Happy New Year

Jack, after our 20 mile run


resting on a run


Sign for Two Hearted River


Reading Gretel Ehrlich's This Cold Heaven by headlamp

It is New Year’s Eve. I sit alone in Tom’s cabin listening to the sound of the register, random dog howls and sipping coffee. I took the day off from running dogs today thinking suspiciously that it might break my cycle of losing my team. Instead of running, I went to town to do laundry. Tom left on a 35-40 mile run with a 12-dog team, and he was gone before I returned. Jim went to town too, and returned with a large pizza, saying we could celebrate New Year’s Eve, just he, Tom, and me. I even have a few beers outside in the snow waiting for me.

But I am lonely tonight, thinking of my family.

But here, friends become like family. When winters are long and cold, people come to depend on each other, watch out for each other. I miss that about Wyoming. Here, it is the same. Mushers up here are a tight group. They certainly have their quirks, but their doors and cupboards are always open.

Bob Shaw stopped by to pick up some equipment for the Tahquamenon Race, which is in five days, and when he saw me feeding, said, “I heard you lost your team again!” with a twinkle in his eye. Apparently one of the men who stopped my team on the snow machine lives near the Shaws, and, of course, news travels fast up here.

I’m still considering not running the race. And if I don’t run it, I’m okay with that. What I’ve gotten up here is much more meaningful than any race or trophy (not like I’d win one!).
What’s funny is how much I’ve learned up here that’s not about sled and dog driving. At home, I was hell-bent on racing. I learned years ago that a race gives me needed focus for training. I mistakenly thought that without that goal in mind, I would lose my focus. But the impetus to get on the sled and drive dogs is strong and natural. There is nothing like it on earth to me.

Like some Nick Adams in Hemingway’s Big Two Hearted River, I’ve left the war of the corporate world to ground myself in the U.P. Indeed, the Big Two Hearted River is only fourteen miles from the Warren’s lodge. The politics and stress of my former job seem ridiculous and a lifetime away now. None of that is important in the grand scheme of things. What matters is what’s remembered five years from now. By then, my time working at the hospital will be something I will roll my eyes about and brush off as a bad experience. But the last week here I will carry with me for a lifetime.

It is 10:39 p.m. Jim has gone to bed now, and I’m alone in the dark cabin. A lone dog begins howling, then most of the others join in. I walk outside. Snow crunches under my boots. The dogs continue their woeful serenade, making the night feel oh so lonely.

I think of all the people who are celebrating New Year’s Eve tonight as if there is something unique about this night. The chance to start anew happens every night with the start of a new day. I am lonely, but I needed this – time alone to reflect, to sort out the mottled, tiredness of living in our spotty, exhausting existence.

I came here to find the solace in simple work. We are so harried in our daily lives, rarely do we stop to take in the beauty of winter, of nature. Dogs have so many subtle and not-so-subtle ways of enjoying life. They can teach us much. They’re expressive, communicating strong signals to each other and to us. Nature is communicative as well. I came here to listen to that message, find respite, hard work, guidance, direction, reassurance.

I am at a turning point in my life, only, like yesterday on the sled, I’m not sure where the next turn will take me. But to me, that’s part of the fun. May this year be the gentlest of years, full of beauty in nature. Life is hard, but can also be forgiving, auspicious, and downright exquisite. May life continue to bring good things.