THE CAN-AM CONTROVERSIES

“So what the fuck are we doing here, Sir?” was Moses’ question to me, while we were standing there on that balcony, watching and listening to the “fireworks” two valleys away. “Why aren’t we as the United Nations doing anything to stop the slaughter?”
“That my young man, is not something that I can answer. It’s out of our control.” I said totally discouraged and also trying to make sense of that eerie reddish glow in the dark that we were looking at. “Right now, there’s not much else we can do other than sit back and observe.”
“Bull Shit!!!” he exploded as he threw and shattered the almost empty brandy bottle that we had been sharing, against the concrete wall. “It’s fucking Bull Shit!”
Afraid that in his drunken stupor, he might be well on his way to getting himself into trouble, I yelled at him, “Moses, get back here! Get back here and that’s an order!”
I guess the tone of my voice sent the message to this young Kenyan Military Policeman that he wasn’t dealing with Gino his buddy but rather with Warrant Officer Roussel, the boss.
“Moses, I’m warning you, get back here!” I said emphasizing that I meant business, “Get back here, now!” Reluctantly, he obeyed but when he turned around, that mad look behind those even whiter eyeballs of his, said it all. The alcohol was working its evil magic and the rage was boiling over.

You couldn’t blame him for that type of reaction. For where us Canadians were on our fourth month of a six month tour, the Kenyan contingent was on its eight month of a twelve month tour. Where our country provided us with vacation time, the Kenyans were not allowed to go back home and this for an extended period of over a year. For young soldiers like Moses who missed their families back in continental Africa, this “sitting on your hands and do nothing” attitude was hard to accept and there wasn’t much that I could say to console him. To say that these poor souls had been put through the “meat grinder” was the understatement of the week. During their tour of duty, they had been involved in trying to contain the massacres and had witnessed first hand, the atrocities of “Medak Pocket”. Later, after all was said and done, they had been called upon to help clean up the streets littered with bodies. To make matters worse, because of their skin color and the context of the conflict, they had been deliberately preyed upon by both warring parties, the Serbs and the Croats. While some would advocate that the artillery shells that were lobbed on their positions, were dropped accidentally and it was because “They were at the wrong place at the wrong time”, later research would reveal otherwise. For the purpose of being blunt, they had been racially discriminated. Somebody eventually needed to brag about their exploits and it is now public knowledge (www.stormfront.org/forum/t448017-7/) that amongst the other specialist groups, “Skin Heads and Neo-Nazi types coming from Germany and Austria were used as specialty squads. These mercenaries were hired by the Croatian Government for the purpose of ethnic cleansing.

However, on that fateful evening of 05 Feb 94, nobody in Sector South HQ, in the town of “Knin”, could determine what was going on in “Drnis”, a small village, some 24 kms south of our position. Although the battle had been raging for a few days now, nobody knew what exactly was happening. On the one hand, the intelligence reports provided by the Russians, indicated that Croatian units were killing innocent refugees while on the other one, it was said that it was associated with a pocket of resistance of the Serbian kind. It was a big unknown as to what was transpiring and everybody was being held at bay, not allowed to proceed and observe the activities. Here we were, the mighty UNPROFOR being held hostage and not allowed to intervene. As a professional soldier, you do what you’re told and follow orders. But as an individual person with certain values and morals, knowing that something drastically wrong is happening right under your nose and you’re doing nothing about it, is a most bitter pill to swallow.

No, I couldn’t blame young Moses for being in that state of frenzy. Hell I felt the same way. Though it is true that there wasn’t much we could do about the “Big Picture”, I knew one thing for sure. Here stood before me a young man who needed some sort of fatherly love thus chose a more tender approach to comfort him. Opening my arms wide, I said,
“Come here, son!”
I guess that’s all the invitation he needed to hear. He rushed to me where huge hugs were exchanged. There we were two grown men embracing each other in ones arms, balling their eyes out. From the ever growing wet spot in the shoulder area of my combat shirt, I knew that it had been a long time coming and that my young friend had plenty to ventilate. The tears just kept on pouring and pouring. After what was thought to be an eternity, he finally pushed me away. He brushed off his uniform, put his blue beret on “straight”, then said almost embarrassed, “Sorry Sir”.
“Don’t worry about it Moses,” I replied, “we all have our breaking points and in your case, you’re one tough cookie…”

Two weeks had gone by when the same young man and myself were on our way, delivering supplies to the UNMP Split detachment. At his request, we had brought our interpreter, Peter along with us. Like me, he wanted to know what had happened in his home town of Drnis. Besides, he knew exactly how to get there so I didn’t mind him tagging along. The slight detour was a bit out of our way and in “no man’s” land but I needed to see with my own eyes what had transpired there.

We had seen devastation all throughout the “Republic of Krajina” but this particular region felt even creepier. It was as if you were being watched by ghostly figures lurking in dark corners. If you let your mind wander, you could almost hear them screaming in pain. The screaming part might have been a figment of my imagination but the stench of rotting flesh was more than real. It filled the air. That was the first thing that hit you when we entered the village. The second thing we noticed was that most of the buildings had been destroyed. Where once stood somebody’s home, now lay a bunch of burnt roof timbers, collapsed within four cement walls. Obviously, fire had been the weapon of choice of the belligerents as it seemed that everywhere you looked there were scorch marks. Also weird was the fact that every house that had been torched had been marked with this large cross like symbol painted with a spray can. What was even stranger, were the series of letters and numbers surrounding the emblem. The best we could make of this then was that it was associated with some sort of method to identify who had gone through and done the “house clearing”. Even spookier, was the fact that in 2005, the same cross symbol would again appear and get this, in New-Orleans, after Hurricane Katrina. Somebody was painting the exact emblem on the flooded houses after they were evacuated. Was there a connection between the two events or was it a coincidence? Who knows? The only thing for sure was that these so called Croatian “ghost fighters” were a most barbaric and sadistic bunch who were “freelancing” throughout the war zone. The tactics used were part of a well orchestrated system, something that would resemble the methods employed by “white supremacists” to clear the “ghettos” of Johannesburg, South Africa, during the Apartheid years. Were these “ghost fighters” in Ex-Yugoslavia part of an experiment that had gone wrong? One would hope to think so. Nobody in their right mind would hire such a group, knowing that they would go on a rampage, killing innocent civilians indiscriminately and this with extreme prejudice. But the evidence was here before us. The town was empty of its citizens and nothing had been spared. You name it. Houses, vehicles, bicycles and even animals, everything had been torched. Dealing with this and being so close and personal to such an incident was hard to stomach and made me almost giving up on the human race.
“How can this type of shit happen in this day and age and this in civilized Europe?” I questioned myself, “It’s mind boggling! It’s impossible!”
No it wasn’t impossible as we were standing there right smack in the middle of it. Boy, could man be evil when he wanted to.

Stopped in front of this one particular residence, there was dead silence in the jeep that afternoon and the mood was very somber. The two UN soldiers felt guilty for not doing anything while the interpreter was shedding some not so discreet tears.
“Are you all right, Peter?” I asked the Yugoslavian man. He didn’t answer and just kept on looking out the window and shaking his head in the negative way. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His house was gone, his village had been demolished and his entire family was missing.
“Drive!” he eventually said, pointing me towards the exit of town, “Drive!”
I could sense that this was not a request but an order that he was giving me. Whatever it was, he had my vote. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

We had reached the outskirt of town when he tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Stop, stop right here.” He had guided us to a cemetery where by pure hazard some folks were burying their dead. He got out of the vehicle, slammed its door and walked to the sight where six old ladies and an even older white bearded Orthodox priest were praying after digging some graves to bury five female bodies only draped in blankets. I wanted to get a closer look but was stopped from doing so when I was intercepted by Peter and one of the elderly ladies who were walking towards me.
“I’m sorry Gino,” the interpreter said, “You better stay at the vehicle. You’re not welcomed here.”
He was holding on to the old lady’s arm who was glaring at me with such hate in her eyes that I can’t even start describing it. She shouted “UN” then spat on the ground. The message was short but loud and clear. They did not want us there and best we cooperate. I turned around, walking back to the “Land Cruiser” when I noticed a young boy, maybe ten years old, sitting on the curbside and talking to Moses who was sitting next to him. There was a definite language barrier but for some reason he was smiling at what the young soldier was telling him. I let them have their moment because I was enjoying seeing that paternal side of Moses. He had quite the way of breaking the ice with the child, making funny clown faces and sticking his tongue out at him. Whatever they were saying to each other, it was working. The kid started laughing wholeheartedly and for just that instance, he had forgotten where he was. Yeah, now I had a better understanding of some of the sacrifices these Kenyans were making by being here. If this was the way he acted around his own children back in Nairobi, then he needed to feel the presence of a child and its affection to compliment his daily life. I guess that’s what made him happy.
“Oh Sir,” Moses said, “What do you think is going to happen to him?” he continued. “Do you think he’s all alone?” I couldn’t answer that but Peter did when he eventually returned. It turns out that one of the bodies was the one of his dead mother. As for his father, nobody knew where he was. So for now he would live with his grandmother, the spitting contest “champion”. There was more to this story but Peter would not share that part with us.
“Sir,” Moses paused…
“Yeah, I know Moses,” I replied knowing quite well what he was referring to, “Give him some.”
Without any hesitation whatsoever, he grabbed the child by the hand and directed him to the back of the vehicle where he opened the hatchback door. He showed the food to him and made it understood that he could have anything he wanted. The first thing the hungry boy chose was a ten pound brick of cheese. This was stuffed in the school bag he was carrying on his back. Then it was the turn of the “Twinkies” to disappear. This box was also shoved in the same backpack. We were running out of room in there so we decided to put other stuff in a now empty box. This was also filled with other goodies. As it turns out, once we were finished, there wasn’t much left for the supply run so we decided to give all the food away and just come back home. As far as the war efforts were concerned, we hadn’t accomplished much that day but to see that smile on that child’s face when we left was worth a million bucks. When later Moses broke the silence and said “Thank You, Sir!” I knew that just like me, he had enjoyed doing the “good thing” and was sharing that same warm “Good Samaritan” feeling. At least now, he might be able to go home satisfied that during his UN tour, however small it was, his contribution had made a significant difference in someone else’s life. As for Peter, well that was a totally different story. He had become and would remain even more silent and remote. Later, I tried talking to him about it but the only response I got from him was, “Well, the difference between you and me is that you get to leave this hell hole eventually. I, on the other hand must live here for the rest of my life and deal with the hatred.” If you recall, his name was earlier mentioned in the blog entry called “The Lucky Man” and I guess there isn’t much more that can be said other than,
“Rest in Peace, my friend.”

By now, you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this story and to tell you the truth, the question is a most valid one. Well, it all stems from the fact that I had the occasion to correspond with the St-Pamphile “Hero” and all I’ll say about it was that it was an interesting and heated exchange. Some valid points were retained by either sides but for me, to be called a liar diplomatically or straight out, is something that I will take offence to. Whether he learns something from that testimonial or he continues “blackballing” me, this is totally irrelevant to me. The way I see things, if the word gets out that I won’t stand any longer for the mistreatment of sleddogs then I do believe that certain people will feel uncomfortable around me. If my presence in a parking lot somewhere or on the trail makes it that an animal avoids a “beating” then my “hanging around” the circuit will have served a purpose. To those that might think that I’m a “push over”, don’t kid yourselves, I am most serious and not one to be intimidated easily.

