I recently had the opportunity to tag along on a Quest
training run from Manley to Tanana with my good friends Hugh and
Nicole. Both competitive dog mushers with chops I lack. I run a rec
team, maybe 5 to 7 dogs at a time, 7 miles here, 12 miles there. No
hills. No worries. Always pretty close to home base. Ten of my 17
live in the house full time. It would suffice to say that I have
never done anything quite so enterprising as a run to Tanana, Alaska.
But I wasn't going to say no...
I was somewhat aware of what I was getting into. I knew
the area between Manley and Tanana was hilly, windy terrain that
would give a musher a little taste of just about everything you could
expect on the Yukon Quest. Susan Butcher Trained out there, Brent
Sass trains out there...A lot of tough mushers train(ed) out
there. The list goes on and on.
I have a heavy old-school sled. It was given to us by
Joe LeFervre. There's a lot more metal and wood involved in its
construction than you'd typically see in the newer sleds. But it was
tough and nobody doubted that it would carry me the distance. I
couldn't pick up extra runner plastic for it so Hugh brought some
along to toss in my sled bag. We never got to use it...
We couldn't have asked for better weather—about 30F
degrees with a light breeze to help keep us and the dogs cool on such
an unseasonably warm late December day.
Our initial plan was to run tandem, but we abandoned
that plan well before arriving in Manley. We decided to run three
teams instead.
As we hooked up dogs just below Joe Redington's place I
was pretty nervous about running someone else's dogs.
 |
| "Hmm..." |
“Don't tell the dogs though.” I thought to
myself.
I know my dogs. I know who's harness belongs to
who in my team. I know who likes to run where in the line. My dogs
know how I talk to them and respond well to my voice. My dogs
are patient and won't take off without me (usually). If the sled
suddenly goes light, they stop.
I didn't know these dogs, this super pumped team of
hearty Yukon Quest veterans, very well. I was just going to have to
settle with knowing dogs in general.
Ich spreche hund.
Nicole left ahead of me and Hugh left behind me. I
stayed between them for about half of the run to Tanana. Aside from a
small amount of overflow and some knee deep wallows it was a fairly
leisurely start to our adventure. I'd never done hills, but I wasn't
having a horrible time with it. It was a workout, no doubt—helping
the dogs, kicking and running up hills and pushing through deep
spots. I'd done a lot of hiking over the summer and am in a lot
better shape this year than in the past and I thought—
“This isn't too bad.”
 |
| "Not bad at all." |
I ate it a few times at the bottom of some short hills,
slogging through the accumulated snow in the little valleys between.
My first wipeout was actually pretty smooth. I found myself skating
along beside my sled on my knees across some hard windblown snow. I
pulled myself up onto my runners all smooth and ninja-like—surprising
myself, as I have an old rotator-cuff injury that I have been slowly
rehabilitating for some time. Apparently I did a good job. I never
lost the team and I must have wiped out six times total, five on the
way to Tanana, and only once on the way back to Manley.
My biggest problem was stopping my team.
You see, when I first pulled that old-school style sled
out of storage and began accumulating dogs, I really had no clue what
I was doing when making modifications to it. It had a brushbow on the
verge of shattering, and needed new runner plastic. It had a drop
down seat that seemed cumbersome, uncomfortable, and potentially
dangerous. I could totally see losing a kneecap on that bad boy, so I
swapped it out for a drag mat. Just a piece of snowmachine track
bolted to my bed. No cleats. Just rubber knobs.
For years, at home, on hard, fast, flat groomed trails,
it worked fine. It was sufficient for what I was doing.
But out in the real world...
Not so much.
As snow accumulated under the front of my drag mat it
became increasingly difficult to get a bite out of the trail with my
rusty, old-school brake. I struggled with it all the way to Tanana,
running my team up on top of the team in front of me almost every
time we stopped to snack. I was constantly kicking snow off of the
mat or picking it up with my hand to release accumulation. The drag
mat could not be tied up out of the way without cutting me off from
my brake completely.
As the day wore on and the darkness began creeping in
the wind picked up and I could feel that we were getting closer to
the Yukon River. It was at this point we began encountering bare
stretches of gravel and things became increasingly more difficult.
It was overcast, and moonless. Your world shrinks down
to this tiny bubble that extends as only far as your headlamp can
shine.
