STARTING OVER

To say that they were lined up like good little soldiers would have been the joke of the day. Here they were, in front of me, on a string of ten dogs not even close to being ready to go out for a run. We had been trying to leave the trailhead for the better part of ten minutes but when you got “snot nose” beginners that don’t have a clue as to what to do well… let’s just say that things weren’t going according to plan.

While my main leader and cool dude, “JR” and his sidekick, “Nikita” were trying to hold the gangline straight and tight, I had four young rookies matched up side by side with members of the “Old Guard”. These now semi-retired dogs standing one behind the other on the left hand side had been through this hook-up routine on countless occasions and knew what the protocol was. It was simple. The boss wanted them to stand still and conserve energy till it was time to launch out. This wasn’t much to ask for but like everything else, it was something that had to be taught and eventually learnt. So for now, here we were dealing with a bunch of excited and playful yearlings doing anything but co-operate. They were jumping around, biting and teasing the neighbor and getting all tangled up. You know it’s going to be a long day when most of the team is facing north and you have two yard birds, straddled on top of another dog, harnesses over their heads, facing backwards and in a southerly direction.

One specific dog, “Orka”, my young sweetheart of a beige Siberian husky, had recently discovered the art of severing a neckline. It was a nasty habit and one that would have to be dealt with, “pronto”. It would be a delicate process as she was a good little puller and one did not want to break her spirit. So on the first outing, we tried the positive feedback approach but this met with negative results. You can’t really reward a dog for doing something bad. For some reason, as “Spock” would say, “It’s not logical”. On the second outing, the old “Tabasco” sauce in the mouth and on the string trick was used but that didn’t work either. She just licked her chops, looked up as to literally say, “Have you got more?” There was a third option contemplated and this was to put a muzzle on her and take it off somewhere down the trail but that was not a permanent solution. She had to learn and I would suggest, she would have to learn the hard way.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m right there in front of the line when it comes for being against cruelty to animals but one must also keep in mind that when you increase the numbers of dogs in the household past two individuals, the chemistry amongst them changes. All of a sudden, their primal instinct kicks in and it is a competition as to who will be the “Leader of the Pack”. If you want to keep a certain control over your dogs, you must not think that you are but must act as the “Alpha Dominant” and establish your authority. You have to be able to put to the side this “human/canine living in harmony” crap and think in their terms.

In their own little “dog world”, they live in a well disciplined structure with a complex hierarchy. This is necessary as it assures good order within the clan. Starting soon after birth, the bitch will snap at her puppy when this one is being a nuisance. The “Omega” individual is to allow everyone else to eat before him. If he decides to venture and visit someone else’s dish before it’s time, he will be punished for his lack of table manners. The females will only entertain being sniffed by the strongest males and will chase any other wimpy prospects away. If this last one doesn’t get the message, she will bite at him like there is no tomorrow. So to make short of these dynamics within the pack, they administer and associate pain with something that they should not do.

“Oh, Oh!” “Vixen” said to her partner for the day, “Summer”. “I think the musher is not too impressed.”
“Well what do expect,” “Maggie” replied. “Here we are ready to go and you have “Orka” tasting the “neckline.”

That particular morning, she had chewed through three of them in a matter of five minutes and the musher was way beyond not impressed. He was “pissed”. However, in the poor little girl’s defense, it wasn’t really her fault. She had previously been raised as a house pet and was taught to play “tug” with a nylon rope toy. So by now, you’re getting a clearer picture. She didn’t know the difference between the play toy and the gangline. All she knew was that thing in front of her had the same taste/texture and offered pulling resistance. So, being in a playful mood, as long as the musher was going to dangle that thing in front of her, she would grab it and pull. Of course, the neckline @ 1/4 inch thick was nothing to chew through when compared to the play toy which is basically an inch thick piece of rope. She did not understand the concept of leaving them alone so would have to be punished using a correction. In the sleddog environment, “Chewing necklines” is a serious flaw that can bring you heartaches on the trail. The situation might arise where you are left out there stranded because half your team has taken off on account that you have a dog that has decided to snack on the gangline. So as painful as it was to receive, as painful as it was to administer. Like I said, I don’t like correcting my dogs with negative methods but sometimes, you got to do what you got to do.

I grabbed the yearling by the nose and with one of the severed neckline in my hand, I whacked her with the snap across the bridge of her nose. This was not be a bone breaking exercise but one that would inflict enough pain for her to take notice that this was not a good experience. I again repeated the process then tapped her with the same brass item on the nose a few times, shaking her head vigorously and growling at her with a more than stern “No”. She understood that she had done a bad thing as I could easily tell this by the sad look she was giving me. I re-introduced a complete neckline to her and from her reaction, I knew I had gotten through. She shied away from it by turning her head sideways. I really felt bad about disciplining her especially when she looked up at me with her ears flopped back but it was one of those unfortunate things that needed to happen.

“Jeez!” Kameo piped up looking at the “Kid”, her partner that was towering over her, “What’s his problem?”
She wasn’t the only one to wonder about that, that morning as they were watching him have a “hissy fit”. The yearlings didn’t have a clue as to what he was saying but one thing was for sure, right now was a good time to start thinking about behaving. Walking down the line, the boss was pointing and screaming at them to sit. This was something they understood and this was something they would do. Right now was not a good time to further test the water.

“Vince,” his father, “Jacko” told him, “keep your mouth shut and don’t get involved. Save your energy and concentrate on your job. This “wheel position” is probably the hardest position on the team. You are asked to follow the faster dogs while making sure that you supply the extra effort to pull the load. On top of that, you must ensure that when you go around a corner, you guide the sled away from it so to make it around the bend. Otherwise, we end up being slapped in the face by branches.”

“Jacko” aka “the psycho” was a very colorful character. A tall and all white, broad shouldered Snowhound, he had these piercing ice blue eyes that gave the sensation that he could be dangerous but this was not the case. He was a strong silent type but with maybe a couple of serious behavior issues. While he was ever so cool with the ladies, he would never miss the occasion to let the other males in the pack know where he stood. He was not the type to start fights but he sure as hell had finished more than a few. Any other male that would walk around and even show the slightest sign of aggression, would fair game. He would explode into action and state his case. It was in his nature and the musher was aware of this. So to keep peace in the valley, he would shuffle things around so that everybody could be accommodated. So far, we’re painting a pretty bleak picture of the dog and some of us are probably wondering, “Why keep such a beast around?” Well, let’s just say that his great qualities outweigh his faults.
He is a hard worker that doesn’t know what the word “quit” means. He knows his job thoroughly and is one of the most loyal athletes, in the barn. In a bush context where he would be part of an actual “Wolf Pack”, he would be the one that protects the weaker members of the family while providing them with food. Out of all the dogs, he would be the one that would survive in the wild. He can hunt and this can be attested by the number of dead cats and skunks that he has brought to my feet over the last few years. He is a good teacher to the young ones as I have seen him show the puppies how to scavenge the river bank for dead fish and how to encircle a prey and kill it. With my own two eyes, I’ve seen the young ones chase a mallard duck off the pond in “Jacko’s” direction where he jumped six feet in the air to catch it in mid-flight. What was amazing about this incident was that he brought it back to the pups and allowed them to taste their trophy. He shows real parental qualities towards his off springs that he sired with “Alaska” and has for reasons only known to him, taken a special shine to “Vince”.