The reason I brought to light the “Bosnian” incident was to answer St-Pamphile’s question, “Who the hell do you think you are?” Well to put in simple terms, I am a person who vowed way back then to never again stand around while certain injustices were being done. The events that unfolded in front of me during that ill-fated tour would mark me for the rest of my life and I would decide there and then to take up the cause of protecting the weak and innocent. In today’s society, we see it too many times and this on a very regular daily basis. People will turn their backs on a situation because they don’t want to get involved and/or because it doesn’t affect them directly. Sorry but that just doesn’t cut the pickle with me.

Where how this all translates to the sport of sleddog racing, well this is quite simple actually. Correct me if I’m wrong but collectively, we’ve all seen stuff out there but for some reason or another, we choose to close our eyes and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s fine and dandy but at the end of the day, what have we accomplished. Nothing that makes you feel good, I assure you. So, time goes by and we let things deteriorate and this to the point where the “guys with the white hats” are having real issues with those wearing the “black hats”. I was going to let it ride but when I read what was being said on “Sled Dog Central” and the “Village des Mushers” about the big “food controversy” in Fort-Kent this year, I decided that enough was enough and that the “dark side” of the sport should be visited if not exposed.

To start off, we’ll use the “CAN-AM International Sled Dog Races” and “L’Odyssée Appalachienne” as benchmarks to debate some of the controversies.

First, let’s examine the rules and regulations governing the two events. Both, Fort-Kent and St-Pamphile are quite concise when it comes to what is expected of the mushers. As a matter of fact, the French version of the rules of the “Odyssée” is almost a carbon copy of the “CAN-AM” rules. I guess someone said to himself, “Why re-invent the wheel? The Americans have got an excellent product, let’s try to match their “standards ”.

Now this is where it gets a bit interesting. Where the CAN-AM enforces the rules and expects the “sledders” to abide by them, their Quebec counterparts are a bit more sheepish and would rather cater to the whims of just about every musher. The first thing that comes to mind is the big “Bootie” debate at the briefing in St-Pamphile. Some of the audience was arguing about the regulations governing such items. I couldn’t really catch the reasoning behind all this till I eventually inquired about it. A friend of mine who’s been around the Quebec Circuit for more than a couple of weeks, confided in me and said, “Well it’s like this. This sport is getting to the point where it’s getting so competitive that some of these guys will go to extremes so not to carry extra weight. They figured that each booty, weighs approximately “one ounce” and if an eight dog team leaves the chute all wearing them, then the weight of the “32 ounces / 2 pounds” can be distributed and carried evenly by the animals. Eventually, these guys will stop along the trail and just take them off and throw them away. I was a bit skeptic about this information even after seeing a whole bunch of these booties out there in the Quebec woods but when I saw a musher do it right in front of me in the Allagash mountains, I was disgusted.

Add to that some of the other things they throw away along the trail, items like empty “pop” bottles, chip bags and yes even frozen “T-bones”, well you know what? If the mushing community doesn’t consider itself a bunch of slobs then the other ones using the same trails, IE: snowmobilers and cross-country skiers might just have a different opinion. Not only does this set a bad example, it sets the stage for where maybe we might end up being denied access to public/private lands because we’ve all been put in the same basket and earn the reputation of being “litter bugs”.

Another fine example of not wanting to follow simple rules is when I crossed the Finish Line in St-Pamphile. I asked “JF” who was checking the gear in the sled, only to be told that a lot of people were missing their equipment and had complained about not knowing what was needed so they had decided to do away with the gear requirement. “Nice to know now.” I said. “And to think that I was carrying all this junk. Oh well,” I consoled myself. “It was a good practice run for Fort-Kent.”

Those are really trivial examples and some of you might be saying to yourselves, “Get over it Gino, it’s no big deal.” Although I will agree that in the scheme of things, we shouldn’t lose any sleep over it, I’ll ask you this. “Where do we draw the line? How much are we willing to tolerate? Is it fair that while some of us want to play by the rules, others will bend them so to win at all costs?” I don’t see any problems with the guy not wearing his bib through out the race. However, I do have issues with the individual who after going through the “vet check” goes back to his trailer, opens a drawer and pulls out a “prescription pill” bottle. I wasn’t the only one to witness this and those who did all agreed that they weren’t vitamins he was feeding his dogs. So what were they, anti-inflammatory pills, horse steroids or amphetamines? Yes folks, welcome to the racing world, 21st Century style. Yup, according to a veterinarian friend of mine, it’s out there. We’re feeding our dogs “uppers” just to keep that competitive edge. Another “bending of the rules” that I saw, was when a musher passed me on the trail. His yearlings got scared and got all tangled up. He stopped in front of me so I did the same. There was no sense in me passing him just have the same situation repeat itself. He planted his snow hook and yelled at me, “I’ve got a tangle!” “No problem,” I shouted back, “I’m not in a rush.” What happened next was something that I didn’t expect at all from him. He rushed to the dogs and while trying to untangle them, he put a real serious beating on two of the animals. Pounding at them, he had totally lost it. Holding my own team back, the only thing that I could do was yell, “Tabarnach, arrête, calice, (in French) they’ve had enough.” He looked at me and I guess he saw that I wasn’t impressed. He managed to straighten out the mess and was on his way. Now here’s a guy that I should have reported. This type of behavior is by far not acceptable. I really regret not doing anything about this and today will only say this to this person, “I’ve totally lost respect for you my friend and you should park your sled!”

Although the next incident didn’t happen during the racing season, it did soon after and demonstrates how some might consider these canines lesser than commodities and don’t care about their welfare. After all was said and done and the snow had melted, this individual got rid of almost half his “dog yard”. Where he could not sell or give them away, he simply loaded them up, took them to the woods and shot them where they were left as “coyote” food…

So coming back to that Friday, when John Pelletier, stood up there at the CAN-AM musher’s briefing with that hockey puck sized water bowl, although people thought it was funny, I’m sure that he did not. Let’s face it. This year, it was the bowl, the year before that the size of the axe and before that, the size of the snowshoes. It seems that every season, someone always comes up with another way to try and “screw the system”. Maybe I’m wrong but wasn’t he trying to put the point across that the CAN-AM organizers wanted and do put on a professional and well organized product? I think so. But they can’t do it all by themselves and must be getting tired of all this reluctance to follow the rules. As for the “dog food”, we were all told quite clearly that it would be checked. So why did some of us not heed to this “friendly” advice and make sure that we were in compliance? Discrepancies found in the weight of the food and being penalized for it, can be hard to swallow but all of us were subjected to the same procedures. These shortages can most likely be attributed to many causes that can vary from having the food scattered at the bottom of one’s sled bag because of the rough ride to just another shrewd if not devious way of bending the rules. I’m sure that good folks like Scott and Corina Alexander did not try to cheat and that there’s a logical explanation to their missing food. In their case, I hope they’ll reconsider their decision and come back out next year. We need honest mushers like them on the circuit.

Listen Folks; regardless of who puts on these racing events for us, I am positive that they do their best to provide the racers with a level playing field and an atmosphere of camaraderie. Unfortunately and let’s not kid ourselves, there are and will always be these few “dick heads” out there that will try to undermine their efforts. If this had been the plot to an old “Spaghetti Western”, I would have loved seeing it at the end of the show where the good town folks would have gotten together and would have ridded their streets of the “Bad Guys”. Unfortunately, this is not a movie and I really don’t know where a lot of you guys stand on this entire situation. There are only a few things I know for sure. We all have to do some serious soul searching and decide where we stand on this. If collectively we do something to promote the “good cause” then this sport will continue going in a positive direction. However, we can’t expect the “officials” to do it on their own. They need our assistance and contribution so to make this work. As for me, I will return next year just to make sure that some of those “outlaws” that I meet, do feel awkward in my presence. And if I happen to see someone tip his white cowboy hat at me somewhere out there in a parking lot, then I’ll know that I made a difference helping our friends, the sleddogs. Remember, Moses and that child at the beginning of this story…

On that note, have a great summer and remember. “Be kind to animals. You’ll live longer.” = -)

Gino

P.S. If you agree with the above, give it the widest distribution.

R.I.P. SOX

It has taken me a while before I could find the courage to announce the news that "SOX" was no longer amongst us. It is with deepest regrets that I have to say that I had him put to sleep three weeks ago.

This was one of those hard things that a "dog lover" must do but in his case, it was even harder because, not only was a great sleddog, he was a true and most loyal friend. You see, my little sack of dynamite was real hardcore on the trail and like my second shadow, following me around on the property.

Throughout last season's training period, I noticed that he was favoring his hind quarters, sometimes his left leg, sometimes his right. We thought it was a temporary injury but the vetenarian confirmed that he had a genetic condition called "Hip Displasia". Of course she sent me on a further guilt trip when she added that the heavy mileage we put these mid-distance dogs through didn't help but what can you do? Anyway, the hard decision was taken and he is no longer suffering.

He will be laid to rest (once the ground thaws) with his other departed friends and a "white pine" tree will be planted to mark his grave. Knowing "SOX" and the energy he had, that tree will grow big and tall and his spirit will continue to bring joy to us for decades to come.

A friend of mine figured that the following might bring some closure and I guess if there is such a place then I'll try even harder to be a good person. Let's face it, I'd be pushing my luck,showing up there with sixteen dogs in tow. = -)



" HEAVEN "

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them. After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble. At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight. When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer,
he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?' "This is Heaven, sir," the man answered. "Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked. "Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up." The man gestured, and the gate began to open. "Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets." The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog. After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence. As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book...
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you have any water?" ''Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in." ''How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog. "There should be a bowl by the pump," said the man. They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it. The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog. When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree. "What do you call this place?" the traveler asked. "This is Heaven," he answered. "Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too." ''Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's Hell." "Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'' "No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind."

Thanks "Bert"

THE RED LANTERN "CLUB"

So there he was, standing there on the podium holding his first place cheque and accompanying trophy. To hear him speak, anyone not suspecting, would have thought that this guy was the “poster child” for the sleddog racing world. Very well educated, he knew how to choose his every word so to move a crowd and from their reaction, was obviously saying all the right things. Yes, there he stood. Finally, I was getting the opportunity of putting a name to a face of a person I had been seeking out for the better part of three years. This was Sunday evening at the Awards Ceremony in St-Pamphile and I guess his “shiny white teeth” speech was souring my mood and putting a damper on an otherwise great weekend. Don’t get me wrong. I know that what I’m about to say will make me sound like a sore loser but please do bear with me. Although I will admit that I was a bit disappointed with my results, this was not the reason as to why this “hero” was making me sick to my stomach.

First of all, to start putting things in perspective, I had taken a real hard one on the chin as I had come in dead last in the “45 mile” run. For the first time in my racing career, I had earned the not so coveted honor of being given the “Red Lantern”. As you would have it, there’s a legend attached to this curious identified item. It is said that somewhere up north, a widow of a musher kept this lantern lit, night after night so to guide her lost husband home after a snow storm. In the true spirit of this tradition, the “Red Lantern” is supposed to be given to the last racer to cross the finish line as a gesture that says that all participants are in, safe and sound. However, somehow this got twisted around and now the ones receiving this award are somewhat often subjected to a lot of razing and at the receiving end of a blunt joke because they came in last. I have to concede that I had to somewhat swallow my pride but in all honesty, I didn’t really care about the standings. For me, it was most important to see that the dogs had managed to tough it out and complete the event healthy and happy. Let’s face it, I had just put them through a most grueling challenge and they had completed the prescribed seventy-five (75) kilometer distance with just a couple of glitches. This in its own rights was a major accomplishment and a true statement as to why they call them canine athletes.