Its getting cooler and the dogs have fallen into a
great rhythm as well as picked up some speed. Nicole is leading the
way, Hugh is behind me.
Suddenly, for no apparent reason, one of Nicole's
leaders swings the team around for a big fat u-turn. There's no way
for her to plant a snowhook in frozen bare gravel. I barely got my
team stopped myself. Nicole requests that I try to pass her but as I
do it becomes apparent that my team wants to do the same thing hers
is doing. It's understandable, since technically our three teams were
all one pack, of which, Hugh is the leader. No one is listening to
me. I'm not their musher. I'm just the dummy on the sled that
can barely stop the team.
Nicole lays down her sled and begins to straighten out
her team. As Hugh passes me mine straightens out.
“She lost a mitt, dude!” He says.
“I see it. I got it.”
I don't know how I caught that mitt. I was on one
runner pulling my sled hard backwards and to the right and just
barely had the mitt in my hand when I felt the lurch of my team
moving forward after Hugh and Nicole.
Shortly after that Nicole blew out some runner plastic
so we stopped to replace it. She's missing the pin that secures the
plastic to the runner so it is held on by a piece of wire.
A half mile or so later I see this red curl of runner
plastic spring up out of the trail.
Somehow I caught that too.
My runner plastic was still in one piece but wearing
thin on all the exposed gravel. Especially the left runner, which has
a twist to it so it wears plastic unevenly. I knew it would be the
first one to blow out. I resolved to favor the right runner try to
preserve my plastic for the final stretch. It was then I began to
ponder the plastic Hugh had brought. It never occurred to either of
us to ask “What kind is it?”
I worried whatever kind it was, it was the wrong
kind...
My left runner plastic started to shred just before we
dropped onto the Yukon River.
“You'll make it. We'll be there in about an hour.”
Hugh tells me.
The wind is howling good, and I know were very close.
You know you're getting close to the river when the wind howls and
the temperature drops.
On what I expected to be our last snack stop I threw on
my wind layer (I had been wearing a light fleece jacket the whole way
out) and pulled out my big mitts. The gloves I'd been using all day
were no longer adequate. My hands were cramping and I had very little
control of what my fingers were doing. I'd grown out of holding on to
my sled too tight long ago, so I knew that wasn't the problem.
I dropped a hand warmer in each mitt. Soon my hands
were sweating. Fingers still cramping and misfiring I began my self
analysis.
My fingers aren't listening to my brain.
My left hip is cramping up a little.
My right butt cheek is cramping up.
I've eaten three pieces of jerky, a single peanut M&M,
and a chewable B-12 vitamin.
Drank about a quart of water.
Been on the trail about nine hours. Running on five
hours sleep.
Hmm...
I was dehydrated, for
sure. I'd been trying to make sure I drank every time we stopped, but
it's difficult sometimes.
Ahead of me I see Hugh and Nicole drop clean out of
sight. They are on the Yukon.
Here we go.
Into the Mouth of Madness.
Fingers don't fail me now.
My team drops out of sight over the edge of the river
bank.
A split second later my sled crests the top of the bank
into a near vertical 30 foot drop with a step halfway down. Can't
turn back now. No stopping this train.
I'm sure every aspiring musher has seen video of other mushers
eating shit on very similar pieces of trail.
Downhills are dangerous—especially steep ones like
that. You have to keep the line from going slack and juggling. If
dogs trip or become tangled they can be badly injured.
I lay everything I've got into my brake and drag, I
have both feet dug in hard. Somehow I managed to get a foot on a
runner to shred the hard left at the bottom of the drop and try to
stay upright.
I don't think I did stay upright. If memory serves me,
I ate it right there.
No big deal.
Crossing the Yukon is a bit of a blur. Like, flying
through space at warp speed.
 |
| "Uhh...Mr.Sulu?" |
I remember a moment early on in our crossing when I
looked up from my dogs and saw Hugh and Nicole's teams stretched out
in the bubble of their headlamps, wind blown snow creeping eerily
across the landscape around them. It struck me then that I'd only
seen anything like it on Iditarod and Quest videos. Maybe a
documentary or two.
I've never
even crossed the Chena with my team.
As Hugh pulled away from us both mine and Nicole's
teams wanted nothing more than to make a beeline run toward Hugh's
headlamp. They weren't following Hugh's “trail”...
There really wasn't a trail.