He had witnessed the fight between the “Kid” and his son that day. This had not impressed him and while waiting for the musher to sort things out, would provide “Vince” with the following advice. “When in harness, my son, work hard like there’s no tomorrow. This is where you’ll become strong. With a few muscles added to that frame of yours, eventually nobody will kick sand in your face.”

Vince had understood the message as stated by his father and the rest of the yearlings had caught on as to what the musher was saying. For the first time, there was a sense of command and control amongst the team.

The musher jumped on the ATV and like a quarterback calling a play, shouted “READY!!!”. The “Old Guard” knew what was coming and started to bang in their harnesses. Seeing this, the young ones joined in and started doing the same. This was always a tense moment as the dogs were digging in their heels in and actually moving the 350 lbs vehicle forward. Making sure one last time that there were no tangles, the musher called the next order of business. “Uptrail”, he said and like a speeding train leaving the station, they were off.

Seeing the inexperienced yearlings match the mature dogs stride for stride and actually pull, brought a sense of relief and a smile to the musher’s face. He still felt shitty about losing his temper towards the young dogs but to see them work told him that he had been forgiven. “I might be back in their good grace,” he said to himself but “Gino” you’re going to have be patient with these new prospects. Look at them. They’re doing this to please you and a bowl full of food at the end of the day. Remember how goofy the “Baisley Mob” was when they started… Yeah, they also had their moments, I guess… = -)

To be continued…

CANINE ETIQUETTES

“Vince... Vince… Are you alright?” they kept harping at him but to no answer. “Is there anything that we can do?” This, they were finding quite unusual and his three sisters were a bit worried by his dead silence. They had been trying to get him to talk for the last few hours but to no avail…

Usually, he was the life of the party at night and would never shut up but on this particular evening, he was as quiet as a church mouse. They had witnessed it all earlier that afternoon as the dramatic experience had unfolded right in front of them. To see their brother being brutally attacked like that by this huge black dog had scared the daylight out of them. They were still too young to comprehend what had transpired but knew that their brother was wounded and had been served quite the lesson.

It was early in September and as you would have it, it was “Hell Week” times five at the “Howl-A-Day Inn”. It was one of those dreaded periods in the dog kennel where chaos would reign for a while. One of the young bitches by the name of “Nikita” had started her menstrual period and her being in “heat” caused a chain reaction that made it that the other four intact females would soon follow with their own cycles. Where one cycle would normally last twenty-one days, when you had five girls going through this back to back, it made the “Best Little Whore House in Texas” look like a convent. There was no real explanation to this peculiar natural phenomena but that’s just the way things happened in a “pack”. When one started, all the other females followed.

As you would have, the males in the barn would not only take notice of these “in season” bitches, they would become totally focused on them and would actually challenge one another as to see who would get a “go” at one of the willing females. These clashes between these “macho” mutts were for real and would be at times, extremely savage.

Unfortunately, that’s what had happened to Vince earlier that day. Although extremely big, he was just still an overgrown happy go-lucky puppy. A fourteen months old “goof ball”, he didn’t really know what was going on nor did he know where he stood in the hierarchy of the pack. Till now, he had always enjoyed his time spending the better part of the last year just playing with or being a general pest to the other dogs. Everybody tolerated his antics and simply attributed his behavior to his immaturity. That was all fine till he decided to shoulder check the “Kid” who was busy sniffing and savoring an area where one of the bitches had urinated. The big black bruiser saw this as a sign of aggression towards him and he would defend his “turf”. He instantly snapped into action and took on the young “buck”.

A prudent move by the inexperienced white dog would have been to back off but Vince had other ideas and decided to hold his grounds. Ending up standing on their hind legs, both determined opponents were holding each other in enveloping “Bear Hugs” while growling and biting each other in the facial area. This “Sumo” wrestling match was for a moment at a stalemate as both dogs weighed in the 70 – 72 lbs range. However, what was to tip the scale in the “Kid’s” favor was his experience and muscle mass. He had been the “Alpha” dominant male for the longest time not because he had beautiful brown eyes but rather because he had fought his way up to that position. He had had a taste at every other male in the barn and then some and had never lost a fight. His time in the trenches made it that “Vince” was not even close to being a serious contender on this day. The “Kid” toppled the puppy on its back and jumped at his throat burying his teeth through the skin in the neck area. In pain, “Vince” tried to get free but the more he wiggled, the more the white fur in the area turned red. The jaws of the “Alpha” dominant male were well embedded and he would not let go until either complete submission or eventual death.

“Kiddddd!!” he screamed from the top of his lungs. “Leave him!” Hearing that voice and knowing that if he didn’t obey, there would be more fur flying and it would be his, the winner released his opponent before the musher could reach the scene. He ran away to a safe distance in the bushes, satisfied that he had taught a lesson to this young punk. As for the disoriented victim, not only was he scared shitless, he didn’t have the slightest clue as to what had happened or as to why. However, he did recognize the man as a trusted friend so rushed over and sat at his feet.

“Holly Shit Vince!” he eventually spoke out after closely examining him. “He got you pretty good!”
“But don’t you worry. We’ll fix you up just as good as new with a bit of peroxide and Aloe Vera”. And on that note, Vince was escorted to the house where he was to be provided with medical care.

“As for you “Kid”, he said before leaving the area, “you’ve done enough damage for a lifetime! Next week, it’s off to the vet and off with the family jewels!”
The big Shepard-Husky mix didn’t have a clue as to what the “Boss” was talking about but two things were sure. He was some pissed-off so best be on our best behavior till the storm passed…

The next morning, when the musher came to feed the dogs and let them out, the young gladiator refused to come out of his pen. He had been administered a severe blow and didn’t know if it was safe to wander outside the perimeter of his stall.

Noticing his absence and wondering how the yearling had faired throughout the night, Granddad “Irving” went to check on him.

“Are you OK there, young Fella?” was his initial question. “Are you hurt bad?”
“I don’t think so.”, young Vince answered in a very sheepish way. “My neck hurts a bit and I have a hard time swallowing but I think I’m all right…”
"Let me check that.” the senior dog of the kennel said. And on that note, he examined him by sniffing the affected area.
“Ah,” he eventually concluded, “you’ll survive. I think the best thing for you right now is to get some fresh air.”
“Yeah but is it safe out there?” his grandson queried, hesitant and worried.
“Walk with me and the musher.” the old dog replied. “Nothing is going to happen if you stick close to him.”