Now, this is where the “hero” and I differed and this was why I wasn’t too fond of the “man of the hour”. It didn’t really have anything to do with his first place finish. Hell, we hadn’t even run the same event. However and like I said before, I had been studying his case for a long time and he was one of the best examples out there of what the dark side of racing has to offer. In his game, the animals were simple tools that were to be used and abused. In his game, he would step on anybody that stood in his way and would backstab whoever he felt might be a threat. In his game, his word wasn’t worth spit and winning was everything thus he would do whatever it took and this at all cost.

But I’m getting ahead of myself and at this stage, the direction where this story is headed paints a pretty bleak picture of what I would otherwise consider a great outing. I wouldn’t want to turn you guys off right from the very beginning so it would only be fair to start accentuating the positive things that transpired during the weekend.

That Saturday morning, when I left “Baisley Lodges”, I knew exactly what I would be facing. It wasn’t rocket science. One only had to visit the race statistics found on the “Village des Mushers” to realize that these Quebeckers running that particular circuit were all business and took their racing most seriously. If one took the time to check the timings attached to the results of the mid-distance events, it wasn’t hard to figure out that I would be out-dogged and this right from the word “Go”. While they were pushing the envelope way beyond the “12 MPH” average on a “30 miler”, the best my band of misfits could manage to do on a same training run was “9.3 MPH. But this was to be a “45 miler” so I was gambling that some of the other teams would fizz out due to the extra length involved. So off we went to run the “Odyssée Appalachienne” for a second year in a row.

When you try to live a simple life and run a competitive sleddog team on a shoestring budget, well let’s just say that cutting corners in areas such as where the rubber hits the road, might not always be the best idea. Last summer, I noticed that my dog trailer could use some new tires. They were smooth as a “baby’s behind” and I could not but be amazed as to how long they had lasted. They needed to be replaced and I thought that I should do this before starting a new mushing season. Normally, if you don’t want any headaches, you invest in a good “6 ply” tire. This type is built to carry extra weight and in my case, I only have a single axle under my trailer so these tires should not be considered a luxury but a necessity. I think of my dogs as being very special and when you ride such a precious cargo, you should ensure that they can travel in all security. However, good or bad, I took the decision to go to the local scrap yard and invest in two used and may I add well weathered tires. They still had lots of thread on them so at a bargain price of $40.00 (complete with rims), they were a steal. While installing them and upon closer inspection, I had noticed that they were cracked so was a bit hesitant about them.
“No problem,” I told myself, “I’ll carry a spare when traveling on long trips.”

On this particular “adventure”, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had made the wrong investment. We had driven about 70 kilometers and coming close to Rivière-du-Loup when abruptly, my Toyota “4 Runner” started swinging from side to side. I looked in my side mirror and could see that my trailer was the cause of all this commotion as it was fishtailing like there was no tomorrow. I eased off the accelerator and pulled to the shoulder. Other than having been surprised by the unusual behavior of my vehicle, there was no real harm done so I parked on the side of the road and went to check on the “Mob” and inspect the damages. If the trailer leaning on one side wasn’t a clear indication that I had a “flat”, the mangled stringy black mass around the dented metal wheel sure confirmed it.
“No big deal,” I said to myself, “I came prepared.”
Prepared or not, I wasn’t going to change it there on a busy highway. I just didn’t want to gamble that by an odd chance, someone might come along and plow in the dog trailer. Like I said, they’re simply too precious. I was close to an “exit ramp” so opted to get off Hwy 185. Besides, I knew there was a gas station just around the bend and I reckoned that it would be a good place to stop.

I was parked way back so not to disrupt any possible customer traffic and in the process of jacking the trailer when the owner showed up. After exchanging casual greetings, he piped up and said, “So you run dogs, do you? Are you headed to the big race in St-Pamphile?”
“Yup” I simply replied.
“I used to have sleddogs when I was younger but old age got the best of me so I packed it in.”
I knew that he couldn’t be much older than me, so out of curiosity I asked,
“How old are you?”
“51”, he answered.
Trying to keep a straight face, I twisted my tongue around three times. I didn’t want to have to admit that I was older than him, thus immediately changed the subject.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare wheel like this, in your back pocket?” I inquired jokingly.
“No, not in my back pocket but I might have one behind the garage. It’s a Chevrolet Cavalier rim, isn’t it?” he asked.
Before I had the chance to answer, he was gone and back, carrying something that looked like it might be compatible.
“Here,” he said convincingly, “this should do the trick.”
To my delightful surprise, the “Old Man” (tongue in cheek) knew his stuff as this thing fit the exact bolt pattern.
“So, how much for the tire?” I asked sheepishly, knowing quite well that on too many occasions, the price goes up when a person is in need.
“Oh, considering you changed it yourself and that you look like a guy that takes care of his dogs, I guess five bucks should cover it.” he said.
“Five dollars?” I rebutted immediately. “Are you sure that’s enough?” “Yeah, Yeah!” he insisted. “The thing had been collecting dust and was cluttering the backstore for years so if I can do you a favor by getting rid of junk then we’re both happy.”
“But are you sure though, that it’s enough?” I asked, now feeling guilty for thinking that he might have been a “thief” waiting to take advantage of me.
“Don’t sweat it.” he replied, waving me off. “Besides, now you owe me a big one. Hopefully, one of these days, you’ll remember this episode and return the favor to another complete stranger.”

I reached in my pocket and retrieved some cash. I spotted and insisted that he take at least $10.00. He reluctantly accepted and after thanking him and shaking his hand, I was on the road again. Looking in my rear view mirror, I could see him standing there in the parking lot, with his hand still up in the air and waving “Goodbye”. I couldn’t but wonder if he was envious of me for going or regretting not running dogs anymore. Did he do this because at one time, we shared the same passion or was it because he had a kind heart? Whatever his motives were, his act of generosity struck an agreeable chord with me. It left me with that warm feeling inside, the one that leaves you thinking that in these hard recessive times where everybody is struggling to make ends meet, it is nice to see that someone else would actually go out of his way to help a fellow man. For some strange reason, I did not feel so alone that day. For some reason, this unselfish act truly emphasized what I really believe in - And that, is that the day we decide to put greed to the side and truly make an effort at being kind to one another, then there will be less problems in this world.

That’s what was going through my head while again going down the highway when the second bargain priced tire ripped off its rim. Contrary to its counterpart, this one just disintegrated into thousands of shredded pieces. It didn’t blow nor did it deflate slowly. It simply pulverized and scattered to the four winds. Curiously enough and I guess some might even call it “Divine Intervention”, it did not affect the driving performance of the jeep and at 100 km/h this was most remarkable. I once again pulled over to assess the damage and I guess with all that flying debris pounding the undercarriage, most of the dogs got scared by the noise and were whining.
“It’s OK guys,” I tried to reassure them, scratching their noses through the grills of the doors. “It’s OK.”

I pulled into an emergency exit, put the spare and I must stress the “spare” aspect of it and headed out to the next town, called “La Pocatière”. There I found another garage where they fixed my flat using an old second hand tire. Where I had been given a break on the previous occasion, these guys didn’t have any qualms about “sticking it to the man”. So after forking out an exaggerated $75.00 in “cash”, I was again on my way, hoping or should I say praying that this was to be the end of the tire saga. “Note to self,” I muttered along the way, “Quit being so frivolous. If you would have bought those “6 ply” tires instead of those “El Cheapos”, then this would not have happened. You risked the lives of all those dogs back there and for that, you should be ashamed…”

Finally, we reached destination but it wasn’t where we were supposed to be. You have to understand that because of local politics as I was to later find out, the starting line for my race had recently been moved to “Tourville”, a small community approximately fifty kilometers on this side of “St-Pamphile”.

Now, you wouldn’t think that there would be much of a story about finding a cheap motel room but I guess what transpired that day was most unusual and needs to be addressed. It all started when I stopped at the “Tourville” Tourist Information Office and inquired about accommodations. Although being most pleasant, the young lady couldn’t find anything. The influx of mushers in the region made it that everything was booked.
“The best I can do,” she said with a bit of disappointment, “is to send you back to “St-Jean-Port-Joli”. This meant that I would have to backtrack 60 kilometers only to return again the next day and re-travel an additional 100 kilometers. To me, it didn’t make any sense as we needed to be back really early for the start. Add to that, the “Mushers Briefing” scheduled for 1900 hrs that evening in “St-Pamphile” and there was no way this could be done. Somewhere during this short span, the dogs needed to be fed and I needed to get some sleep, even if it was for a couple of hours. I declined this option and chose to carry on.
“If worse comes to worst,” I consoled myself “I’ll just sleep in the back of the jeep.”

At this stage of the game, some of you are probably questioning as to why I didn’t reserve a room ahead of time. Well, it’s like this. Although I had registered way early for the race, I couldn’t book anything as the details of the “45 mile” race were up in the air for the longest time and not published till two weeks prior. So by then, nothing was available. I was more than a bit upset by all this and I guess my piss poor attitude was showing. The kind girl, although she had tried to help me out the best she could, was on the verge of receiving an earful when I got a grip of myself and started breathing through the nose.
“Hold the fort here,” I commanded myself, “you can’t take it out on her?” “First of all, it’s not her fault and secondly, she’s trying her best to find something.”
Nonetheless, this situation plus the tire episode, made it that I was having a bad case of anxiety attack and it was just best that I simply leave. While she was still on the phone, I was on my way out the door and probably headed back to New-Brunswick, when suddenly she said,
“Hold on there Sir, I might just have found something.”
For some reason, that statement didn’t fall into deaf ears so I turned around to face that superb and beautiful radiant smile of hers. All proud to be telling me about her findings, she informed me that the organizers had set up a couple of “Prospector” tents in the school yard and that there was still room available in them for a few more mushers. It wouldn’t be the “Hilton”, she added with a snicker, but they were there if I couldn’t find anything else. You know, sometimes it doesn’t take much to turn that frown upside down and I guess this was one of those special moments. I don’t really think that it was in this young lady’s job description to take flack and entertain a crusty old fool like myself. But her “go out of her way” attitude sure made some points with me and earned her a gold star. She’ll probably never know this but her sweet kind ways sort of re-set my mood button which switched from a bitter negative to the positive side of things. And that is most important when dealing with PTSD. One should always try to look at the glass as being “Half Full”. After thanking her wholeheartedly and letting her know that she had brightened my day, I continued on my journey, now curious to see where I would be spending the night.

When we pulled in at the St-Pamphile school, you could feel that the entire town’s people were in a carnival mood. Young and old, it seemed that everybody and their “dog” were participating. There were kids playing street hockey, music blaring throughout the whole area with folks “line dancing”. While some guys were para-sailing, there was a humongous “bomb” fire right smack in the middle of the parking lot. I was looking for the mushers’ marshalling area when I spotted Rob Cooke’s now almost famous calling card. There she stood, that huge right-hand drive beast of a white VW van of his, making that European statement amongst the North American “dog trucks”. For some strange reason, I had taken a shine to that old girl. I don’t really know if it was because it reminded me of my years spent in Germany or for when I used to move furniture as a sideline with a similar “milk truck” way back then in Winnipeg, but it always put a smile on my face everytime I saw it.