So.
Here we go, helter-skelter across alternating patches
of glare ice, jumble ice, and snow drifts at borderline
uncontrollable speeds.
Right then I really wished my drag mat had
cleats and that my brake wasn't a rusty, welded, hunk of crap.
My world is shrinking.
My headlamp batteries are weakening.
I can barely see my leaders and I'm struggling to see
my line. My concern for the dogs is growing, even though their
concern for me is obviously zero.
My headlamp had flashed earlier in the night and Nicole
had stopped thinking I needed assistance. “Your batteries are
probably going dead.” She had said.
I thought about changing them at the time but they were
still pretty bright and I only had one set of replacement batteries.
I decided to risk it.
The wind is blowing snow in vortexes around me,
periodically obscuring my view of Hugh and Nicole's headlamps. It was
then I decided a strong headlamp would have made it harder for me to
see at a distance through the blowing snow anyway. A half dead
headlamp seemed a happy medium.
I started singing to the dogs. One: to let them know
was still there. And two: To let them hear the tone of my voice, to
hear that I remain upbeat despite the chaos I'm experiencing.
“I see a
baaad moon a-rising.”
SLAM.
CRASH.
“I see
trouble on the way.”
BANG.
SLAM.
“I see
hurricanes and lightnin'.”
CRASH.
SCRAPE.
“I see bad
times today.”
My team is
scrambling across some glare ice when I suddenly find that they are
pointed south and my sled is pointed west. The wind is pushing my
sled around the left side of my team because my rip-stop nylon sled
bag is like a wind sail. I'm heading sideways toward a huge chunk of
jumble ice.
Somebody asked me later if I was afraid while I was
down on the river ice.
I didn't have time to be afraid. I only had time to
react. You don't have time to second guess yourself. I hit my brake
just in time to skate it around and regain control.
“Maybe I shouldn't be singing this particular song,
huh guys?” I said to the dogs.
Just then I caught a small ridge of jumble at a bad
angle and ate it pretty hard. I felt some ice rip at my knee and then
was dragged for probably twenty feet across some glare yelling “Woah,
woah, WOAH!”
I may have said a few other choice words...
All I could
really do was hold on and wait to hit a snow drift. When we did, I
was able to right my sled and look down my line.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask.
The dogs respond by barking impatiently to get going
again.
“Alright! Let's go!”
Easier said than done...
It's hard to describe exactly how slippery glare ice
is. Helping the dogs get started after plowing into a snow drift on
glare ice is...difficult.
On the move again, it seemed the worst of it was behind
us. I'd ascertained the dogs were fine. Was I fine? My knee was cold.
Was I bleeding? No. I didn't think so. I looked down. No hole in my
pants. I'm good.
It wouldn't
have mattered anyway. It was still well above zero. My hands were
sweaty and a river of sweat was making its way down my spine. A
little air conditioning wouldn't have hurt. I'd worn my usual system
of sweat wicking layers and remembered to powder my socks. I was,
despite sweating all day, not soaking wet. I was in pretty good shape
and almost there, theoretically.
The dogs (I had very little to do with it) came across
a place on the ice where snow machines had crossed but they left it
again in favor of their beeline toward the “Pied Piper”. No one
was listening to me.
Riding my brake to keep control, I hoped it would hold
out.
As I listened to my brake scrape the ice I hear a light
crackling, like walking across frozen puddles in the road that have
turned into hollow shells of what they were the day before.
I wasn't overly concerned. I was sure it was what it
sounded like; shallow pockets of air.
Right?
Sure. Let's go with that. I never looked down to see. I
just kept listening. I wasn't listening for such light small sounds.
I'm told breaking ice sounds like shotgun blasts...
The crackling only lasted maybe 20 seconds.
It was replaced by this strange howl rising under me,
like wind across the mouth of a wine jug.
Or didgeridoos.
I really don't think I was hallucinating.
I'm listening to this
sound trying to visualize what's going on under the ice. My eyes
still fixed on the dogs in the dimming light of my headlamp,
squinting to see their feet moving in a steady trot and that my lines
remained taught.
Is it hollow? I think it's hollow...
I contemplated its thickness based on the sound.
Six inches? Eight inches?
Who knows. I don't.
The dogs knew more than I did and I trusted in that.
Next thing I know I'm dodging big rocks on the bank,
but there's at least some snow under my sled again.