Vince took a chance and followed his grandfather towards the “Puppy Trail”. Quite nervous at the beginning, the young dog soon came to realize that the musher had shuffled things around. He had re-organized them so to see who would go out and in what sequence. During “Hell Week”, this was a necessary evil. All the dogs had their own characters and had their place in the pecking order. While at the bottom of the ladder some were extremely passive, the more you climbed it, the more aggressive they became. At the best of times, all would tolerate each other but when you had this enticing combination of willing bitches mixed in with horny studs, one was just asking for trouble. One would end up with dog fights or even worse, unwanted pregnancies. Even though they were domesticated, these sleddogs interacted between themselves just like a pack of wolves. The males would fight amongst each others to show their superiority thus establishing the cardinal rule of “the strongest and fittest will survive”. These were the simple facts during this time of reproduction within a “pack” and one had to find the right combinations so to give a chance to all the dogs a chance to go outside and stretch their legs.

Vince checked things out while walking with “Old Man Irving” and once feeling at ease, started talking to him.
“You know, I could have kicked his butt there, yesterday”, he said with a renewed cocky attitude. “The reason I fell on my back was because I slipped.”

The old dog didn’t say anything as he knew that it was just the nervousness that was making him talk nonsense.

“Yeah,” his grandson continued, “next time, he might just be in for a surprise.” “And you know what Grandpa? One of these days, I might just run away and form my own gang.”

Irving rolled his eyes but still kept his mouth shut. He knew better. In his lifetime of nine years, he had lived in six different kennels before he was rescued and given a forever home here at Baisley Lodges. Life out there could be cruel for an “Omega” dog like himself. For some reason, everybody would want to use him as a “punching bag”. Both in the human and canine forms, he had been at the receiving end of many fights and beatings. If one was not to believe this, the numerous battle scares that his body now sported would attest to this. Till he met up with this man walking next to him, he had never known a peaceful existence. Consequently, it had taken him a long time to trust this human but when he decided to do so, life became quite agreeable. For his hard work and dedication, he was given two great meals a day and all the water that he could drink. As a bonus, he was treated to his own dry sleeping quarters, something that was quite unusual for sleddogs. The way he saw things, it was worth being the last rung in this particular ladder as this was a good place to live.

“Yeah,” his grandson continued, “I’d like to go out there and show everyone as to what kind of stuff, I’m made of.”

The wise old dog had been observing young Vince since he was brought into this world and although he couldn’t put his finger exactly on it, he knew that this yearling was special. Acting as his mentor, he had decided to take him under his wing and teach him amongst many other things, skills necessary to survive amongst the dog community. The golden rules were simple. Avoid confrontational situations and if you can’t, walk or even better, run away from the fight. This was an excellent way to avoid getting hurt but something that Vince had a hard time to comprehend let alone put into practice. Inside him stirred this ever looming burning sensation that dictated to him that he was destined for greatness. He didn’t know what to make of this but it was there. So Irving continued to be patient with his grandson and kept on preaching the principles of living peacefully within this particular family. Today’s lesson would be “Respect your elders”.

“Vince,” he started, “if you’re going to live any length of time in this pack, it is wise for you to determine, who’s who in the zoo. Some of the older crowd that occupies this piece of real estate are pretty well hard core and set in their ways. It is up to you to adapt yourself to their way of doing things and not the other way around. The “Old Timers” have put their time in and have worked real hard for the musher over the last seven years. That alone should warrant some of your admiration.”

“Wow” the attentive pupil replied, trying to imagine how far they had traveled during that period, “Are you part of that bunch?”

“Well Vince, I have been around for a while also but only have a limited share of this particular partnership. This bunch that belongs to this particular inner circle has a special status around here. The “Baisley Mob” was the beginning of this great adventure when one day…

To be continued…

A DECADE WITH FRIENDS

You know you’re getting old when you go out there and “try” to complete a “two” mile run. Oh for sure, I still manage to plug along and struggle through it but let me tell you, it’s not easy. When one considers that he used to run triathlons, one almost tends to get discouraged when tackling this now considered “monstrous challenge”. Let’s face it, I’m not 25 anymore and as you get older, the body can’t necessarily put into action what the mind dictates.

This was most obvious the other morning when I started out for this morning jog accompanied by “Mosqua” and “Maggie”. We had been back at this particular routine for just about two months now and while the old girl was still enthused about these outings, for my faithful sidekick “Mosqua”, this was to be another story. At almost ten years old, he was no longer impressed by the scenery as he had run this mountain trail more than once in his lifetime. Throughout that decade, he had almost managed to sniff every blade of grass and cock his leg at the base of every single tree along the way. So this particular “loop” was not a mystery to him and he knew exactly where I would terminate my daily run. Therefore, instead of following me, he just went and parked it at the finish line where he would wait for me to return. I hadn’t noticed his absence, this till maybe half a mile down the trail. A bit worried that he wasn’t at his usual spot, by my side, I decided to turn around and go look for him. He wasn’t hard to find as there he was lying in the middle of the field, this big black mass of fur, soaking in the morning sun.

When I got to him, he didn’t really move. Of course, he did acknowledge my presence by slapping that huge tail of his on the dusty trail but that was about it. He was just satisfied to rest there with his head on his front paws pointing in the direction from where I would eventually come out. A bit concerned by this unusual behavior, I asked him, “Are you all right, Old Buddy?” He responded immediately, rolled on his side and started to wag his tail even faster. He had this sad look on his face that said it all… “Hey listen Boss, I can’t do this anymore. If you don’t mind I’ll just wait for you to come back. I’m really tired and this old body of mine just doesn’t want to co-operate.”

And yup, there it was - the reality of it all. Ten years of living with sleddogs had just flown by and one could not even imagine as to where the time had gone. It had simply vanished. Facing the unavoidable eventuality square in the face, this lump rose to my throat and my eyes got a bit glassy. In my old Shepard’s case, the end of this beautiful journey with my “Best Friend Forever” was coming to its end. “Mosqua” still had maybe a couple of good years left in him but who were we kidding. The days were gone where he would pull the sled or chase after me on the ATV. His will to please was still high on his priority list but now instead of retrieving “man size” sticks, he was satisfied walking around with a “toothpick” in his mouth. This bond that “Mosqua” and I had between us was unbelievable. We had shared a most memorable decade together and this through thick and thin. But now the prospect was clear and both of us would have to face the facts of it all. This was part of a dog’s life cycle and now he was probably going to spend most of his remaining time either farting on one of his favorite couches or wait for me in the truck while the younger dogs and I did our thing.

Getting a clear message from my old trusted friend, I patted him on the head, told him to stay and continued on my run. This sad moment I had just had with my “Mosqua” was to make me realize that there were more than a few in the barn that were also nearing retirement. Hell, come to think of it, I had three distinct groups in there. I had the “Viagra” crowd, the racing prospects and the upcoming but dreaded “snot nose” yearlings.