After finding a parking space, I walked over to Rob Cooke, who was standing there with a couple of other guys and watering his dogs.
“So how did you make out?” I asked, dying to find out if all his hard training on the “Baisley” trails was paying dividends, “Where did you place?”
“Bloody hell,” was this Englishman’s generic response. “Those Quebeckers are crazy. We had the best run we ever had and still we came in last.” After, listening to his account of the event he had just raced, I couldn’t but feel sorry for him. He was sort of in the same “boat” as I was. Where I stubbornly refused to and would not change any of the dogs in my line-up to better my standings, he was a “die hard” traditionalist who still ran Siberian Huskies. Although nothing would be said, we both knew what needed to be done to stay ahead of the competitive game. However, the compromise was just too big and a stepping stone to a never ending game of “catch up”. To take that plunge might mean that one might be willing to seek the glory of the game and this on the backs of some poor animals. Speaking for myself, I wasn’t prepared to go down that road. These loveable mutts of mine were family and these outings were our way to meet interesting people and promote the “Be kind to animals” philosophy. Besides, call it crazy if you want, but I had this sense of loyalty towards the members of the team that made it nearly impossible for me to sideline any of them. How could I replace a character like the ‘Kid” or for that matter, Vixen after all those years of hauling my ass around? True enough, they were no longer fast enough to keep up with the rest of the “Boyz” but they were most dependent and always there, day in and day out, pounding that trail. I don’t think they really understood the concept of faster is better but they sure loved to go out and mix it up. To me, driving this sleddog team was like having a ten year mortgage. I knew what I was getting into when I got involved with the sport and I would uphold my commitment. In today’s “Generation Me” society where everything needs to have immediate gratification and everything seems to be disposable, how could anyone treat these fantastic distance runners like outdated cell phones. After all, aren’t they beautiful living creatures made of flesh and blood? Yeah, I had this special bond with my dogs and I was reminded of this every time I went to the barn to let them out to do their business. It didn’t matter what kind of mood I was in when I walked through those doors, I was almost always guaranteed to walk out of there with an upbeat spirit. Their “glad to see you attitudes” and their crazy antics made for quite the entertainment. One had to just take the time and observe them in their natural environment. If one looked closely and really observed what is going on when they’re socializing, one could actually see fine examples of how “us humans” should behave and interact amongst ourselves. In a pack of dogs, there is a well established hierarchy, complete with its leaders. While every one watches out for one another, all have their places and respect that position. When something is not right, there is none of this bickering and plotting behind somebody’s back. Instead, it is dealt with there and then. Sometimes, the punishment might over exceed the crime but that’s the way it is. In their world, order and discipline is most important and you will very seldom have repetition of the same offence. They know exactly where they fit but most importantly, they know that they must cooperate, coordinate and work together if they are going to get a chance at survival.

“Did you find a place to sleep?” I inquired to Rob.
“Well, not really.” he answered. Then pointing to and referring to James Wheeler, he added “However, James here is supposed to ask the motel manager if we can crash on his floor.” “Yeah,” the other one interjected, “you’re more than welcomed if you can’t find anything else.” I didn’t say anything about the offer as I needed to keep my options opened. From the looks of things, some of my fellow mushers looked like they might soon be in the “party mode” and I could see where this might end up if I didn’t behave.
“Thanks, Guys.” I answered. “I’ll keep that in mind. However, there might be tents available and I’d like to check that out.” On that note, we coordinated a later meeting and away I went.

They weren’t hard to find and when I reached those white canvas structures with smoke stacks coming from the sides, I inspected the premises. Although the first one was full to capacity, when I entered the second one I was met by a couple who according to them were in charge of keeping the “buck stove” fed. Yes, there was plenty of room in this one, the nice lady told me. For that matter, they were the only two people sleeping in there that night and would be more than happy to share “the straw” with some weird French speaking Acadian. They were most cordial and as a “Come on in and join the party” gift, the husband reached by the stove and offered me a drink from his bottle of “Caribou”. For those who might be uninitiated to this particular potent beverage, it is wise to know that if you can stomach this concoction of red wine and pure moonshine alcohol, then you best be prepared to be dizzy in a flash and this for a very, very long time. Not only will this mixture give you a complete “body stone”, it will peel paint right off the walls and even explode if you put it too close to an open flame. In my younger days, I had tested my capacities against this ever so “evil fire water” and had not been man enough to meet the challenge. I remember then waking up two days later with a bad case of alcohol poisoning and with a most severe hangover. Not knowing what day it was, I literally had gone out and bought a newspaper just to confirm that I had been out like a light for that long. Just the smell of it reaching my nostrils while he was pouring some in a glass for me was bringing back those bad memories and was enough to make my stomach churn.
“No thank you, not for me.” was my immediate response. “That shit is just too much for my weak constitution.” This seemed to satisfy the cause so the man re-poured it into his own glass and took a long drawn out swig. There was no adverse reaction to the taste on his part and from the half dozen or so empty bottles lying at his feet, you could tell that he was accustomed to poking back this Quebec nectar.
“Jesus,” I reflected to myself, “the guy must have a cast iron stomach. How the hell can he still be sitting up after drinking so much of the stuff?” “One thing is for sure,” I giggled while exiting the tarp door, “he won’t feel the cold when he passes out tonight.”

With that, I went to the school to register, satisfied that things were picking up for me when it came to the “where am I going to sleep” department. Instead of curling up in a ball in the back of my jeep, I would actually get to see what it was like to sleep in a “Yukon famous Prospector tent.” Like that girl had said in “Tourville”, it wasn’t the “Hilton” but what the hell, it was a dry and warm shelter and as long as the “Stoker” for the stove didn’t blow us up, we’d be all right. I located the office and when I walked in, it was like I was meeting old friends. So pleasant these volunteers were, they made me feel like royalty. I was charming the pants off them and making sure that they knew that they were a special bunch and one of the reasons as to why I enjoyed coming back to this particular event when the accommodation topic was brought up.
“Well,” I hesitated while putting on the “sad eyed puppy” look, “I’ve found a straw bed in some stranger’s tent and from the looks of things, we might be in for a “Rigodon (referring to Quebec Folklore Music)” all night but that’s OK. Hopefully, I’ll get some sleep and won’t be too grumpy tomorrow morning.”
All three school teachers looked at themselves, I guess taking pity on me, when one of them said,
“No, no, that’s not good enough. I’m sure we can find something better suited for our soldier friend from New-Brunswick.” one suggested as if I wasn’t in the room.” Turning to me, she added,
“Stay here for a minute, I’ll go and check something that might be better.”
She left only to return with an attractive woman that might have been close to my age, who she introduced as her mother. After some small talks with this newcomer, in an engaging voice, she eventually said,
“You can come and sleep at my place, if you want.”
I was kind of taken by surprise with this gracious but most unusual invitation and didn’t really know what to make of this offer. Not really knowing where we were going with this and not wanting to put myself in a maybe compromising position, I came up with an excuse.
“That’s fine,” I replied, “but there’s two of us so I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“No big deal,” she continued, “there’s two bedrooms in the basement. “Maggie,” she instructed her daughter, “just take them to the house and show them where they can sleep.” Now, reassured that the invitation had nothing to do with “Hanky Panky”, I was glad to accept the invitation.

The daughter and myself were almost out the door when a man’s voice calling her name could be heard in the long hallway.
“Maggie,” the voice said, “Hold on for a second.” We both turned around only to see the mother and now the husband coming to us.
“Take him to the camp.” he suggested. “I’m sure they’d be more comfortable there. They’d have lots of room to let their dogs run loose and they wouldn’t be disturbed.
“Are you sure?” she replied.
“Yeah, I think it would be better.” the father concluded with her only to address me directly. “Besides, some of us have got to take care of some of you.” he added smiling and pointing to my “Veterans Canada” patch on my parka. “It’s the least we can do for you guys.”

So on our way we went to find this camp in the woods. It was pitch dark outside by now and after driving for a little while, Maggie and her friend, another teacher, showed me where I would spend the evening. As luck would have it, it was sort of situated in the middle between the two towns. I eventually connected back with Rob Cooke and told him the good news about the “log cabin”. Later, when we eventually decided to pack it in for the night, I guess and as I had also previously been, Rob was totally surprised by what stood in front of him. It turns out that out of the goodness of their heart, this most kind couple from St-Pamphile, had lent their beautiful family cottage, a huge wooden structure complete with fire place and private lake to a couple of complete strangers.
“Do you think it can get better than this?” I asked my roommate while we were inspecting the premises.
“You know Gino,” Rob said shaking his head in astonishment, “I don’t know how you do it but it seems that you always land back on your feet.”
What amazed me about that observation was the fact that he was right. So that night, lying in a very comfortable bed only associated with a luxurious “five star” hotel, I questioned myself as to why I was so lucky. I didn’t exactly know what it was but I had to be doing something right. Contrary to what some might believe, there were no big revelations nor did the sky open to let angels fly down. Nope, none of this stuff happened. However, the events that I witnessed that day left me with a ray of hope and that warm good feeling that said that there were still a lot of us “good people” out there, still willing to go out of our way to help a fellow man. And that’s what put me to sleep with a “shit eating” grin on my face that night.

As for the race itself, they were correct when the organizers guaranteed that it would be a challenging and interesting trek. I enjoyed it whole heartedly as it took us through very scenic landscapes. We traveled through forested areas and went right “down town” in villages complete with the old traditional “white steeple” churches. We crossed a river via a “covered bridge” and made our way across frozen lakes. We tackled the water lines of a maple sugar operation by ducking them and got the chance to really test ourselves on one particular trail that can best be described as a “trap line”. I don’t know if it was intended as such but its design made it that it completely tested the skills of the driver as well as the endurance of the dogs. It wasn’t the perfect run and poor old “Oumak” was again giving up at approximately thirty-two miles into the race. I was really getting upset at his choking attitude if not style but really felt bad the next day when I saw the sore under his armpit. It turns out that the dog was not to blame after all. Rather it was the fault of his “dumb ass” master who had the bright idea to put on a brand new harness on the animal just before the race. Not accustomed to its fit yet, he ended up with a most severe case of “harness burn”, one that would hinder his performance for the rest of the season.
“Poor Mak”, I told him that Monday while he was rolling on his back in his “I’m so cute” position and exposing the raw meat. “You must think I’m cruel to let you run a marathon with sneakers that weren’t broken in.” He didn’t seem to take offence as to what had happened. He was just content and happy that I was rubbing his belly.
“If only man could be so forgiving.” I thought to myself, having been taught another dog lesson, “Wouldn’t this planet be a better place to live?”