Ahead I see Nicole is stopped and Hugh is redirecting
his team.
I stop. “What's going on up there?” I ask the dogs.
“Is Hugh getting us lost?”
It was then, for the
first time, I noticed a hill, and it occurred to me that the only
reason I could see this hill on such a dark overcast night was
because there was at least some
light behind it, reflecting off the clouds. “No, Tanana is right
there. We're almost there. Alright, let's go.”
I had slammed into so many big chunks of ice and only
half missed most of the rocks I tried to dodge I was sure my sled
must have big holes in the bed plastic. Surely some part of my sled
must be broken. I tried to fathom what it would be like to run river
ice like that for ten hours instead of just one...in 20 below instead
of 20 above.
Hugh leads us into the driveway of our host while in
Tanana, Stan Zuray, of “Yukon Men” fame.
This is what makes Alaska both large and small at the
same time. You never know who you'll run into, and chances are,
whoever you run into knows at least three people you know. We're all
neighbors in a state the size of 1/3rd of the country.
Stan leads the way past his dog lot to a place we can
feed and bed down our dogs for the night. As I step off the runners
into punchy snow it hits me how physically tired I am. Mentally I was
wired, but my body was out of fuel.
Three pieces of jerky, and a peanut M&M...
I unharnessed my dogs slowly and deliberately, trying
not to step on feet or trip on my way with a dog to the tie out
cable. The wind was still howling and pushing against me. I remember
turning my shoulder into it to keep it from pushing me over.
“I'll take care of the dogs.” Hugh tells me after
I've got everyone unharnessed. “Go ahead and pull the dog food out
of your sled and you guys can take your stuff and the coolers down to
the house and hang out for a little bit while the food soaks.”
Stan leads me and Nicole down to a building I'm told is
their old house, pointing out the outhouse along the way.
Water is all I can think about.
My fingers are still being stupid. They have me playing
air guitar while I fumble with the lid of my water jug. The spout
wasn't enough for me. I wanted the whole thing open.
I finally get it open and start chugging this ice water
and a million little prickly, annoyingly painful bumps rose in the
back of my mouth.
Sharp tiny ice crystals I guess? Whatever. I was
thirsty.
I stepped outside into the wind to smoke a cigarette
(Sorry, mom. I'm a smoker again. Had to happen.) and Stan reappears
and tells me there's hot tea and soup inside.
“How was crossing the river?” He asks me in his
somewhat still thick—despite living in Tanana for 40
years—Bostonian accent.
“It was uhh—pretty rowdy.” I say, in what I'm
sure must be at least a slight understatement. “I thought Hugh was
getting us lost for a minute but I saw the hill and figured Tanana
had to be on the other side, so I wasn't overly worried.”
“Oh yeah! That's Mission hill.” He tells me.
I'll never forget the shape of that hill. It's seared
into my mind.
 |
Seared. Photo: Stan Zuray
|
He asks me about the stretches of exposed gravel on
the way there. I told him I thought it was only about seven miles of
combined stretches. It felt like ten. It was probably only four for
all I know. I've never done so much running next to my sled before. I
told him my runner plastic was shredded and that I was worried the
plastic Hugh had brought wasn't the right kind.
“Oh, I've probably got something around here. Don't
worry about it, we'll figure it out.”
Stan and his family were great hosts. His grandchildren
flocked around us as we ate and asked us a hundred questions and
pretty soon the kids were giving me drawings and Christmas cards and
offering to paint our nails.
Stan let us use the wi-fi and when I checked the
weather in Tanana it said 22 degrees with 6 mile an hour winds. I
didn't believe it. There were a few gusts I felt that had to have
been at least double that.
My body was tired but my mind was still on the trail. I
wasn't sure how well I would sleep.
As soon as I hit the floor I was out.
I was a little stiff the next morning but no worse for
wear. Punchy snow aggravates the tendinitis in my ankles if I run
dogs without having them wrapped or otherwise braced and tightly
laced into my boots. It's something I've come to live with, so I have
some sympathy for what the dogs must feel like in punchy snow. My
wraps were holding up and my ankles felt fine. My rotator-cuff was
still...rotating. My back was okay. I had totally forgotten about the
knee I'd slammed into the ice the night before. The wicked bunion on my right foot felt fine.
I still had all my teeth.