In this day and age where everybody is struggling to make ends meet, one might consider that an easy solution would be that when a dog has outlived its usefulness, it should be put down so to save on some of the expenses. And this avenue is a well traveled path by many mushers out there but not one that I care to entertain. Fortunately for my dogs, Fran and I consider them all members of our huge family first and then working sleddogs after that. When I look at specimens such as the “Kid” and “Vixen” get so excited when I touch a harness or drive by with the ATV, it’s hard to think of them as just “a dog”. Throughout the years, this old crowd has hauled my ass around for over 15,000 miles and for some reason, I feel compelled to owe this bunch of dogs some sort of loyalty. Me and these guys have had one great adventure throughout those years and I don’t think that writing about it truly draws a clear picture of the marvelous times we spent together.

That’s what I was thinking of while I was “huffing and puffing” during my “ultra-mini-marathon”. Then at one point, just as I anticipated, I got into the “zone” and forgot about my aches and pains. Instead, my mind wandered off to the days when this mushing madness started. All those crazy escapades that we had gone through, made me shake my head in disbelief but at the same time they made me smile out loud. If someone would have been out there to see me laugh to myself, he would have thought that I was “three bricks short of a load” but that’s OK… I knew that I was visiting precious periods of my life and to be pegged as an “outcast” was all right in my books. Those dogs had brought a most definite positive spin into my life and it all started with “The Baisley Mob”.

To be continued…

WATER - A PECIOUS RESOURCE

When I was in Algeria more than few years ago, I had the pleasure of visiting and exploring the Sahara Desert. Throughout this fantastic voyage, we had the privilege of meeting “Tuareg” people and would eventually be invited to share a cup of tea with them. The Chief of this nomadic tribe was quite the entertainer but most importantly he would teach me a lesson that I would never forget for as long as I live.

In their dry hot world, “water” is considered the most important resource that man can have in his possession. Although they do consider it more precious than gold, they will never hesitate to share whatever limited quantity they have and this even with their sworn and worst enemy. “It is the rule of the desert,” our gracious host had commented, “that nobody should ever have to go thirsty.”

That’s what I was reminded of last Wednesday afternoon when I received that phone call.
The person at the end of the line was inquiring as to see if “Baisley Lodges” accommodated “motor homes”. I told the individual that although we were not a registered “RV campground”, if he was stuck, we could most likely find room for him. He replied that the problem was that they were really low on water and needed to fill up their tank so to carry on with their trip. “Not a problem,” I said, “We have lots of water and if you do drop in, we’ll fix you up. I then asked him if he knew where we were located to which he replied that he had us on “GPS” and would be on our doorstep in about half an hour.

I knew something was up when the “dog yard” started barking like banshees. Usually, they make no fuss if a car pulls in but I guess they were flabbergasted and impressed at the same time to see this huge monstrosity of a camper pull in front of the Bunkhouse. Out came this gentleman who with a friendly smile, extended his hand and introduced himself as “Harold”. We exchanged greetings at which point he explained that he was worried as to how he would exit the property as he was pulling a “pick-up” truck containing two scooters and two bicycles.. “Not a problem”, I told him, “this driveway is a large “U” shape road and you won’t have to back up your “train”. Still puzzled about how he was going to manage this, I told him to follow me and we walked down the road by the “Wood Shop” so that he could see what I was talking about.

Of course and this would be no surprise to anybody living out here, it started raining again and like usual it was a flash flood type of downpour. We took shelter under a car porch where my soon to become new friend was explaining to me that they were from Vancouver, but in the state of Washington. They had left the West Coast in December 2010 on a cross North-America tour and were now on the return trip towards back home.

As quick as it appeared, the rain eventually stopped. We unrolled his and my hose and started filling the water tank. This was going to take a while as the “Workhorse” was quite thirsty so I decided to show them the place and escorted Harold and his wife down the “Puppy Trail”. By her reaction when we walked by the barn, it was obvious that “Linda” was a “dog person” who enjoyed sleddogs. For some reasons, these people felt like old friends coming for a visit, so one thing led to another and next thing you know, they’re staying overnight and we’re sitting in the “Bunkhouse” with our feet up, polishing off a few bottles of wine. I eventually found out that they were not in a rush to go anywhere fast so I suggested that I take them on a day trip aboard my boat, the “River Wolf”. “What’s there to see?” Linda asked. “Well,” I explained, “the Madawaska River was an important thoroughfare in the early “1800s”. Part of the then baptized “Halifax Route”, it was used by British soldiers who would travel from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Quebec City, Quebec. It was part of a strategic river system that they used when going from the “Bay of Fundy”, up the St-John and Madawaska rivers and across Lake Temiscouata to end up portaging 50 miles to the then called “Wolf River” (Rivière-du-Loup). From there, they would continue their journey, via the St-Lawrence Seaway.

After explaining that on our trip we would have the occasion to visit old growth “White Pine” tree stands dating back as far as 18th century, Harold was kind of keen on this idea. Visiting the “Blockhouse” in Edmundston also appealed to this history buff. But what was to seal the deal was when I told them that if they wanted to, we could even stop in at the “Botanical Garden”. Linda, an avid gardener, jumped at this opportunity to extend her stay in this area for a day longer.

The next day was a perfect sunny day to go out on our expedition and everybody enjoyed what this beautiful river had to offer.

Meanwhile, in one of the cottages, I had been hearing somebody playing a guitar for the better part of that week. I’m no expert but whoever it was, the individual was superbly good. Anyway, by pure coincidence, Fran suggested that we end a perfect adventurous day by having a Barbecue at the “Gazebo”. While I was cooking nice thick juicy steaks on the open fire, this “cottage” individual and his wife joined us at that location where they started to talk to our guests from out “West”. The more I looked at the person, the more I seemed to recognize him. Of course, the guy on TV had a mustache but this man standing in my yard sure did look like him. On a gut feeling, I piped out and asked, “Hey did you happen to sport a mustache a few months back? Aren’t you that guy that studied classical guitar music for five years?” Somewhat embarrassed that he had been recognized, he blushed, smiled and said, “Yup, that’s me.” Little be known to us, we were in the presence of the great “Jazz & Blues” guitar player by the name of “John Boulay”. Down to earth and not one to consider himself more famous than anybody, John and his wife Lyne excused themselves and allowed us to have supper. They later returned and put on an impromptu concert for everybody. During a more than wonderful performance that lasted over an hour and a half, Lyne with her flute and John on his acoustic guitar played on to the enjoyment of the gathered crowd at the “Gazebo”.

The next morning, “John and Lyne” were to receive glorious reviews from everyone and this was to be most emphasized from our far away friend, Linda. Tears filling her eyes, she eventually managed to explain that out of her “4000 mile Trek” across the United States and Canada, she had not experienced anything as memorable as her stay at “Baisley Lodges”. She thanked everyone for making their time with us so fantastic and as she put it, “This was the highlight of our trip that we will remember it for the rest of our lives.”

Eventually, it was time for everybody to depart so each and every one said good-bye and went their separate ways. I watched them all leave, once again satisfied that I had again succeeded in making a stranger feel at home in this part of the country we affectionately call, the “Legendary Republic of Madawaska”. = -)

To Harold and Linda and of course “Trixie, the Jack Russell Terrier” with an attitude, have a safe trip back home and yes we do expect you and the grandchildren for Christmas in 2012 for their “Sleddog Adventure”. It will be nice to get together again for another chit-chat.