Anyway, coming back to the race, I had once more taken another gamble that would prove to be again an incorrect choice. If you recall from a couple of months back, I had sidelined one of my best dogs, “Sox” due to some soreness in his hind quarters. He still hadn’t recovered from that so I had put a spare from the “B” team on the string. This dog, who by pure coincidence was Oumak’s brother had been given to me by these folks who had rescued him from what they said, was a pretty pathetic situation. As the woman described it, she had visited a breeder where she had found “Sky” tied to a post at the end of a two foot chain and this in “knee deep” shit. To make matters worse, this wild and scared “gray wolf” was nothing but skin and bones and reeked of urine and excrements. The reason why its owner was apparently getting rid of it was because it had a small shoulder injury and could not run the long distances. Not to worry, he had assured them, he was still a good dog for what they wanted him for, which was recreational mushing. The woman took pity upon him and felt so sorry for the poor animal that she forked out the demanded $200.00 just so that it could be taken out of that awful context. She would later find out that trying to turn a true sled dog into a house pet might be quite the challenge. On too many occasions, “Sky” would often run away, taking himself out for regular runs throughout the countryside. She felt that he needed to return to mushing surroundings so had given him to me last summer. True enough, he was a hard working individual that would keep his tug line tight at all times. Solid between the ears, he had this rare quality of a long distance dog where he would always stay focused and never get discouraged. Also true though was the fact that this shoulder injury was a permanent thing and one that would flare up on occasions. That Sunday afternoon, eleven miles from the finish line, the pain would be back and he started limping along. Watching him, favoring that right front leg, I was to realize that pushing him passed the thirty mile barrier was not good for him. His heart was in the right place and he never gave up but the realities of it all were that this damaged shoulder would cause him to be in severe pain whenever he would push the limit. Slowing the team down and trying to encourage him. I asked,
“You OK, Sky?”
With that said, his ears perked up and his stride straightened out.
“I know you can make it, buddy. Only a few more miles to go.” I added.
Watching him struggle just to keep up with the team made me even fonder of him and proud to have shared this expedition with my friends and partners, the “Canadian Snow Hounds”. However, where one side of me could really appreciate the collective efforts of their performance, the other side of me wanted to put my fist down somebody’s throat and rip his heart out. You see, I had been curious about “Sky’s” injuries and had contacted Sylvain Voyer during the previous autumn. He didn’t know what the circumstances were but assured me that it had not happened in “his” yard. He referred me to another musher who would later discreetly confide in me that it had been caused by a beating with shovel which had simply been administered because the dog had jumped on the person and had soiled his clothing. He would not dare point any fingers but added, “It wasn’t the lady that gave him to you.”

Now remember, way back at the beginning of this story, when I was talking about a guy with shiny white teeth? Well guess what, it’s the same guy. It’s that same guy that when I wanted to buy Oumak, he tried to cut Sylvain’s grass and sell me one of his own dogs. It’s the same guy that puts nice people like Johanne Cloutier down, saying that she bought a reject of a Saskatchewan Cook’s dog even after paying $700.00 for it. It’s the same guy who borrowed Diane Marquis’ best lead dog for a two day race at the “Defi de Kemp” last year and for some reason, the dog could not finish the second leg of it and came back injured to her kennel. It’s the same guy who after having a very successful racing season, reneged on his word and decided to jack up the price drastically for stud fees, a price that he had previously negotiated with Gaétan Martin.

Yeah the guy can stand up there on that podium and bullshit all he wants as to how he’s the greatest but let’s get one thing straight. He’s building that reputation at the expense of a lot of good folks in the sleddog sport. Unfortunately for him, I can see right through that crap and it’s like I told the “hero” two years ago, “The mushing community is very small and eventually what you do might just come back and bite you in the ass.” To you, the “Man of the Hour”, I now say “Sorry my friend but right or wrong, somebody has to expose you for the fraud that you are. You’re not what a real dog person is all about and represent just a very small percentage of what the racing world is. If we all continue to keep our mouths shut then eventually your behavior will tarnish our good reputations and you will drag us all down into your sink hole.” As for the saying, “what happens on the trail stays on the trail”, well I don’t really care if I’m pegged as a “whistle blower”. I was raised with certain values and one of those qualities that I do possess is that I’m able do the right thing even if it’s not popular. In this instance, I feel that somebody needs to speak in the defense of the dogs. Publishing this, might not be one of the brightest things I’ve done but what the hell. Somebody needs to come forward and bring the mistreatment of sleddogs to light. For those reading this - If you think that this guy is the exception to the rule, let’s go back to last summer and remember those 100 + dogs that were rescued somewhere in the area of Mont-Tremblant. They were also left there abandoned and left to starve. If we remember correctly, those poor critters also belonged to another musher with a bright “Colgate” smile.

As for collecting the “Red Lantern”, somebody needed to bring it home so it might as well be me and the “Boyz”. It’s like I keep telling people, “We’re not in it for the glory but rather for the scenery. And folks, the scenery in this charming Quebec region called St-Pamphile, is a great place to experience if you want to race dogs. The citizens of that friendly township sure know how to put out an excellent product .

Peace on Earth to one and all. Remember, together we can make a difference. = -)

Gino

P.S. The name of this individual was withheld for specific and obvious reasons. The “Google” search engine is a very powerful tool and one that can be dangerous if used maliciously. The purpose of this text was not to “chuck shit” at anyone in particular but to remind one and all that these dogs that we share our daily lives with, should be cared for and not used as simple commodities. Just ask yourselves one question.
“Where do I rate on a scale of 1 to 10 when it comes to the treatment of my dog (s)? Hopefully, you won’t be left with a guilt trip…

THE TELEGRAPH-JOURNAL REPORTS...

Well to answer someone's question, "No, I'm not dead". I've been just too busy lately and haven't had the chance to really sit down and "blog". Not to worry, I'm working on a couple of entries that I think might just rock the mushing world a bit. Right or wrong, something needs to be said about this racing business. So stick around... Meanwhile, take a gander at the following article.

Gino

P.S. Later folks, gone to Quebec to pick up a secret weapon. But that's a totally different story.
= -)


Determination abounds at sled dog races
Published Saturday March 6th, 2010

Marty Klinkenberg

Armed with a team of rescued dogs and inspired by war heroes, Gino Roussel will barrel across the starting line this morning at the Can-Am Challenge.

The 52-year-old from Saint-Jacques has no chance of winning the 60-mile Willard Jalbert sled dog race through the snowy Maine countryside, and really could’nt give a hoot. "We are not here for the glory," Roussel said Friday as his crew of cast-off canines was checked by a veterinarian in the parking lot at the Lonesome Pine Ski Lodge in Fort Kent, Maine. "We are here for the scenery."

A veteran who served in the Canadian Forces in Bosnia and Algeria, Roussel is as lovable as the mutts he trains and races. A victim of post traumatic stress disorder, he was given a former racing dog to keep him company five years ago and it changed his life. "I am supposed to be taking lots of pills and no longer able to work," Roussel said. "Then somebody gave me a dog and I hitched him up and away we went. "Now, it is my therapy, and I don't take a single pill. It is probably the greatest reason I get up in the morning."

A native of Edmundston who carves out a living running sled-dog tours, Roussel says he turned down a $128,000-a-year job offer in 2009 to keep training his dogs. He has put in 1,200 miles with his team this winter, running them 45 to 50 miles three times each week.
"All my dogs have got a story, and all of them are mutts," Roussel said. "Some are rejects from the racing circuit and some were abandoned, but it doesn't matter to me. I feel every dog deserves the chance to run. "You can always get bigger, better and faster, but there is still always going to be somebody bigger, better and faster than you."

More than 80 sled-dog teams from across Canada and the United States have converged on Fort Kent for today's Can-Am Crown, which includes 50- and 60-mile contests and the Irving Woodlands 250, the most demanding and longest sled-dog race east of the Mississippi River.
A qualifying event for the famed 1,100-mile Iditarod Sled Dog Race, the 250 begins at 10:20 a.m. local time, with the 60-miler starting at 8 a.m. and the 30-miler at 9:10 a.m.
All three races begin with a dash down a narrow chute set up on Main Street in Fort Kent, which is just across the St. John River from Edmundston.

The pack of racers gathered on the border is something to behold: Iditarod veterans and newcomers trying to work their way up to the 250-mile marathon, each doggedly determined.
The oldest starter is 67-year-old Al Hardman of Ludington, Mich., an expat-Canuck who has done the Iditarod four times and raced here last year on a new pair of knees. The youngest is 12-year-old Bailey Vitello of Broofield, Mass, who is competing in the 30-mile race against his mom, Eileen.

In-between is Becki Tucker of Voluntown, Conn., an emergency veterinary nurse who is doing her first 60-mile race. Fifteen months ago, she nearly died in a four-wheeler accident.
"Doctors told my husband to say goodbye to me, that I'd either be a vegetable or dead," said Tucker, who suffered a fractured skull, a brain injury and broken clavicle. With the exception of being a bit more forgetful than she was before her accident, the 33-year-old is fine, and delighted to be sledding again. "It's my passion," she said.

It is Gino Roussel's passion, too, but it is more than that. It his therapy - and a way to remember fallen heroes. On Friday, he was wearing an 82nd Airborne ballcap with a yellow ribbon attached. Back home in Saint-Jacques, he said, he has built a concrete monument to the Canadian victims of the war in Afghanistan.

"I do this for the guys over there," he says, and then he fights back tears. "I do it basically because I can." A friend of his came back from Afghanistan, he says. He lost both legs and one arm to an explosive device.

Marty Klinkenberg is the contributing editor of the Telegraph-Journal. He can be reachedatmartyklinkenberg@hotmail.com

EAGLE LAKE - THE "ROOKIE"

Sometimes you pull a stunt that you simply know that was way out of line. Sometimes you do something that makes you feel like you’re three inches tall and that everybody is finger pointing you as the “very, little, little man”. For the dogs, Eagle Lake was a great training experience and I couldn’t have asked for a better performance. Well disciplined, they went out there and did the job I asked of them. As for the “boss” well, I guess you could say that I received a real dose of humility. It’s like they say, “One day, you always end up meeting your man”. And in this adventure, “Boy” did I ever…

To start off, when we got to the “Mushers Meeting” on Friday night, I felt confident or should I say a bit “cocky” about my running this event. The “Baisley Mob” had oodles of miles under their belt and on our last outing, the pure energy that was felt through my gangline strongly put the point across that we would not be coming home late for supper. Normally when I sit at these briefings, I usually scout the room to see who’s in attendance and try to establish where I rate against the other racers. This is part of my old competitive nature, a side of me that I must keep in check. I have to because in my younger days, I would participate in all sorts of sporting events and had this philosophy that winning was everything and if need be I would win and this at all costs. Five years ago, when I got sucked in and re-entered the sport of racing sleddogs, I brought that attitude with me. Unfortunately, that first season was a complete disaster, one that finished with a tragic conclusion. I remember waking up that next morning with a severe case of frost bite and a couple of dead dogs. No, this had not been one of my finest hours. As a matter of record, it was one of those experiences that you feel too embarrassed to talk about but one that keeps haunting you every time you get on the runners.

So, I had kind of forgotten that part where I should have been a bit more reserved thus wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on during the meeting. This was to be the first of a series of mistakes that I would do during the weekend. If only I would have done just a bit less socializing and paid a bit more attention, I might just have noticed the “rookie”. But nooo… My gums were flapping at about 100 MPH and I guess I was enjoying standing on that “soap box” showing off and pulling my own suspenders.

Anyway the next morning, at 0400 hrs sharp, I was out of bed and out that door within fifteen (15) minutes flat. I was a man on a mission and it was time to get the last minute things loaded up. I went through my check list and when I slapped my “Bowie” knife on my hip, I knew that if I wasn’t ready at least, I looked the part. I wasn’t nervous about running the event but Eagle Lake had something to do with these bad memories and I had these nauseating feelings churning in my stomach. To those who know me and my caffeine habit, no it had nothing to do with the pot of “Kick Ass” coffee I had just drunk and can vouch that it had to do with the name “Eagle Lake”.