There was nothing wrong with me that I couldn't shake
off with a stroll around Tanana.
We loaded up on whole wheat blueberry pancakes, cream
of cauliflower chowder, and coffee.
I made sure to drink a tall glass of water and refill
my jug.
Before taking a sightseeing tour of Tanana, our sleds
needed some attention.
Hugh dragged my sled down to the old house and Nicole
starting peeling the plastic from my runners as I removed the
screws—yes, screws. No handy dandy pins here...
“Oh, no. Hugh! Her plastic isn't the same as ours.”
Nicole says.
“I was worried about that.” I tell her “I talked
to Stan a little bit about it last night and he seemed to think he
had something laying around. If not, this is Tanana. Someone's bound to have that plastic and I can pay for
it.”
Stan did have some laying around. It was about ten
inches short but some of the old runner plastic was still good so we
slid it on behind the new plastic, cut it to length, and screwed it
down. My other runner was still in tolerable shape, I thought. We
decided to leave it on and I told myself to favor the new plastic on
the way back.
Should've just changed it.
Should've, could've, would've...
Changing that plastic required a hammer, a steel punch,
and some muscle. It was not an easy change out and took more time and
hands than it should have.
 |
"Why, yes. That IS a TARDIS sled bag.
Because a dog sled is a time machine and bowties are cool."
|
Someday I'll learn to take a hint. Thanks for trying
though, Universe...
Stan and I also talked about my brake (he was surprised
it wasn't bent from the river ice) and drag mat system but every
temporary fix had its drawbacks.
“I think I'll just stick with the devil I know.” I
resolved. “I made it here. I'll make it back.”
I stuffed the other runner plastic in my sled bag, but
I'd never get to use it.
Stan drove us into town and Nicole and I walked around
to loosen up while Hugh caught up with some friends. We took photos
of some Jumble ice in the daylight and I met Lester Erhart—a
notable dog man who owns the sprint kennel where Hugh started out as
a handler so long ago—as well as Charlie Wright, also of “Yukon
Men” notoriety.
We were burning daylight. It was well after one in the
afternoon and we needed to get a move on.
Back at Stan's I scarfed down another pancake and
packed up my stuff. I mashed it all into my sled and pushed it up the
hill to our temporary dog lot. Stan had his snow machine fired up and
waiting to help us cross the Yukon a little more safely this time.
“There's a sharp left at the bottom of the hill.”
He tells us.
Sleds are loaded but much lighter now, which isn't
necessarily a good thing. Dogs are harnessed and howling to get
moving. Stevie Ray is hammering at his harness just like his brother,
Merlin—a dog I got from Hugh I run in my team at home.
Stan takes off, Hugh, then Nicole. I pull my snowhook
from the tree stump securing my team and we're off. I'd become
accustomed to holding my team back given my inability to effectively
stop the team in a short distance.
My stomach was full and I'd gotten what I assumed was
eight hours of sleep.
Sharp left. No problem. My trails at home are narrow with sharp turns.
 |
Photo: Stan Zuray
|
We passed some familiar looking rocks that somehow
looked smaller and less intimidating in the daylight. Hugh and Stan
were up on the “trail”—a thinly packed skiff of snow across the
ice marked out by withies—long, thin willow branches set in the
river ice. Nicole's team dropped into a small canyon of ice that had
caved in, filled somewhat with water, and refroze.
My team followed suit.
It couldn't have been more than 300 feet long, but it
was a rough 300 feet which culminated in yet another epic spill on
the ice as my sled crested the jagged lip of the depression at a bad
angle and I ate it yet again. It was totally a repeat of the spill I
took the night before. I was dragged, yelling at the dogs to stop,
waiting to hit a snow drift.
I can hear Nicole yelling at my team to stop too. Or
maybe she was yelling at hers. I don't know. It didn't matter.
“Are you okay?!” She shouts over the wind as I
right my sled.
“Yeah!” I give her a thumbs up.
“YEAH!” She says, throwing a fist in the air.
“Let's go!”
Back up on the “trail” we begin to veer out across
the river, following withies and a faint white snow machine track
that the wind had pretty much erased in a lot of places.
Just when it seemed like we were doing good I look up
and see Hugh's team going the wrong way, and Nicole's team is balled
up on the ice in front of me. I see her up there doing the penguin
shuffle on the glare ice trying to straighten out. Meanwhile I'm
trying to pay attention to my team.