To John and Lyne, I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for what you did. Once again, your kind gesture proved that we’re quite the friendly and generous bunch out here. Hell, who goes out of his way to put on a free concert for complete strangers. My best guess would be, good folks from New-Brunswick.

Peace on Earth to One and All!!! And remember, together, we can make a difference.

Gino

By the way! Linda and I had a heated conversation as to how much water should cost in this part of the world. I did end up winning this argument and let them have it for free. However, unknown to me, I was to eventually find out that this “dope peddling grandma” (inside joke) had left a generous donation with Fran so to help out with the feeding of the “Canadian Snowhounds”. Oh well, just another day at “My Slice of Heaven”!!!

JUST BEING KIND, MIGHT WORK

Well after the flood came the clean-up then after that came the raking of leaves. When you’ve got literally close to two tons of fallen leaves spread on the lawns of the property, let’s not kid ourselves, the novelty of raking them soon wears off. Add to that, the pouring rain and the heavy winds blowing them back where you just finished raking and guess what? One tends to get a bit pissed at all this and is just about ready to pack it in.

Oh I know, this could be construed as small piddly ass problems when you compare it to what’s happening in the rest of the world but I guess when you don’t see the sunshine for the better part of a whole month, not only does the sky seem gloomier but also your mood. My present continuous battle with the ever flying leaves is nothing when you compare it with the poor folks of the Montéregie region in Quebec. They have been walking in knee deep water for the last same month and are being subjected again to a huge rain storm. Those those poor folks living in the mid-western states of the USA aren't any better. They have been pounded day after day by devastating tornados. In both these situations, many good honest folks will be left with nothing much more than souvenirs of what life used to be. Yeah, when you do take time and look around you, you do tend to realize that your problems are small compared to others but the secret is, “You got to stop and think about what you should be thankful for.”

Anyway, I was livid at the beginning of the week. Nothing seemed to be going right. So to again re-energize, I decided to go to the “Outpost” and vegetate. The various pressures were mounting and it was time to do something about it before I blew a gasket. Usually, I go up there with “Mosqua” in tow but that day, I had the brilliant idea to bring three most deserving dogs with me. “JR”, “Jacko” and “Irving” had worked so hard throughout the winter that I thought that they could use a break from the kennel routine so decided to take the “Boyz” for a night on the town. Monday night went well and the dogs were treated to barbecued wieners till it was coming out of their ears. After a fantastic sleep and while the hounds were still curled up in the hay in the porch the next Tuesday, I was up early and enjoying a third pot of coffee and daydreaming. Suddenly, I was awoken back to reality by some alarming “bear like” growl that strongly suggested that there was imminent danger brewing. I jumped out of my chair, slung my coffee cup to the side and rushed to where the noise was coming from. It wasn’t no bear but the scene turned my stomach upside down and sent a rush of adrenaline through my system. Here were “Jacko” and “JR” on top of old man “Irving” pulling at each end, trying to rip him apart. This was no ordinary dominance fight. Rather, for some unknown reason, they were trying to actually kill him. There wasn’t much time to think so I reacted. Punching and kicking at the two younger dogs, I managed to get them to release my loyal friend but a lot of damage had been done. Scared shitless, the old timid dog didn’t stick around for another mauling. He took off through the woods and would disappear for two days…

If you recall, I was not having a good week and this was to sour my mood even more. On top of everything, now I had to worry about finding “Irving”. He was most definitely hurt and to see him in my mind, he was lying there somewhere in the bush, bleeding to death and this did not sit well with me. It set me in one of those moods where I visit the darkest side of my dark side. This is an area that I try real hard at repressing back because it’s ugly and it scares me. When I’m in that frame of mind, I go into survival mode and get “tunnel vision”. In this state, I don’t think straight and instead of dealing with situations rationally, I tend to go in “Combat Mode” which is something that can best be described as a “Kill or be killed” attitude. From the outside, I seem to be totally normal but inside, I’m not. I’m like a “Time Bomb” ready to explode and this anywhere and anytime. Although I would love not to have to deal with this syndrome called PTSD, it’s not my fault that I’m this way. Like the many others that served, I’m just the product of a most effective military system where they teach you the “Art of Warfare through a most efficient training program. Don’t get me wrong, in violent operational theaters, these are most valuable skills to have. However, what these military geniuses tend to forget is that once they’ve used you up till you have nothing else to give, you still have to eventually face the real world and function in it. They have no way of deprogramming you and their solution to the problem is to shove pills down your throat and hope that you stay comfortably numb and happy. There are not too many job opportunities that can use these unique skill sets unless you want to stay in the same line of work as a potential “strong arm” in some private security outfit. However, when you have visited the bottom of the toilet bowl of the human race and you’ve still got half a brain, eventually you tend to say to yourself, "Enough is enough." So you turn in your rifle in and go out there and see if you fit somewhere in what many perceive as the “free and civilized society”. A lot of us face a rude awakening and find it nearly impossible to adjust. Where we tend to believe that we went out there and served in the best interest of our people, this same population seems to take this freedom that they have, for granted. If this is not enough, these same individuals have got the balls to belittle these men and women in uniforms to the point of calling them welfare cases and a waste of tax payers money. These revelations can be shocking to the true professional soldier and a lot of times, this same person will retreat and look to find a comfortable zone in whatever form that assures his survival at the time. Some will resort to alcohol and or drugs to escape while others will seek some fulfillment using religion or some other spiritual venue.

I was one of those guys that was left to fend for himself and to tell you the truth, I was one “fucked up” specimen. Drugs, alcohol, religion, nothing seemed to point me in the right direction. Diagnosed with what they call “chronic depression” on top of the syndrome, the first ten years after retirement were a living hell. It didn’t matter whether I was awake or asleep, I just could not seem to part company with the ghosts of a previous military life. It took a while to adjust and deal with the whole ball of wax and I would suggest that I’ll never be cured of this syndrome. However, I have discovered that if I’m surrounded by love and compassion, this tends to help me get through the day. If I stay sober, this gives me the strength to stay stronger and deal with the day to day problems. And I guess, doing good deeds and helping a fellow man gives me that warm fuzzy feeling inside that makes me say that it’s good to be alive.

