dime to poop. When this happens, I have to quickly react with the brake - otherwise, I have a tangled up bunch of dogs on my hands. Ruffian, my other leader (white dog on the right in the photo above) has an equally annoying habit of turning around to look at the team and me when we stop for Yeti to poop. Within the first mile, this scenario happened, except, we were on solid ice - nothing for my brake to grab onto in order to stop abruptly. Before I knew it, I had a tangled mess up front, and no way to stop the team in order to fix things.
I frantically began looking for a tree or anything to hook to, but there was nothing. The eight dog pro class was full with 20-some teams signed up, including Ryan and Erin Redington, and blazing fast competition. While I struggled to find anyplace to hook to, the competition was flying past me and my dogs became increasingly tangled. And furious with each other.
Tangled dogs tend to blame their neighbor for their entrapment. It's like they can't wrap their doggie brains around what's happening and have to lash out at someone in their frustration. This situation was quickly happening between Ruffian, and Gwennie, my point dog just behind Ruffian who were beginning to fight. I desperately needed to right this situation, and fast.
I finally took a chance. I managed to vaguely hook down on the berm along the icy roadside and jumped off the sled, running up to my leaders and whoaing the dogs repeatedly praying to God they didn't take off without me. They were so tangled, however, that they likely couldn't have gotten very far if they had taken off without me. I got my leaders and point dogs untangled, but missed Aspen, in wheel, who had other things in mind.
Aspen's Getaway
Remember I said I had dropped Aspen from training? She had probably chewed through thirty necklines this fall alone. I tried everything - running chains so she couldn't chew for a month, doing mock hook ups to correct the behavior - but as soon as I put a poly neckline back on her, she was back at it, chewing her way through the thin 6 millimeter rope in one snap.
Unbeknownst to me, while I busily untangled the mess I had in the front of my team, Aspen was chewing away like a beaver in the back of my team. In a flash, suddenly, she chomped through her neckline, backed out of her harness, and was gone loping beautifully and freely up the trail without us like some wild and gorgeous gazelle, all legs and flash.
I have to admit, it was a sight to see, watching her loping up the trail next to other teams. She was having a blast! And luckily, I free run my dogs daily, so she comes faithfully when I call her.
Only, this time, she had apparently lost her hearing...or she was just having too much fun to pay attention to me, because she didn't seem to notice me screaming her name.
I hopped back on the sled and off we went, chasing Aspen up the trail.
We chased her for a good mile before we came to a turn off where the trail goes into the trees. Former musher-turned-trail-help Lyle Ross stood at this turn off.
"Did you see a loose dog?" I yelled at Lyle
"Yea," he said nonchalantly. "There are people at the first road crossing. They'll catch her."
We turned the sharp left into the trees. I saw Aspen two teams up still loping along joyfully. Then, she stopped abruptly, looked at me, and then suddenly darted into the woods. I feared the worst. If she didn't come back to me, I would be disqualified. Worse yet, I didn't want her loose in those woods, which are populated with wolves.
I began to get a bit angry. I thought, "if I catch Aspen, I am dropping her at the first dog drop! That's it!"
But then I remembered my own mantra: they're just dogs.
It wasn't Aspen's fault she was causing such chaos. She was having fun cavorting about with her fellow doggie friends. She was just being her silly, flirtatious, fun-loving doggie self.
We turned the curvy, winding trail and I continually stopped to attempt to hook down. In vain. I thought if I could just stop the team and call her, she would come to me and I could hook her back in the team. Meanwhile, teams kept passing me. Once, while I attempted to hook down, Bruce Magnusson, winner of the 8 dog pro race, suddenly came up behind me and his leaders necklined the back of my knees. He apologized profusely, but I felt bad too as if my dog wasn't loose, I wouldn't have been trying to hook down in the first place!
Finally, after at least 45 minutes of attempting to hook down in vain, my friend Liza Dietzen came up behind me. She passed me and asked if I was alright. I explained briefly that my dog was loose, and just then, Aspen appeared on the trail. Liza and I somehow managed to hook down - me to a tree and I'm not sure how Liza stopped. Liza reached down and gently grabbed Aspen's collar, and I ran up and grabbed her. I thanked Liza, telling her I owed her one, and she was off.
In seconds, I had Aspen back in harness, a new neckline attached to the mainline, and had her back in the team. I hupped the dogs, and around this time, we headed into the trees where the trail was more normal for this time of year in the U.P. Aside from a little bumpy ride at the first road crossing, and a little icy section through a logging yard, the trail was gorgeous, and everything I remembered. We had a fairly uneventful rest of the 42 mile course. Before I knew it, we had reached the road crossing back that marked five miles left of the race. And for all of the craziness, I had a blast.