For force of habit where the dogs always come first, I was kind of in a rush to get to the barn as I was worried about a couple of dogs. My little guy “Sox” had pulled something in his lower back during a deep snow run and would be sidelined for at least three (3) weeks. The way he had been walking around the previous days strongly suggested that he would need some serious down time to recover. Such a sad turn of events, I don’t know who was the most disappointed. He had worked so hard to earn his spot on the team and now when it was time to “rock and roll”, he wouldn’t be allowed to dance. When I got to his door, happy to see me, he was jumping around to greet me as if to say, “Please take me with you. I beg you. Please take me with you.” Knowing quite well that this was not going to happen, I grabbed that cute little head of his and just said, “Next time buddy, you got to rest up for Fort Kent.” To make things right with him, I opened that ice cream container and gave him his morning treat. Usually, before a race like this, I’ll go around and give the dogs maybe 1/3 of a pound of meatloaf. I usually serve this meal approximately four (4) hours before so to give them a chance to metabolize the meat. However that morning when I opened the lid, instead of containing hamburger, it was cooked liver. I guess I had picked the wrong one by mistake and being too lazy to go back to the “Bunkhouse” and exchange it, I decided that I would feed this “rubber like” delicacy. Oh for sure all the dogs went crazy over the stuff but later that day, I would be reminded of this second “rookie” mistake. To make matters worse, when I got to “Oumak”, I noticed that he had barely touched his supper making it two days in a row that he had not eaten. To try to compensate but against my better judgment, I gambled that he would have time to digest the food and gave him an exaggerated portion of liver. He loved the stuff and just gobbled it up whole. “Mak, my friend, take time to taste it. Come on.” I begged him almost disgusted seeing him smack his lips and slobber all over. But he didn’t listen. He was hungry and probably snickering inside as he had trained the “boss” into giving in to his spoiled eating habits. This was to even more complicate the outcomes of my day.

Done with their morning business and with more than a few hours to spare, Fran and I decided to head out. I had to as I was anticipating getting a hard time crossing at the US Border. I’m not one to travel back and forth to the states but it seems to me that they sure love pulling me over for secondary inspections. Out of seven times in last two years, I was brought in the office six times. The only time that I wasn’t checked is when I pulled to the post and literally had to knock on the window to wake the guard up. This “old timer” was quite a nice guy and you could tell he was from way before the pre-terrorist era and just couldn’t wait for retirement. Fortunately, this particular morning, the young lady was quite pleasant and allowed us through with minimum delay.

Almost amazed by this turn of events, we carried on to Eagle Lake. After having a quick breakfast which was by the way, paid for by another kind couple of New Brunswick mushers, Shannon Herbert and Jeff Butler (thanks for the hand-out guys and welcome aboard), we continued on our way to the marshalling area at the public beach area. With plenty of time on my hands, I decided to go and “hob-knob” with the distance racers of the 100 mile event. In my case, hob-knobbing was just my way of spying on the eventual competition as the plan was to return here next year and run this longer event. Here again, too busy fraternizing, I hadn’t taken the time to size up the competition in my own race. If I would have done so, I would have surely noticed the “rookie”. Let’s face it. He wasn’t hard to spot.

Time went by and the organizers sorted out some last minute hiccups that had to do with where the trail would travel through. This year, instead of the traditional turning left after leaving the starting chute, the participants were allowed to proceed down “Old Main” Street. I had no problems with this change of plan and welcomed this modification. That immediate “Haw” turn was a bitch to negotiate and in the past too many drivers had had bad experiences in that corner. So when they called my bib number, I let go of my snub line and got escorted to the starting line. First race of the season and six “in great shape” dogs made it that the team was a bit too strong for the handlers to manage. Yeah, I could see that the “Boyz” were raring to go but we had a few minutes to spare and I needed them to conserve energy. To get their attention and over the loud speakers, I whistled then commanded them to stay. I did not get an immediate reaction and thus had to emphasize my last order. “Stay” I shouted, “Stay”. Waiting to launch, I could see that the “Kid” was in that zone where he gets overly excited. After telling the folks holding the sled back in the chute to grab it tight, I went to my big bruiser and got close and personal with him. “Kid, behave.” I commanded, “Be a nice guy.” He calmed down and looked at me with that great “Colgate smile” as if to say, “What’s wrong? Am I putting on too much of a show?” I walked back and listened for my countdown. Eight, seven, six…. At five, just like that quarterback on the line of scrimmage, I belted “Ready?” And at zero, I called the play with the “Uptrail” command.

For the better part of the first mile, both sides of the street were lined with people. Thanking the ones wishing us “Good Luck”, we struggled along on the unexpected pavement road. The dogs were clawing their way forward while I was trying to keep the sled to the right side where some brownish slushy snow could be found. Try all you want, we were destined to ruin the “hot wax” job I had just spent hours applying to my skis the night before. If there was to be a consoling side to this, it was the fact that all competitors would be subjected to the same “sanding job” so nobody would end up with an advantage.

I could see the trail just ahead and when we went by the volunteers directing traffic at that “Y” junction we were on our way for an enjoyable ride. All jitters gone, I took time to congratulate the team on their excellent performance leaving town, adjusted some gear and put on my mittens. The trail was hard packed with a layer of maybe two (2) inches of fresh snow on top. “Finally,” I said to myself, “we’re going to run a trail that favors my type of dogs.” With that in mind, I started planning my strategy. I had come to this event with the intention of using it as a training run for future races. Instead of running it effectively, I would tackle it efficiently. For those who care to know what the differences in the two methods are, well let’s just say that; You run effectively when you go all out, hoping that the dogs will last the entire distance. You run efficiently when you hold them back, keeping something in reserve for those last few miles. When you run effectively, the welfare of the dogs is thrown by the way side and you really don’t care about injuries. When you run efficiently, a healthy team at the finish line is much more important than the standings in the race. When mid-distance racing, the efficient method should be the one most solicitated. You know you ran an efficient race when the next day you hitch happy dogs that are willing and can go out for a run with good energy to spare.

When the “Kid” is loping and the rest of the team is trotting, that’s when I know that we’re moving along at the desired clip. It had taken the better part of this year to teach them how to trot in cadence for long distances but the patience had paid off. They could move along with this type of stride at approximately 9.5 MPH and for extended periods. For a “30 mile sprint” as the Quebecers would call it, this was a bit slow. But for the longer outings it was a most respectable speed. We were “on-bying” some of the competition and were gaining some serious grounds. Getting close to the turnaround loop and nearing the fourteen (14) mile mark, I met up with Rico Portolatin (the eventual winner) and could establish that I was running fifth if not close to fourth. The dogs were looking good and once we completed the turn and got off that awful gravel portion of the trail, the temptation was just too strong and just like a “junkie” I needed that “fix”. Too strong of a seduction, I gave in and let that “dark side” of my character take over. Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to push the envelope and take up the chase. There was prize money for the first five places and I would be going home with some of the loot. “JR, Oumak, let’s go. Let’s blow this pop stand.” And on that note, I whistled and they picked up the speed.

During all this time, I had been helping the team climb the mountainous segments of the course and for some reason, the whole frigging thing seemed to go in that upward direction. Having done all the leg work last summer to keep the weight down, I was in fair shape but this amount of running was taking its toll on the “old frame” and I was having a hard time keeping up with the faster pace. For some reason, there was something in front that was attracting the dogs’ attention and the team was really picking up some serious speed. We were coming up to a sharp uphill right curve when I heard this awful shrieky sound. I couldn’t make out what it was but from the fresh tracks along the trail, I suspected that it might be a moose or two. It was too late for “rutting” season, so thought that it might be a mother calling her calf. The sound definitely got the attention of the “Boyz” and they were lunging forward to get to the prey. For me, I knew what trouble one could get into when encountering the “King” of the forest so got ready for a possible showdown. The closer we got, the more the sound changed. Suddenly, I could distinguish words instead of noise only to recognize that it was the voice of a young musher. When I finally met with this person, she was running besides her sled. Knowing that the first “Golden Rule” of mushing it that “You never let go of your sled!” I thought this was a bit unusual and figured that she might have lost her team and was trying to catch up with them. Getting nearer for a closer inspection, I came to realize that she was helping her team get up that hill and was encouraging or should I say, pestering them to move forward. The dogs were doing just fine and other than annoying the animals, I couldn’t see the real purpose behind her method. As, my old friend and mentor, Leonard Lanteigne would have said, “Leave the dogs alone. They know what has to be done. When your leaders flop down on the trail and put their front paws over their ears then you know that they’ve had enough of your nagging.” I kept observing her and could not but be impressed as to how she could run. This hill was a “doozy” and when I started negotiating it behind her, I could feel the severe burn in my legs and the temperature rise in my body. This kid, whoever he was, had come to this event well prepared physically and if he had made it this far, well he was a serious contender if not a threat. I stayed behind because he was helping my dogs get up the hill but somewhere halfway, his team really slowed down and this almost to a crawl. Seeing this as the opportunity to blow the doors off him, I got just behind him, whistled to him and called for the “Trail”. Normally, the rules are quite clear when passing another driver. The overtaken musher must relinquish the trail and stop to let you go by. Also, he must not attempt to pass you for at least ten (10) minutes or one (1) mile. In this instance, this did not happen. I don’t know if he had forgotten that rule or if he didn’t know about it but instead of allowing me by, he jumped off the runners of his sled and started running and yelling at his dogs to push on. His dogs and for that matter my team, couldn’t make heads or tail of all this commotion and panic. It wasn’t the right approach in this situation but this “rookie” was adamant that I would not pass him. We went up side by side, both of us trying to pass the other. He was like the “Energizer” bunny rabbit. He just kept on going, going and going. I didn’t have a clue who this young person was but “Boy” did he drive a hard bargain. Wondering if I was going to be able to outlast him, I closed my eyes and had a visit with my friend “Bill” Kerr. Visualizing him in that wheelchair helping me sweat this one out, made me forget the pain. Unwillingly, I entered that “tunnel vision” zone and pushed through. The trail ahead transformed itself and appeared as if you were using a camera with a “fish eye” lenses and a red filter. Without knowing it, I had reverted to “combat mode” and this would translate into serious business with whoever crossed our path. For the young “rookie”, he had put up quite the fight but I managed to pass him after a long session of leap-frogs. I was putting some distance between us when the coffee in my stomach started percolating. Bent over my steering bow, I let it boil over. While I was doing some really needed up-chucking, I managed to look up only to see that the “Kid” was joining me. I couldn’t tell if I had grossed him out but here he was spewing out a jet of brownish water accompanied by, you guessed it, undigested chunks of liver. He shook it off, trying to dip for snow and I guess I followed suit. I grabbed a handful of the white stuff, melted it in my mouth just to get rid of that acidy aftertaste. The tempo of the team had really slowed down and found it curious as we were now traveling along on flat terrain. By the way his ears were drooping, I could tell that the “Kid” hadn’t recovered. I wasn’t finished uttering the words, “Are you all right there buddy?” when I noticed that Oumak had slacked off on his tug line. I was just about to ask what was wrong when he started throwing up. Where the “Kid” had spewed the meat out, my gray leader propulsed those too many pieces of liver as if he was a volcano blowing its top. What a sight. I never thought that there could be so much liquid in one animal. It just kept on coming. Obviously, this would be a setback in my pursuit of the prize money but I would push the dogs anyway. Trying to motivate them, I was losing my patience with them as they had tuned me out and were just coasting along. Then the “rookie” appeared out of nowhere and the chase was again on. After a series of more leap-frogs, he was now in front of us but was not putting any distance between us. I was getting so fed up with the non performance of my dogs and his blocking the way that I decided to stop and let him take some lead time. Standing there in the trail, I could see that his dogs weren’t going anywhere as they were just crawling along. As soon as I would move forward, they would do the same. I was getting really pissed at this cat and mouse game and was voicing my displeasure in my “better Catholic French”. I was angry at my dogs but mostly I was angry at myself for feeding them liver that morning. Unfortunately, this young individual wasn’t helping the situation and I guess, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. “Listen you little shit,” I screamed out at him as out of control as I could have been. “As I told you before, when somebody asks you for the trail, you have to give it to them. Check your bib number, now check mine. It’s quite obvious that I’m going to have a better time than you, so park the god dammed sled. You’re ruining my race and I guarantee you that I’ll ruin yours. When we get to the finish line I’m going to make sure that you’re disqualified. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” From the look on his face, the message had registered loud and clear. That look on his face, I had seen many times before and could probably describe it one hundred and fifty ways. However, what brought me back to reality was the fact that I had just scared this child so much that he might be marked from the event for the rest of his life. I could associate with that look as I had worn it on too many occasions during my elementary school days as I was always the “punching bag” to a bunch of bullies. Now here I was at the age of 52, bullying a kid that wasn’t even old enough to shave. Did I feel cheap? Cheap wouldn’t describe at all how I felt. Disgusted with myself would be more appropriate. Not knowing what this crackpot might do, I guess the “rookie” opted to put the chances on his side and stopped dead in his tracks. I coasted along and just glared at him. He didn’t know what else to do so just looked down at the ground.