I'm sure we looked ridiculous. Part of me was trying
not to laugh as I wondered what aerial footage of the chaos would
have looked like.
I think Stan may have helped Hugh get his team pointed
towards the bank again but I'm not sure because I'm busy watching my
team get blown sideways across the glare ice.
Rosalita, one of my team's leader's, God bless her
furry heart. I'm glad one of us knew what the hell we were doing out
there...
My team is being pushed sideways and back at an angle
and Rosalita makes the executive decision to turn us clean around.
At first I'm like “No! Wait. What are you doing!?”
trying to deduce what she had in mind here...
I realize then that she has her eye on this strip of
ice that has more texture, like refrozen slush.
“Yeah! Good girl! Haw on over there! Yip, yip, yip!
Let's go! GOOD dogs!”
The strip of traction led us to the bank to a spot
where I thought I saw Hugh's team stopped a few seconds before. There
was decent hard-packed snow here so I planted the hook, laid over my
sled and made a quick walk down the line to adjust a dog who had gone
under a juggled line to the wrong side of the team. I gave Rosalita a
rub on the head and told her she was a good girl.
Stevie Ray barked his impatience and hammered at his
harness.
Time to go.
The rest of the way down the far side of the river was
easier going as I regrouped for the steep run up that thirty foot
cut-bank.
 |
Photo: Nicole Faille
|
Steep uphills suck. That's all I really have to say
about that...
Not one of us just sallied up that, save for Stan on
the snow machine.
I held my team back pretty far until both Hugh and
Nicole's teams were clear of the crest and my team seemed to have had
enough of a break and were howling to eat up the trail ahead.
“Alright! Alright! Let's go, let's go!”
I let them attack that hill and when our momentum
slowed I jumped off and ran. I didn't want to have to stop short and have to get
them going again.
I had tied my drag mat up out of the way so I could
push the sled and run behind it when the time came, but it eliminated
the option of braking...I had to do this just right.
At the top I planted my snowhook to stop my team,
flopped my sled on top of it, and draped myself over it, trying to
catch my breath. I just don't do well with “Steep”. I'll have to
work on that.
We had a lot of uphill running to do still, but nothing
that grade.
We said our goodbyes to Stan and I told him I would
probably be back with Hugh and Nicole next year. Hopefully with at
least some of my own dogs.
Up off the river the wind was significantly decreased,
gentle even. It was about 4:00 PM and we were losing light pretty
quickly.
My headlamp batteries were fresh and I was sure they
would make it all the way to Manley.
My short term resolution for my drag mat problem was
simply to flip it up and let it rest on my feet. If I needed to kick
I was able to, for the most part, hold it up on one foot while I
kicked with the other. If I needed to brake it was easy enough to
just move my foot, drop the mat, and hit the brake.
I was still having trouble stopping my team with the
brake, just like before, so I got pretty good at stopping them with
my snowhook. My sled was so light at that point laying my sled on the
snowhook did little to keep Stevie Ray from coaxing the team into
popping it out of the snow. I ended up just standing on it every time
we stopped while Nicole snacked my team. It was simply more
effective.
Safer.
I was developing a laundry list of things I needed to
change about my sled.
The sky was clear but it was still in the 20's above
zero. Sweat traveled down my spine as I jogged next to my sled on
long stretches of exposed gravel.
I remembered Nicole the day before. “Is that what
you're wearing? You're going to get cold.”
“No, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die of heat
stroke.” I replied.
Sooo, hot.
It felt like there was more gravel than there had been
the day before. But it was obvious a few snow machines and at least
one dog team had been on the trail since we'd passed through. The
snow machines had beat down a trail through the snow that took us
around many stretches of gravel, but there still seemed to be a lot
of it. I began to wonder if it would ever end. I stopped the dogs for
some two minute breathers, mainly for my benefit, but they seemed to
appreciate a brief stop here and there.
My right runner plastic was blown out so I set my
headlamp to flash and waited for us to find a suitable place to stop.
Hugh comes back to me and starts peeling plastic and
scraping the channels while I pull those stupid screws.
“We have to do this fast, dude. This is NOT a good situation, the dogs are pumped and don't want to
stop.” He says to me.
I can feel it in the air. The energy rising through the
dogs as we struggle with my not-so-quick-change runner plastic.