This was probably best illustrated, Wednesday morning when I started my day. Two things were to transpire that helped turn that awful sour mood into a “it’s going to be a great day, even though it’s raining” type of day. The first thing was a message via facebook, a request from Heidi, the widow of my best friend, Bruce Brown, asking if I’d do her this big favor. Strange as it might sound, Bruce had always thought our friendship to be more than special and she wanted that some of his ashes be spread on the property just because it was one of his favorite places in the world. This, as I explained to her was not only a possibility but it would be an honor to have his spirit live amongst whatever would feed off his energy. That in itself brightened my day. But if this was not enough, while I was walking some of the dogs, this pick-up pulls in front of the “Bunkhouse” and out comes this old friend of mine, an old crippled up “Lumberjack” that I hadn’t seen in over a year. Walking towards me with his cane, I noticed that he was more gimped up than usual and this was confirmed when with his bright but most courageous smile he said, “Sorry if I’m a bit late with delivering them but I almost died from two heart attacks last winter and I just got out of a wheelchair two months ago.” For a minute there, I was left scratching my head not knowing what he was talking about. That was till he opened the back hatch to the truck cab and exposed two “Adirondak” chairs. It turns out that I had sawed some cedar lumber for him the previous year and seeing that he was strapped for cash, I had told him to make me a couple of chairs as payment. I had totally forgotten about that deal but I guess he hadn’t. So when he was again able to walk and work in his shop last month, he took the time to build them. Of course, I was more than impressed that he had fabricated these two beauties for me but when we got talking, I realized that he was still hurting in the wallet department so asked how much he was selling them to his clients to which he told me. I thought that it might be time to do another good deed so I reached in my pocket and paid him the $200.00. He tried to refuse but I insisted. The money was not a big issue in my life and it made me feel good doing this as it was probably the best medicine that a guy like me could take at the moment.

Well folks, with all this mishmash of a text you’re probably wondering and saying to yourselves, “Where the hell is he going with this?” And that is probably a good question that deserves a good answer. To give you the correct time, I guess it all boils down to the news that I heard on TV this morning about that soldier they found drowned in a river in Edmonton, Alberta. Although they weren’t saying that he committed suicide, it is suspected that he might have and this was possibly attributed to this PTSD crap. He is not alone that has chosen that particular path and the number of soldiers that do take their own lives annually is beyond alarming. It is a most staggering figure and we have yet to have reached the high plateau of when and where it’s going to stop. Our soldiers are coming back in drone from far away places where they were tested beyond anything that most of us can comprehend. Although they can walk and talk most normally, there is not one of them that comes back unaffected. I get to speak with a lot of these young lads and their spouses and everybody is of the same opinion on two subjects. First, the person that has the syndrome is not the same as before when he left nor will he ever be the same again. Secondly, although the Government advocates helping our veterans afflicted with this condition, they tend to treat it as if it was a broken leg and seem to forget about them after awhile. I can only speak for myself but do believe that a few things must happen if one wants to help such a pour soul. Initially, the “patient” must be made aware that he has the syndrome. Once he recognizes this, he must be willing to accept this as a new way of looking at life and must adapt to his conditions. He must be given the proper education and tools so to be able to cope with the day to day irritants and stresses. And most importantly, he must be surrounded with love and support by family and friends. And that is usually the recipe that makes it that he has the courage to get up the next morning and face another day. Of course, in my case, running around the bush with a bunch of loyal sleddogs sure is an easy pill to swallow but this is not for everybody. But then again, a dog and it doesn’t matter what size it is, can lift anybody’s spirit up. Their unconditional love is something that can be a life changing experience.

To my American Friends, I say, “On this Memorial Day long weekend, it is yes important not to forget our fallen but it is also important to remember those who did survive and returned home with broken spirits. A lot of them are carrying with them excruciating pain and sometimes wonder who the lucky one is? I should know. - Every time I lower the flag for a deceased soldier at “CIMENT HILL”, I always conclude the ceremony with this private statement –

“Well at least your suffering is over, my friend”…

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

Gino

P.S.

To the “Boyz” in theater, hang in there. According to your respective governments, you are all “Short Timers” just about now and that is a good thing.

As for “Irving”, I finally managed to find him. Although he is in real sad shape, I’m “Aloe Veraing” him and he should be good as new in a couple of weeks (I hope).

On the leaf battling front, we will prevail. One of my tenants is being shorted on his hours and is only working an average of 20 hours a week. So I made a deal with him that I would take money off his rent in exchange for some raking. Like I said in the past, “Adapt and Overcome.

Later folks!

LAST RUN OF THE SEASON

I guess we could push our luck for a couple of more weeks but then again it’s like everything else when it comes to good things, this mushing season unfortunately must come to an end. To commemorate this event, me and my trusted “old timers” took off to the “Outpost” a few days ago. This, in itself was really not a big deal as we do this trip on a most regular basis… However for me, it was most important that this one be done as I needed some serious “downtime” so that I might spend some quality time alone and with the “pooches”, something that I had neglected to do during the racing season. Oh for sure, these guys had gotten their exercise on a regular basis but still it was not the same. Concentrating on one particular strategy, I had put old fateful companions like the “Kid” and “Vixen” to the side so to train better and faster dogs. This was achieved but at the end of the day, the CAN-AM would prove once again that there was still room for large powerful “lugers”, something that these two German Shepard/Husky mix, were. They are not the fastest dogs by any standards, that’s for sure but when you need to pull a 300 lbs load up a hill, you know you can depend on these two loyal animals to get the job done. So you can only imagine how I felt throughout the winter when I would bring out the racing team and leave those two behind. All excited and enthusiastic, thinking that they were going training, their happiness would soon turn to disappointment when I would walk away, leaving them in the barn with an expression on their face that seemed to be saying, “Hey what’s the big deal here? Don’t we rate anymore?” Yeah, I can be weird a bit when it comes to stuff like that. I tend to get these guilt trips and somehow I feel the need to make good on my downfalls - So the special trip for special dogs.

As I had been feeling “run down” for the longest while, the overnighter would also serve another purpose. I usually go up there when the need arises to do my own bastardized version of what the Malecite First Nations would call a “Sweat Lodge” ceremony. In theory, one partakes in such a ritual so to take time to meditate. Apparently, if one shows true integrity, he is allowed to visit the “spiritual world”. If successful, he is given the strength to challenge and fight his inner demons. Should he manage to vanquish them, it is said that these “evil spirits” will leave his body and soul to be lost for ever in the “afterlife”. That’s what they believe and somewhere in there, some of it makes sense to me because everybody at one point or another needs to sit down and really think things out. Interesting enough, there is another major side effect to a good “sweat” and this is the cleansing of undesirable toxins from the body as it is a known fact that bacteria and viruses cannot survive at temperatures much higher than 98.6 degrees. And finally, the rise in temperature will also stimulate the endocrine glands. This supposedly facilitates the release of adrenaline thus inducing a clear sense of euphoria that puts an individual in a comfortable state of relaxation and alertness. Whatever the case may be, I enjoy sitting in the middle of the floor after cranking that woodstove up to a balmy 43 degree Celsius and shutting the cabin door tight to keep the heat in. When one does enter the “zone”, it sure makes for an interesting “mind over matter” experience, one that leaves you refreshed with your batteries recharged.