I continued on but was no longer in the racing frame of mind. The dogs were almost out of fuel and were running on fumes while I was carrying a metric ton of guilt on my shoulders. I had cooled off by now and that “mad man” episode had passed. I just couldn’t comprehend as to how low I had gone and just wanted to end the day with some dignity left. To do something like this was one of those things that I most detested. I hated those bullies with a passion and had devoted my adulthood defending the “underdog”. To get ahead by taking it out on this young person like I had, was unacceptable. He had given me a run for my money and that made him a real warrior in my books. He had the heart of a lion and was as far as I was concerned a true contender in the making. He did not deserve to have his spirits broken if not destroyed by an old fool like myself. He was too good of a person for that. I had to make amends and felt the need to apologize to him for my bad behavior. I looked back only to see that he had not given up the “fight” and was still on my heels. I smiled within and just said, “God, this kid is persistent!” He didn’t know what to do exactly or if he should attempt another pass so I signaled him to come on by. His leaders trotted along so I released some pressure off my brake so to adjust my speed to his. I was going to take this occasion to talk civil to him but he beat me to the punch. “Excuse me, Sir.” he said sheepishly. “I’m sorry about what happened. This is my first race but I can guarantee you that it won’t happen again.” I could tell that he was being sincere and had learned that “relinquishing the trail” lesson well. I was intrigued by this young hard working musher so out of curiosity, I asked, “Listen son, how old are you?” “Twelve (12), Sir, twelve (12).”

I had taken more than my fair share of punches to the stomach in my life but this knock out blow, sent my knees buckling. This was to be a remake of “David and Goliath” and in this modern version, I was to be the slain giant. I looked away because I didn’t want him to see a grown man cry only to notice that the neck line between his two lead dogs was tangled and this, big time. Somehow, it got twisted around one’s neck and choking the animal while the other end was stuck in its harness dragging his partner. By the purple tongue, I could tell that the initial dog was gasping for air while the other one couldn’t pull because its head was stuck. I didn’t know how long they had been running in this peculiar position but knew that this dangerous situation needed to be addressed and this without delay. “Listen, my young friend.” I said calmly not wanting to alarm him. “You should stop and fix the neckline on your leaders. One isn’t pulling.” To this he pulled over, planted his snow hook and untangled the mess. Within a minute, he was back in the game and just flew by me, running on all “six cylinders”. I watched him go through the finish line in front of me, wondering if I would ever have the honor of sharing the trail with him again. Yup, I had met my match that day and had been reminded of a valuable lesson. You’ve always got to respect your opponent because there is truth to the saying, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight that counts but rather the size of fight in the dog.”

Between then and the “Award Banquet”, everybody seemed to think that I had run a good race and there was a lot “back slapping” going on. Although true, I just couldn’t enjoy the moment or myself, knowing that I still hadn’t apologized to the “rookie”. So that Sunday morning, I “put my pants on straight” and proceeded to that particular breakfast with the intentions of looking him up. Simply put, I needed to try to make things right with the young fellow. I couldn’t recognize him amongst the crowd till the race organizer, Tenley Bennett started handing out the prize money. Introduced as Sullivan Abbott, this young individual with nerdy looking glasses, walked up to collect his check. Without that bulky winter gear, he even looked smaller, thus making me feel even worse. I might be mistaken about this but he sure looked like one of those guys that would be picked on in school. To add insult to injury, when asked if he had something to say, he started talking and blurred out “ I’d like to give this money to Mr. Murphy because without his help, I would not have been able to run this race.” This kind gesture was, shall we say, just too much for me to handle. He had worked so hard for it. He deserved to at least keep the reward. But no, he had chosen to surrender it to his “mentor” as a sign of appreciation. Well, you know how the story goes. I had this huge lump in my throat and was holding back the tears. If he was man enough to part with his check, I was man enough to part with mine. So, when they gave me my $125.00 prize, I took the time to publicly apologize to young Sullivan, grabbed a nearby pen and signed my “bootee” over to him. “Here my friend,” I told him in all honesty, “you deserve this more than I do. Take it and buy yourself some good mushing gear.” With that I gave him a hug and thought to myself, “Someday my young man, you might just become that true champion this sport needs. You are one of those gems that are “rarely found so consider this an investment in the future.” Somehow, I think he got the message that he had been chosen so to carry on with the great tradition of dog sledding. Trust me folks. I assure you that this is a sure bet. This kid sure has the “shoulders” to take on the world.

Peace on earth to one and all. And remember, collectively we can make a difference.

Gino

P.S. Don’t worry about it Fran, somehow we’ll get the money to pay for the property taxes. Something good always comes our way. = -)

A LUCKY MAN

When I reached the “Outpost” the other day, let’s just say that I was glad to see the old log cabin appear through the white-out. Safe at “Second Base”, I knew we were going to be there for a stint so I decided to unhitch the dogs and allow them to run loose. These surroundings were unfamiliar to most of them so best let them sniff around to see if these rustic if not primitive accommodations met with their approval. While dealing with the frozen snaps on the gangline with my bare hands, I couldn’t but run this ever present phrase through my head, “Yes my friend, you’re a lucky man”.

I wasn’t being cynical when I was repeating these words to myself nor did it have anything to do with the fact that we had made it to destination under such adverse conditions. You have to understand that when I took off that sunny morning, the weather was fine and I didn’t expect any real headaches along the way during this routine twenty (20) mile “long range patrol”. I had something on my mind thus needed some fresh air and some serious alone time to think things out. You see, three (3) days prior, I had just been tempted by an old friend of mine, working for Exxon Mobile, with a job proposal (six figure salary, may I add) in Papua, New-Guinea. With the recession and us running a “feast or famine” type of business, I must admit that the offer was more than attractive. So here I was once again being canvassed to get back in the security game and I have to admit, it kind of stroked my ego just fine, thank you. Only, I couldn’t figure out the sudden interest. It sure wasn’t for my “savoir faire” of the technical world. To me, a “Blackberry” was not a cell phone but a small sour fruit and close cousin to the “Raspberry”. High speed had nothing to do with my internet but instead was something I did, traveling down hill at twenty (20) MPH with my dog team. It sure wasn’t because I was up to date with directives and procedures as things had changed drastically in the last fifteen (15) years and terrorism wasn’t an issue with me in the backwoods of New-Brunswick. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it till I read Lloyd’s comments. “The company needs people like you that can get the job done.” Then it hit me. This guy and I had had a long working relationship in the military and this was to be a basic translation of “I owe you one, Buddy. Now let me return you the favor.” What my friend had not realized was the fact that I was like “Wayne Gretzky”. I had at one point been at the top of my game but when I hung up the skates, I hung them up for good and moved on.

Nonetheless, the offer had to be weighed then appraised and this seemed like a good time to do one of those “Year in Review” exercises. I walked in my “Home away from Home” and as normal, I stuffed the oversized wood stove with newspaper and dry kindling and got it going in a flash. I estimated that I’d be here for a few hours so I put in the good stuff. Two pieces of seasoned Maple hardwood were shoved down this black monster’s throat and it didn’t take long for it to start digesting them and throw some heat. Through my sister Michelle, I had inherited an old armchair that had belonged to one of my great-grandfather at one time. With its chewed up legs and ducked taped armrest, it wasn’t much to look at. To make matters worse, while it sat on the porch of the “Bunkhouse” for a couple of years, the dogs had used it to mark their territory. By now, I think you can get a clear picture as to where it should have gone. Fortunately for the “vintage” chair, the garbage man worked alone and it was against his mandate to pick up heavy things by himself and throw them in the back of the truck. Also because of its origins, it sort of had some sentimental values as I had fond memories of my Grandfather “Leboeuf” and remember seeing this spiritual man sitting in it with his “Rosary beads” praying for eternal salvation. Yes, I was having a hard time getting rid of that chair. For these reasons and the fact that the one hundred year old indentation in the cushion of the seat fit my “touche” perfectly and guess what. It had that “je ne sais quoi” formula that made it the most comfortable thing I ever sat on. Add to that, my putting my feet up on the coffee table by the roaring fire and you had a perfect combination of a place where you can sit down and do some serious thinking.

For a lot of people, 2009 will go down in history as the worst year seen in the financial markets since the great depression of the “dirty thirties”. It would also be the year that the Canadian Forces took the worst amount of casualties in Afghanistan. Now if you were to consider the so many factors associated with these two events then you would come up with a different prognostic than what our politicians are trying to feed us.

For the recession, one simply has to look at a few basic things… The hard working individual that has been unemployed for the last year, what’s he supposed to do when his benefits run out and he still hasn’t found a job. I guess he’s got two choices. Either, he goes on welfare or looks for a “minimum salary” job. And that could be a huge problem for the North American work force. We are extremely spoiled and not ready to make the sacrifices needed to help turn this economy around. In a lot of instances, it’s not because we are not willing to come in at $10.00 an hour but it’s because we have no choice. We have lived for the longest time, way beyond our means and our credit cards are “maxed” out. Consequently, we need that $27.00 an hour salary just to come up with the minimum monthly payments to our financial commitments. When the power of your dollar can only cover some of interest rates of what you owe then you know that you’re in a world of hurt. Even sadder is the fact that the huge corporations have seen the writings on the wall for a long time and have moved their plants somewhere in Asia where the labor force is way cheaper. There is something wrong with this picture when “GE” can produce and ship five Asian toasters to your local Canadian Tire for the same price as the toaster built by “Black & Decker” here in Canada - Same building process, similar materials but a huge difference in salaries.

Next you only have to look at our North American Auto industry and really see where the joke lies. Where the rest of the world has adapted to driving sub-compacts, we are still producing these obsolete dinosaurs called full sized pick-ups and SUVs. Please don’t get me wrong. The three big auto makers are quite aware of the situation but to re-tool and be able to compete in the small vehicle market is a tremendous financial challenge that will take at least five years to turn around. Add to that trying to convince their employees to take a drastic cut in salary and you have a recipe for disaster. And to think that our combined governments forked out billions of dollars just so that a “select few” could keep their “Toys for Big Boys” in the backyard. Yes, I’m a lucky man. I’m lucky in that we went through our own personal financial crisis in 2001 and somehow managed to stay afloat. Now instead of driving a $60,000.00 fandangle top of the line fancy living room on wheels, I drive an old beat up Suzuki Samurai that has maybe cost me $6000.00 to keep on the road over the years. It’s not that warm in the winter (the Japanese still need to improve on their heater technology) but it’s paid for. What’s nice about it is that the only financial commitment that I have towards it is to keep gas in it and even here there’s an added bonus. It’s cheap to run.