There's wood glue all over the runner, in the channels, impeding the
new plastic from sliding on. Neither of us can get it to budge.
“We should have just swapped it out at Stan's.” I
grumble at my shortsightedness.
Scraping, pushing, pulling. The plastic refuses to
cooperate.
“Shit, we can't do it, we just have to go.” Hugh
sprints by me and I hustle to make sure I have everything in my sled.
Screwdriver...Hugh's ax, my knife. Runner plastic.
I don't really care about my runners at this point
anyway. They're on that laundry list. Obviously I need to put new
hardware on them and make sure they're well lubricated and free of
gunk like wood glue and frickin' varnish.
Totally not amused...
Favoring the only runner with fresh plastic—ahem...The
only runner with plastic at all—we continue on.
Balancing on one runner, propping up the drag mat,
kicking, running, dropping the drag mat, picking it up again,
dropping it again, running some more. I'd almost rather have the
jumble ice at this point, than one more mile of gravel.
I was hot, periodically winded, and mildly annoyed, but
I had to admit we weren't doing too bad. I felt like we were making
better time back to Manley than we did on the way to Tanana.
Eventually our elevation dropped enough that the bare
gravel became a thing of the past. The trail was hard and fast from
the other travelers passing over it, and the time to set-up in
between. I started to sing to the dogs again.
I'd sung many songs to the dogs on the trip. I sung
them some Janis Joplin, The Oscar Mayer Wiener song, Me and Julio
Down by the School Yard, CCR, I'm sure there was more that I can't
seem to recall now.
As long as I stayed far away from Hugh and Nicole the
dogs listened to me pretty well. Whenever we were close together and
Hugh said “Alright!” all of our teams would surge ahead in unison
because he commanded it so. Whenever I stopped to do something away
from them the dogs were more intent on me. They didn't move until I
had my snowhook resting comfortably where it belonged and I said
“Alright, let's go.” In my typical measured indoor voice that I
usually talk to my own dogs with while on the trail.
Over the past few years I've tried to train myself to
keep my patience and maintain a sense of calm authority and
consistency. That's been a trial in itself, for there are times when
working with dogs feels more like a test of patience than of
endurance, as I'm sure anyone who has ever owned such a strong willed
breed can attest to.
Keeping my Zen has done me well. Maintaining a relaxed
body language during stressful situations seems to help keep the dogs
calm in those tense moments.
My remaining runner plastic was shredded by the time
the gravel was behind us. It really didn't matter what runner I stood on
anymore...
There were a ton of fresh animal tracks that weren't
there the day before. Martin, lynx, rabbit, ptarmigan, and moose. I
could see Hugh panning his headlamp side to side up ahead.
Beware the moosebeast.
I noticed a place where some small animal tried to
scurry across the snow and was rewarded with death from above.
Probably an owl as the wing beats in the snow around the hole left
behind seemed to indicate.
Hugh's team makes an abrupt maneuver off of the trail
and they grind to a halt. I can't really see what is going on up
there but I can hear Hugh yell “No! NO. What are you DOING!? Haw
Haw Haw!”
Nicole stops. I stop, waaaay back.
“What's going on up there, huh guys?” The dogs ears
orbited around at the sound of Hugh's voice as they watched and I
stood on my snow hook. Nicole's team went off the trail in the same
spot too and I wondered what was so distracting from the trail up
there.
As my team passed the spot I saw what the dogs had in
mind.
There were four or five nice neat fluffy beds of straw
on the side of the trail another musher had left behind, probably
with intentions to use them again on the way back.
My team glanced at them, but never tried to leave the
trail for them. They were in chase mode.
Follow the pack.
The dogs are dialed in, chugging along rhythmically,
rolling down the trail. My drag mat is no longer picking up piles of
snow and my runners are so fried out I barely need to use it anyway. All I have to do is keep the dogs from loping and keep
the line from juggling on the long series of downhills ahead.
It's all pretty smooth sailing from here. The sky is
clear and the weather is warm by all standards. There's only a few
things missing from this perfect stretch of trail...
My patience and endurance was rewarded shortly
thereafter. Mother nature was ready to give us the show we had
earned.
An unearthly glow appeared behind some distant clouds
ahead. It took me a minute to process what I was seeing. Aliens
seemed like as good a guess as any.