Anyway the next morning, when I woke up and this after perspiring gallons, I had a completely different outlook on life in general. I had managed to sort out during that “journey” what was and what was not important to me. The several annoyances that had been nipping at my heels, the ones that had me crawl back into that “box” of mine, I would eradicate from my life and just ignore them. No, I would concentrate on devoting my energy on the positive things of what the last winter had brought me. Oh for sure, this past racing season was a total disaster but this was not what I’d consider a major setback as it did not really reflect the core of my mushing passion and was not the main reason I got into sledding. So after sleeping for more than eleven hours, when I walked outside for some much needed fresh air, it looked to me like I had turned the page to a bright new chapter in this old soldier’s arsenal of stories. To compliment all of this, I was to be treated to a whole bunch of small but precious moments. To start off, I would be privileged enough to catch that first glimpse of that beautiful sunrise while being greeted by eight doggie faces grinning from ear to ear. This alone, confirmed that the “trail” that I had chosen way back then was the right one for me. I truly do enjoy the innocent atmosphere associated with the total trust and bond that me and these dogs have. There is nothing more satisfying than to sit on the porch savoring a good cup of strong coffee and watch them run wild and crazy all over that mountain top. Their frolicking antics remind me of what a pack of wolves might act like when undisturbed by the hand of man. An added bonus to all this would be that when they’re all out of sight in the woods and you whistle at them for breakfast, they all rush back out of nowhere, dashing towards you, only to stop at their own designated spot and bowl. In the scheme of things, in a world where wars and disasters seem to be the norm, some might think that this is really no big deal. But then again when was the last time many of you could appreciate a moment of solitude in complete harmony with nature. If you do afford yourself the time to think about it, you might just be surprised as to where the answer lies. In this same world where everything is interconnected and must have immediate gratifications, wouldn’t it be great to be able to tune out the ever looming depressing drudgeries that the Medias shove down our throats on a daily basis. Well, let me tell you! I have that option and do consider myself very lucky to be in a position where such a lifestyle is available to me. And that I guess in my books, makes it all worth while to be spending so much time with a bunch of sleddogs. Those were the conclusive findings after spending more than a few hours, sweating it out.

After closing the door and securing the latch to the “Outpost”, I took a minute to think about the many people that had walked out of this “haven” throughout the last year, also feeling revitalized and ready to face another day. Surprisingly enough, there was more than a couple and that was a good thing. Getting ready to head out and while dressing the dogs, I was to have another one of those “moments” that made me smile. My old Indian friend, “Leonard” had once told me that all of us have our own paths to follow. Some of us are destined to drive huge corporations while others were put on this Earth so to give a fellow man a push in the right direction. However, at the end of the day, even the greediest of millionaires had to go to the local grocery store and buy the same bread that all of us eat. “The difference between us and them” he would add, “is that we don’t mind sharing.” And that in a nutshell, said it all. Like my mentor who helped me through those real dark years, I would “carry it forward” and would continue sharing this “backwoods” philosophy with whoever cared to listen. True enough, not everybody would grasp the true essence behind the messages but those who would embrace the simple principles, would see fit to apply some of them to their own personal lives and that to me was worth sticking around for.

On that note, with the sun beaming down on us, the dogs and I left our hilltop hideaway. When we came to that fork in the road where we are supposed to turn “Haw” and climb the “steps”, I stopped the team and asked my leaders “JR” and “Skout” as to which trail we should take? There is no doubt in my mind that they knew what I was talking about and without hesitation they showed me. “What the hell,” I said to all of them, “it’s the last run of the season. Let’s take the long way home.” Happy to oblige, they took off heading towards the “Back Door” thus stretching the season just that smidge of a bit longer. “Yeah” I said to myself while eventually traveling down the Grand Tour, “they’re not the fastest dogs out there but I’m sure glad that they’ve allowed me to be part of their lives.” “Thanks Guys,” I concluded, “thanks for being in my corner. Now if only those yearlings back home would be so cooperative, we’d have one hell of a season next year.” Without even noticing, I had just committed to another racing season - But that Folks would be a totally different story altogether. = -)

Peace on Earth to One and All. And Remember. Together, we can make a difference.

Gino

THE TRIUMPH OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT EXPEDITION

THE “TRIUMPH OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT” EXPEDITION


When she looked up at me from her cozy but confined space in the basket, that wonderful cheery smile that she always sports had been replaced by a look of total despair. Those gorgeous but now sad brown eyes were gazing up at me as if to say, “I’m sorry Boss but I just couldn’t go any further.” “That’s OK Gidget,” I told her while patting that cute little white head that was sticking out of the sled bag, “you did your best.”

To say that she had done her best did not nearly qualify the efforts that my little “midget” had put out to be there that day. Just like the other eight “Canadian Snowhounds” that had launched down that starting chute that morning, she had earned the right to mix it up with what the entire Eastern Seashore had to offer. Let’s not kid ourselves, we had chosen to cross swords with the very best and the CAN-AM International Sled Dog Races was where it was at. The fact that we were now at 37 miles into this event and traveling down this 60 mile trail at an average of 3.8 MPH in near snowstorm conditions, strongly suggested that the competition aspect of this race had ended for us. Mother Nature had opted to remind us that she would always have the last word and the tons of white stuff that was dropping from the sky was a true testimony to the fact that she commanded respect. What had started off as an enjoyable trek through the Allagash backwoods was soon to turn into a test of skills and a battle for survival. Not to sound like an alarmist or nothing but when the “weak signal” on your GPS sounds off, this tends to get one’s attention. Now, when you determine that the source of the problem is that the cloud cover is too thick for reception, then you best start thinking about a plan “B”. That was why “Gidget” was hitching a ride in the sled. I had recently read a post “2011 Yukon Quest” journal entry written by Sebastian Schnuelle and had thought that his bagging of dogs to keep them fresh and enthused, was a great strategy. Besides, physically she could no longer contribute to the needed pulling. She stood at 19 inches at the shoulders and we were plowing through 8 inches of fresh thick snow covering a less than packed slushy trail. Now down to six dogs pulling and me running behind to lighten the load, we were crawling at a snail’s pace towards the finish line when near disaster struck.

Around the 42 mile mark, the entire team quit. In this instance, it was not just stopping for me to remove the accumulated ice and snow around their eye sockets. Rather, it was like they were sending me a message that said that they had had enough of this nonsense. When “Sky” and “Jacko” started to dig their own personal snow caves, I knew that it was going to be a long day. When both of them curled up in a ball to take shelter from the elements, I knew then that the sled dog’s survival instinct was kicking in. As for “Rhum”, this was a different story all together. Where the other team members had learned to trot and save some for the duration, my red dog was ignorant to this concept. He was the type of pup that would put it all out and this till he could no longer. In these miserable conditions, he had finally met his “Waterloo”. Here he was, lying down on his side in the snow bank, panting and shivering at the same time. The panting, I knew could be attributed to overexertion but the uncontrollable shaking was what got my attention. Although it looked like an epileptic fit, I knew better and gambled that it was a case of hypothermia. It had to be. The dog had very short fur and he had exhausted all his energy trying his best. While his body had overheated, he had been drenched by a mixture of pouring rain then snow.

After walking down the gangline and telling the other dogs to “park it” as we’d be here for a while, I rushed over and tended to his needs. I wasn’t too sure about the diagnosis but treated him for it anyway. I removed him from the string, lifted him in my arms and walked back where I sat on the sled. I unzipped my jacket, pulled him close to me and provided him with much needed body heat. This was the least I could do for him. After all, I was the one that had gotten us in this mess.