A beautiful photo by my friend and fellow photographer, Aladino Mandoli, of my colorful team running down the race trail
A little bumpy ride at the first road crossing leaves me looking a bit nervous :) Another beautiful capture by Dino - thanks Dino!
Red lantern
No matter how long I'm out on the trail, I don't ever want our runs to end. I started running dogs thinking 10 miles was long. We gradually moved into 20 and 30 miles because I just couldn't get enough. I can honestly say, at the end of this 42 mile race, I didn't want it to end.
I said when I started this journey six years ago that I wanted to eventually run the U.P. 200 - a 240 mile checkpoint race and Iditarod qualifier. I have also said I had no interest in ever running the Iditarod.
But, for the first time, not only can I see that goal of running the U.P. 200 becoming a reality, I am not opposed to doing a super marathon like the Iditarod. Someday...
I don't care where we place in our standings. I knew going into this race that the competition was fierce, and that we would likely be at the back of the pack. I don't race to hurry through and get to the end, never seeing the beauty all around between the start to the finish line.
We ended up finishing the 42 mile race course in 4 hours, 58 minutes and some seconds, and winning the red lantern. But I am super proud of my fur kids. They held a steady pace, and finished tired but happy and healthy, which is all I could ask for. And five hours out on that beautiful trail wasn't possibly enough, so after a day off, we headed out for another 20 mile run :)
And, maybe I shouldn't even race, because really, I just love being out there in solitude with my dogs in the woods. It's the ride I adore, not the end point.
Today, I ventured out with Gwennie in harness for the first time since she had her litter of eight puppies on January 2, 2010. Snow began falling two days ago, and hasn't stopped since. It was rough slogging as we broke trail up and down hills in a foot of snow, but Gwennie was amazing as always. If I even stopped for a tiny split second, she'd whine and pound into her harness. She is 100% on the line and such a joy to run. I sure have missed having her in the team.
During the slow run breaking trail, I had more time than usual to enjoy the scenery. A train chugged down its track, parallel to the trail and the sled creaked and the collars jingled.
I reflected on the dogs' work ethic. As tough as that trail was, they were undaunted, unfazed. I am always impressed with the work ethic of sled dogs. They do not complain or stop, they just keep slogging, stay focused, work harder. Yeti, especially, is as honest a dog as they come. No matter what, he puts his head down and pulls with everything he's got.
I thought about this sport and my relationship with my dogs. It's about self-reliance and solitude. Native people who traveled and hunted via dog teams could live in harsh climates for unlimited amounts of time, the dogs becoming best friends, confidantes, even shelter. I'm re-reading Gary Paulsen's Dogsong right now, and he paints such a vivid picture of how mushers and their dogs are connected - to each other and the earth.
No pictures on tonight's blog. Tomorrow will find me back on the runners with my little team, dreaming of a timeless period long ago. Mush on.
I just sat down. It seems days and nights are running together lately in a whirlwind of puppy squeals and feedings with Lucy.
Abigail Thomas says in A Three Dog Life that, "Dogs are never in a bad mood over something you said at breakfast. Dogs never sniff at the husks of old conversations, or conduct autopsies on weekends gone wrong. An unexamined life may not be worth living, but the overexamined life is hell. We talk too much."
It's true. We are the ones who hold grudges. Dogs are so utterly in the moment.
So, I just finished feeding Lucy, scooping and feeding the rest of the dogs and was tallying miles and finalizing my race schedule when, out of no where, Yeti and Jack had a huge dog fight. Then Chris's brain dead Aussie decided it looked like fun, and he jumped in the mix.
I admit, I'm not one to get overly excited about a dog fight. I've learned over the years when it's serious and when it's just mostly a noisy display of testosterone. So, I watched for about eight seconds to see if they were even serious or not. Yup, they were serious.
Sigh.
I set my kennel records and calendar down on the deck and moseyed over to pull apart the testosterone that had congealed into one mass of fur and teeth. I tied the boys up, but they seemed perplexed, having forgotten already about whatever was worth practically eating each other about not five minutes before.
Truth is, I'm not in a mood to get too excited about much of anything today, even a dog fight. I feel as flat as white paint, lacking luster and as apathetic and unforgiving as concrete.
This is what happens to me when the snow melts: I'm left to face a dull, gray, lifeless January in northeast Ohio. And the glorious foot of beautiful perfect snow has all but melted. Today, I'm definitely holding a grudge for January in northeast Ohio.
Snow is nature's highlighter, calling attention to the spaces in between - things often missed. Where winter without snow is drab and depressing, a snowy January is lively and festive.
Tonight, I am praying for snow. Until then, looks like I resume cart training with the dogs tomorrow.