Of course it was a big slice of half moon, a deep rusty
orange, coming over the horizon.
I laughed. “There's our bad moon rising, guys.”
Stevie Ray smiled over his shoulder at me, just like
Merlin would have, and I gave a howl and laughed some more.
My headlamp was dying again and the stars began to
stand out brighter. Slowly, a green ribbon started to materialize
across the sky. It pulsated and grew into an amazing show. I found
myself at times standing full on my drag mat and staring at the sky
for extended periods of time. I'm sure Hugh and Nicole were wondering
why I was so far behind them on such hard fast trail.
I was on autopilot.
One time I looked up and saw a big huge “S”
encompassing the sky. It dissolved into curtains of pink and I smiled
to myself.
“The Universe approves, guys! There's a nice cozy dog
truck waiting for you. Yip, yip, yip!”
I found Hugh and Nicole stopped on the trail. We smoked
a cigarette and chatted about the light show. We conferred on the
condition of our dogs a little bit and I mentioned my headlamp was
dying. Hugh gave me one of his if I needed it.
I tried it out after we were moving again and found it
was about the same brightness as what I had.
Oh, well.
A little bit further on down the trail I see a pair of
eyes in the middle of the trail behind Nicole. Hugh had let Walter
off to run loose.
As my team passed him he fell into stride next to my
sled and ran happily next to me for the rest of the run, content with
our slower pace.
We were almost there. Only about another hour to go.
The dogs could sense it with each familiar landmark we passed. A
small amount of overflow, construction signs left over from the
summer, a partially finished bridge. The trail we were on is set to
become a road to Tanana someday soon. We may never get to use it like
we did again.
We arrive in Manley around 12:30 AM. A nine hour run
back compared to our ten hour run out—55 to 65 miles each way,
depending on who you ask. I seem to be in pretty good shape. My
fingers work, no cramps.
Back at the Redington's, dogs put away and sleds loaded
up, Joe and Pam are kind enough to let us crash in one of their
cabins. We eat, we drink, we discuss. We talked about our run until
about three in the morning. I told Hugh about Rosalita's performance
on the ice and he said it was good to know, and good that I picked up
on what she wanted to do in that moment.
Laying in a bed for the first time in a few days I
close my eyes only to discover the image of eight trotting dogs is
burnt into my corneas. My brain was still on the trail. I thought
about all the things I wanted to do different next time. All the
things I needed to do to my sled. I thought about how a tandem run
would have been impossible on that trail. I thought about how having
more dogs would have made some parts of the trail easier, but having
less made crossing the river safer. I thought about how my
dogs would have stopped and laid down on the glare ice.
My dogs act like they're falling of the face of the
planet when they encounter linoleum.
I tallied up all the things I did that I had never done
before with my own dogs. I had never even run in the dark before this
trip. I had never crossed a river, or glare ice, or jumble ice. I'd
never done hills, wallows or snow drifts...
On the way back to Fairbanks the next day Rosalita
wallowed in my lap in the back seat happily absorbing all the praise
and massages I was more than glad to give to her, even though I'm
pretty sure all she wanted was for me to get out of her seat. I found
myself crying tears of joy as the sun set in the southeast and gilded
the clouds in gold. I felt as though I probably “leveled up” in a
couple of skill lines...
 |
| "This dog, dude." |
I learned a lot on this adventure. I learned a lot
about my sled and a lot about myself and what I'm capable of. I
learned what to prepare my dogs for in the future and how my team
should look when they are performing effectively.
When I got home I gave Hugh a hug and thanked him for
dragging me thoroughly out of my comfort zone...
I needed it.
I can't thank Stan Zuray enough for hooking me up with
some runner plastic and helping me get back on the trail, even though
it all went out the window pretty fast. I left behind four brand new
pairs of felt work gloves at his place that I hadn't used on the way
there and didn't feel the need to pack back out. I hope he finds them
useful.
I should thank everyone that helped us along the way,
some people I met and some people I didn't get a chance to shake
hands with. Some names I can't remember. We were hosted for a night
in Minto by some very generous Tituses. I hope you enjoyed the
cookies, and that your Open North American dreams come true. I'll be
watching out for you on the trail.
I'm bad at names. Ask Hugh's dogs about that...
It was a wild ride at times...
And I can't wait to do it all again...
 |
| "I'll be back." |