The other stressful thing that a lot of those unemployed people have on their mind right now is where the hell are they supposed to get the money to keep their mortgage going?” Here again, I consider myself a lucky man. Our property is paid for and the only thing that I have to worry about is to come up with the money to pay for the property taxes. So far this has not stopped me from sleeping as something good always comes up my way and I always seem to be able to manage to squeeze by. So to draw a conclusion to all of this, I would venture to say that although our lifestyle is not an extravagant one, contrary to many of our friends and neighbors, Fran and I can stay home and enjoy ourselves. At 52 years old, not too many can afford to live the “good life” and that in itself is worth millions.

Coming back to the recession, well we’ll see what happens. I personally think that it hasn’t gone full circle and it’s just an unavoidable conclusion of a long cycle of over saturating the markets with products. There is only room for so many TVs and computers in this world and only the companies with a solid bottom line will survive and outlive the competition. For us in Canada, well… The Conservative Government once again prorogued Parliament so we shouldn’t expect miracles coming from our elected members in the next little while. They’re too busy fighting amongst themselves and don’t seem to have time to sit down and come up with possible solutions to this financial fiasco. The present direction taken, copying the “quick fixer upper” methods of our American neighbors is not necessarily a sign of leadership. But I guess it’s better than nothing as like for most of us, this catastrophic economic episode is way beyond comprehension and they’re also at a loss. This present situation is far from over and I would dare to say that it’s only the “tip of the iceberg” and just like that big chunk of ice, it’s going to take years before it goes away. Time will tell and if one was to look for the “magic bullet”, I guess the secret to a winning combination would be to downsize and have very little to no “overhead”.

As for the war in Afghanistan, it’s sad that Canada has to trade human lives so that its people can keep themselves fed but that’s the price to pay if we are to uphold our NATO commitment. This is a totally separate subject matter, one that I will not tackle today. However, what does need to be addressed is the fact that during the last eight (8) years, we the allied troops, have been adapting to this new scenario of guerilla warfare quite well. This is fine and dandy but the other side has also evolved. On the battlefield, both sides are better equipped. While the insurgents are walking around with brand new “Kalishnikovs”, the Afghan Army has and is being supplied with new uniforms and of course the latest version of the legendary Colt “M-16” rifle. While the good side is coming up with “state of the art” solutions to protect its soldiers, the other side keeps coming up with more sophisticated ways to create more destructive bombs. In the latest phase of this conflict, we are seeing an added 30,000 + American Marines being deployed in “Taliban” heartland. Meanwhile, this threat called Al-Quaeda is managing quite fine to match the number of boots on the ground and for some reason is still capable of recruiting able naïve men from all over the world.

There is no solution in sight and no expert out there that can predict the outcome. The only thing that is for sure is that somebody somewhere is again filling his greedy pockets, supplying the “Military Machine”. What’s even more flagrant is that this escalation of force continues to grow and has gone way beyond that theater of war. Ten years ago, you would never hear of Muslim Fundamentalists or for that matter, Christian Fundamentalists. But now, both groups are there, “digging in” and promoting their own versions of what the new world order should be. Listening to either side, you can’t but see that somewhere some evil unknown force is advocating hatred and using people’s religious beliefs as a means to manipulate the masses so to promote its own agenda. At the end of the day, take religion out of the equation and you’ll see that the flames on both sides will most likely extinguish themselves. Whatever happened to the old proverb “Live and let live”. Are we past the point where we forgot that the blood that runs through everybody’s veins is red? Do we despise each other that much that if one of our loved was in need of a blood transfusion, we would refuse it because it came from somebody from a different faith? I won’t answer that one for you but will let you think about what you would do under such circumstances. It’s sad to say but a lot of folks these days hate so much that it would be a seriously difficult choice.

Where does the luck come when I speak of this? Well that’s quite simple actually. I often ask myself if I really have the “balls” to go out there and do what these Canadian soldiers are doing. To honestly answer that, I would have to say that if I was obligated because of military obligations then I would. However, I sure as hell wouldn’t volunteer to go out there just to get my ticket punched. Yes, I’m a lucky man because, through a great organization that I belong to, I came to recognize that there were others that served that have bigger health and life challenges. I only have to go back and look at the photos of when “VETERANS CANADA” patched this reservist from Sudbury, a Cpl William “Bill” Kerr. He was one of those fine young man that went out there on a second tour of duty and get this of his own “free will” and got blown up by an IED while on foot patrol. Yes, I’m a lucky man because when I compare my so-called traumas to his, mine don’t even rate in comparison. You have to understand – Cpl Kerr survived the ordeal but lost both his legs and part of his left arm. So when I’m out there running behind my sled and complaining that my arthritis hurts, I only have to close my eyes and picture this soldier confined to that wheelchair for the rest of his life. You know, for some reason his image gives me the courage to continue on. For that, “Bill”, I thank you wholeheartedly. I thank you for what you have done for your country and I thank you the inspiration that you give me on a daily basis. In my case, my friend, your sacrifices are well recognized and your efforts did not go unnoticed. As a small token of my appreciation, I will wear the round “Afghanistan/Some gave all” patch on my favorite parka. While traveling on the Racing Circuit this winter, if someone asks, rest assured that I’ll proudly tell them your story and how it helps me get through “the day”.

Another thing this year that made me realize that I was a lucky man was the certain revelations that I discovered of my Bosnian tour. Although the “Boyz” and I saw our share of military atrocities, we were lucky that we did our tour when we did. I guess you could say that if there was any good time to go to a war zone, Oct 93 – Apr 94 was probably the best time to be there. We came in at the tail end of the Medak Pocket massacres and when we got there, both sides had retreated to their corners to lick their wounds. When we were getting ready to re-deploy home and as “Col Zeljko Maglov” (I invite you to google his name) had confided in me over a few cognacs and a box of Cuban cigars, there would be another assault on the border in eighteen months. Although details of these upcoming events were passed on through proper channels back in Canada, neither this country nor the United Nations got prepared for that possible threat. There should have been a few eyebrows or maybe even a red flag raised when the Croats formulated a formal grievance to have the re-enforced observation posts of the “Vandoos” dismantled. What is known now that we were not aware of then is that the “CIA” spy satellites had noticed this particular build-up on the confrontation line. They thought that this was the work of the Serbians so subsequently reported these findings to the Croats. When investigated, it was reported by UN that it was not the Serbs but Canadians who had a series of seriously built-up defensive positions. Knowing quite well that these might impede their progress in the upcoming invasion, they successfully had them demolished. During “Operation Storm”, it is true that a lot of Canadian soldiers were held prisoners, helpless and abandoned in Knin and Gracac but there was absolutely nothing that could be done at troop level. The Commander of “Sector South” had been briefed by the United Nations of the upcoming events and was obligated to yield to the political will and agenda of certain “Western Nations”. To make a long story short, not one of you guys that was there during that sad period of European history, should blame himself for what happened. There was nothing that could be done. I know it’s sad and even enraging to see friends and workmates tortured at the hand of blood thirsty “mercenaries” but the situation was out of your hands. I guess here again I consider myself extremely lucky that I wasn’t in the compound when they arrested “Peter”. Who knows what I would have done to try and protect him. Maybe my actions would have warranted me to end up with the same dreadful demise that our interpreter saw. You see more than a few of us really cared for the individual. A great sincere individual, he worked for us at the “Guardhouse” and was a key player in helping us negotiate many close calls we encountered. He had earned our respect and his place as a member of the Military Police family in Sector South. I guess driving out of the main gate after the massacres and seeing him there hanging to a tree limb by his neck with both his eyes gouged out, sort of leaves you in a different frame of mind. (A personal note to Marc – drinking yourself into complete oblivion in your basement is not the solution, my friend. If you want to talk, get a hold of me. You’ve got my address.) Yeah, I can count my lucky star…

These were some of things I was reflecting upon when I opened my eyes and saw “Vixen” standing on my chest with her front paws and sniffing at me with her cold sweaty black nose. According to the clock on the wall, I must have been “meditating” for at least three hours. I was well rested and from what I could see, I wasn’t the only one that had needed some down time. In complete silence, all eight (8) dogs had managed to come in from the cold and had found a place to curl up on the floor around the warm stove. To see them snore and of course to hear the “Kid” fart really sent the message that this peaceful environment was more my speed and something that a lot of people only dreamed of. The scene put a smile on my face and emphasized the fact that these guys were now my family. There was no way in hell that I would leave them in pursuit of the mighty dollar.

When I got up to stretch out, this created some stir amongst the “Baisley Mob”. They started to jump around and horseplay but this was a bit too much for my likings “Rousse, you guys, Rousse” was the only thing I had to say to convince them to go outside. I looked out the window only to confirm that the weather hadn’t changed much but we had no choice. We had to continue on our way home, to Baisley. I wasn’t worried as the dogs were in fine form and had reached a new physical level of fitness, a higher plateau that I had never seen in the previous years. As it had been strongly suggested by the CAN-AM 30 at the end of last year’s racing season, if we were going to play in the “Big League”, we needed to amend our way of thinking and had to push way past that “No pain, no gain” threshold. So the sacrifices had been made throughout the fall training season and once we hit the snow, there was no doubt in my mind that the dogs were ready to tackle the upcoming race schedule. The Eagle Lake 30 mile race, set for mid-January 2010 would be used as a benchmark so to see where we stood. It was to be the first of three major events that would test and prepare the “Boyz” for the upcoming 60 mile race in Fort-Kent, Maine, in March 2010.

But when you’re a gambling man and are playing “Mother Nature” for the entire pot, well let’s just say that you are up against a real strong opponent. Too often, she’ll remind you that she’s in control of the game and you best be a smart player if you plan on leaving the table with all the chips. However, what she forgot to evaluate in her estimation was the fact that she was dealing with a bunch of determined canines. For most of them, they had worked together for the better part of twenty-four (24) months and the driver had the utmost confidence in them. No, they weren’t the most expensive sleddogs that money could buy but they were certainly a dependable “Go anywhere, anytime” type of dog team. Figuring that I had a winning hand, I decided to go “all in” and called “Mother Nature’s” bluff.

As it turned out, she wasn’t bluffing at all and when the 90 km/h cross winds picked up half way, let’s just say that it made it for an interesting return trip home. The trail was being covered with snow drifts and you had a hard time seeing in front of the two lead dogs. As we had just received a fresh dusting of nine (9) inches of powdery snow the day before, the wind made it that we were faced with blizzard like conditions. I guess, if you’re not a musher, being out there in these conditions sounds like a crazy prospect. Then again, it is not everyday that you get to test yourself against the elements of the great outdoors. To be able to face and overcome this rawest and purest form of challenge sends a person in a near state of euphoria. Call it crazy but I guess this kind of stuff keeps me going. And that to me makes me the luckiest man in the world.

These were some of the conclusions of a long drawn out analytic process that had taken decades to assess. It had been a long time coming but I had finally summed up that a whole bunch of good things had come my way during my adulthood and instead of feeling sorry for myself, I should capitalize on my good fortune. Back at the “Trailhead”, just enjoying this simplest and purest form of pleasure of seeing these sleddogs enjoy themselves rolling around making snow angels was another fine example of why I had made the right choice. It sort of drove home the positive spin that my life had taken and for a simple man, this was priceless.

For those who still haven’t realized what the secret to being a “Lucky Man” is, it’s very simple, really. “It starts at the grass root level and works itself up. When you’re kind to someone, somehow you will be rewarded for your actions. And that my friends, you can take to the bank and cash.”

Peace on Earth to one and all. Remember, together we can make a difference.

Gino