The only one still standing and raring to go, my main leader “JR” turned his head around as if to say, “Now what?” “What are we supposed to do way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Now that, my dear friend is a good question” I answered, actually speaking to him. “Let me review my notes and I’ll get back to you. For now, we’re going to have to rest a little bit and then we’ll see.”

Looking at their almost snow covered silhouettes and seeing the sad shape that my team was in, for the first time in my mushing career, I was having serious doubts in my capabilities. How could I have let this happen? Surely, it couldn’t be the training. We had done everything right. We had over 1500 miles under our belt for this season and could go out there and average 9.8 MPH on a 30 mile run. The distance was neither a factor as we had put in similar 60 mile practice runs throughout the winter. Mind you that “Corona” virus that they had caught, sixteen days prior to the race, might have had something to do with this ill performance. It had left them somewhat weak and this had to be considered. So if that was the case, why did I not there and then, sway towards caution, swallow my pride and stay at home? I could have done that, I guess, but nooo… I was too stubborn and needed to prove to the world that we were on top of our game. During that first leg of this event, when passing the 23 mile mark and when I had to stop and snack the dogs because they were already slacking off their tug lines, wasn’t this another sign? Now here again, I’m sure that this would have been a good time to reconsider our options. Surely, this would have been the right time to take that decision and scratch. This is so true, especially when my favorite leader “Oumak” started limping to the point where I had to bag him to then drop him off at the checkpoint. Wasn’t this again another clear indication that we should maybe reconsider our position and drop out of the race? Yeah but would have been the challenge in that. The team had worked so hard to make it here that there was no way that I felt right about denying them the privilege of crossing that finish line. Was that the real reason or was it again because I was still too much entrenched with the competitive and “dark side” of racing? Had I forgotten as to why I was doing this sport? Regardless as to where the real answer lied, after weighing all the pertinent factors, when we left that checkpoint and headed out towards the town of Fort Kent in that white-out, I had complete trust in the competence of my remaining seven dogs. It would be a long wet miserable haul but I knew that we were up to the challenge and besides that’s what sleddog racing was all about – Going out there and testing yourself against the powers of nature.

In theory, all this makes for excellent ingredients to a good adventure novel. However, the reality of it all is that when you’re soaked to the bones and you’re literally stranded way out there in the wilderness, one tends to question the reasoning as to why one wanted to continue with this crazy if not mad excursion. As prepared as one might think he is, one really feels small when he looks around and there is nothing out there other than a “wall of snow ” and total quietness. Oh well, I consoled myself, “Mother Nature” had invited a whole bunch of mushers to tango and we had accepted the date. While I was sitting there, waiting to present her with my “dance card”, I would have plenty of time to reassess what was important to me.

Those faithful dogs that were resting in front of me were kind of special. Let’s face it, out of the eight that started this journey that morning, six of them were actual rescues/rejects. Each of these animals had been discarded by their previous owners for whatever reason and had landed on my doorsteps. Although they all had flaws, each one of them brought me a ray of sunshine every morning when I walked in that barn. Over time, they had learned to trust me wholeheartedly and that in my books made it that they were lifelong companions that deserved my respect.

Back at the lodges, although it was quite the simple life, I was happy with the status quo. I had a great wife and a few good friends and you know what? Sharing a moment on the trail or a good conversation over a strong cup of coffee at the “Bunkhouse” was now more my speed and something that I cherished immensely. This evil side of me where I allowed myself to be invaded by that “winning at all cost” attitude was not only ugly but also not the way I had chosen to live when I embarked on this mushing passion a few years ago. Sitting there, watching “Rhum” sound asleep in my arms, pounded that point in my head, loud and clear. Although the weather was awful, I was savoring the moment as this downtime experience was wonderful. It had been a long time since I had the chance to re-acquaint myself with that special feeling that I call “Inner Peace”. That was the bottom line and that in itself, made it worthwhile to have gone through the gauntlet.

I don’t know how long I had been at that location but when the individual from the “Search and Rescue” team showed up on his snowmobile, I had come up with a plan. “Gidget” was now back with her friends and bouncing around, teasing and bugging her teammates. Now rested, they had responded by shaking the snow off their back and were now tugging at the gangline. They allowed me to snack them and although they all ate, most of them would not hydrate. This was to be a push comes to shove moment so I had to take drastic measures for their own good. I straddled the stubborn dogs, shoved their heads backwards and poured bottled water down their throat. Choke, cough, spit it out, it did not matter. Somehow, they would get that much need water. I then opened my sled bag, pulled out my spare and dry wool sweater and made room to eventually bag a still very tired “Rhum”.

“Are you all right? Do you need assistance?” were the words that came out of this person’s mouth when he stopped his machine. “People are getting worried.”
I examined my “rescuer” from head to toe, noticed by his jacket that he was a “Vietnam Veteran” and said in term that he would understand, “We have assessed the situation and have come up with an exit strategy.”
That concerned look changed and this was replaced with an acknowledging smile. “Are you Ex-Army, by any chance?”
“Yeah,” I winked back at him, “something like that. Just radio ahead and advise them that everything is under control but to tell my wife that we’re going to be late for supper. She’ll know what it means.”
Looking at this figure that he could only compare to the “Abominable
Snowman”, he did not pursue the matter. “Be careful out there.” he finished, “And Good Luck.”
“Thanks!” I replied and on that note, I whistled and we “uptrailed”.

The remainder of the trip was still not a cake walk but the team had found their “second wind” and we were again clipping right along. We eventually got to the last “Search and Rescue” station where these individuals suggested that I could stay there if I wanted as they would call for someone to pick me up. It was dark then so they could not necessarily see the displeasure that my face was expressing by that statement. So just to make it perfectly clear, I emphasized the message. “Tell your Command Center that yes we are low on fuel but that we are not declaring an emergency. I repeat, we are not declaring an emergency.”

What these “SAR” people did not know, was that “Rhum” had been wiggling to get out of the bag for a while now and he was ready to go back in the line-up. I re-introduced him to his swing position next to “Gidget”, squeezed his loving head and told him, “It’s been along time coming. Make us proud, Buddy. Take us home.”
It was as if he knew what I was talking about and away he went, putting his shoulder into it. The rest of the team responded positively and welcomed that extra forward momentum.

Tired but most satisfied of the achievement, we eventually crossed the Finish Line with a time that would earn us the not so coveted and somewhat dreaded “Red Lantern”. This did not matter to me nor did I give a “rat’s ass” as to what other mushers would think or say. I was instead like a most proud father that had taken his children to the other side of the extreme, on a most amazing journey. Not only did my adopted kids prove to one and all that they were super athletes, the experience would serve as a reminder to me, myself and I that when I chose to venture in the direction that I did, I had made the right decision. Simply put, of all the crazy escapades this musher had lived through, this one would be archived as the “Triumph of the Human Spirit” expedition. ; -)

Peace on Earth to One and All and remember –
Together, we can make a difference.

Gino