Final Mushing Moments (for the season)

Thursday, April 10

Severan (L) and Bru

Severan, Bru, and I came to an abrupt stop this evening while taking a short jog before bedtime. What we saw reminded me of the below encounter, which happened about a year ago:

There’s a power line that passes through the end of my property and goes for another 100 yards or so until it parallels the neighbor’s very long driveway. When I run my dogs out of the yard I usually have them go left along the power line before zigging off the power line trail and zagging onto the neighbors unused winter driveway (they have a vacation cabin). When the driveway takes a 90 degree turn my team keeps going straight which connects with the extensive winter trail system. I was coming back home this way tonight with a six-dog team and our trail had just left the road for the power line when my team found itself right in the middle of chaos. Everything was happening and moving so fast that at first I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The first thing I noticed in the trail among my dogs was a tall creature whose back probably came up to my shoulders. As soon as it mentally registered something much larger quickly moved on my right. It was disorienting, like a wall in motion.  Moose. The smaller calf quickly got out of my team and off the trail to the left. Its massive momma, trying to follow her calf, got mixed up with the team. It had hooves on either side of the gangline with my dogs surrounding it as it danced around. The team was still moving, and I watched with fear and anxiety for the huge but fast animal to crush and maim my dogs with its hooves and powerful legs while it tried to get away.

Within moments it was over. The cow moose was back in the woods with her calf. They were not far away, but brush now separated us. The team was stopped and, amazingly, all the dogs seemed fine: if not stunned and wondering what just happened. I didn’t want to linger with the moose still nearby so started the team going again. I quickly stopped. Severan was sitting in place and not going. I was suddenly alarmed that he might not be able to get up. He wasn’t actually attached to the team as I had released him from it about a mile back since he was necklining (being pulled along by the other dogs) and I wanted to see if he would actually keep up with the team unassisted. He did. As a matter of fact, after running behind the sled for awhile, then briefly sprinting in front of the lead dogs, he settled down to running right next to his brother Bru where I had him initially hooked up in the first place. And that’s where he was when we encountered the mother and calf. I didn’t know if anything was wrong with him, but I couldn’t risk him not staying with the team: particularly if he decided that mom and calf would be fun to harass. I went up and gently embraced him to get a sense if he were injured, but was afraid to lift up his rear legs in case there was damage. I saw and heard nothing that led me to think he had been kicked, but in the flurry of activity I couldn’t know for sure. If the massive mother moose did strike my 12-year-old in her excitement that could be the end of Severan, and that thought was with me as I checked him out. I hooked the tug line back on his harness and the neck line on his collar. If there was a problem I’d know soon enough. Severan stood back up. I told the dogs to go. This was the moment of truth. Was Severan bruised, broken, or uninjured?

He ran normally back into the dog yard. Apparently he must have just been trying to get reoriented after the initial excitement. We were all lucky, and I thanked God for it. If the mother moose had really wanted to harm us she could have, but she didn’t. She only wanted to be left alone with her young one. 

And that is exactly who stopped us in our tracks this evening: a momma moose and her baby. I’m willing to bet it is the same mother as last year, but it is not the same calf. This one is younger and smaller. I had Bru on a leash, but Sev thought to run over to them a couple of times. Fortunately he obeyed me, stayed put, and ran with us back home. Age has a tendency to mellow 13-year-old dogs.

Saturday, April 5

 I am pleased to say that this year’s Mush For Kids went off without a hitch. It left me pondering how the annual affair could be made more efficient – and I think I have it figured out – but that aside, it’s a great community event in which mushers pack kids (three and sometimes four at a time) into their dog sled bags and run a loop around a section of an extensive city park (that houses, among other things, an old riverboat, historic log cabins, and a civic center) before dropping them off near their starting point and picking up a new batch of kids. It can be a tough time of year for mushers to get really excited about volunteering their dogs for the event as the temperatures are often warm (in the ‘40’s or 50’s) and the snow soft and punchy (as it was this year), but if one can get past those common disincentives the rewards are worth it. My crew was the only 4-dog team out there, all the others had 6-dogs and one of my friends even had an 8-dog team. I was on the fence about whether or not I should also bring Buster and River in addition to Ash, Bori,

Aura, and TyBo until I left home, but I made the right decision due to the setup and the conditions: a decision which was guided by previous Mush For Kids experiences. Fortunately my crew proved to be

in fine condition for this event and had plenty of power for the multiple trips around the loop. In addition they were also easier to manage than larger teams when they started getting bored with the constant starting and stopping and wanted to do other things. But the kids ate it up. They were surprised by the power of the dogs when they dug in and jerked the sled forward. The first group of three in particular had a grand time whooping it up while we zipped along.

So, as I said, it went off without a hitch: unlike one week earlier. 

Saturday, March 29

I was leaning low on the right side of the sled with snow hook in hand trying to stop the dogs from taking me in the wrong direction when the hook suddenly caught, jerked the sled to a stop, and caused my mouth to slam into the sled stanchion.

Ouch.

I was sure the left incisor had moved and was dislodged from its roots. I kept feeling the bottom of it gingerly with my tongue after I got the dogs back on the correct path, but didn’t want to press too hard as I would prefer to remove the tooth, if necessary, from my mouth once the race was over. I wiped away blood a number of times in order to not look too conspicuous as we crossed the finish line, but it seemed to me that regardless of this attempt all eyes would focus on me anyway. Despite the relatively warm temperature, I pulled up my face mask as we approached the end of the 10 mile end-of-the-season “funale” to the mushing season to avoid attention.

When the six dogs and I got back to the truck I was able to see the damage by looking in the side mirror: it looked a lot better than it felt. I had done a nice job in cleaning away the blood. The incisor was damaged, but I was relived to discover that it might just be limited to chipping on the right bottom corner. And, despite the sensitivity to both incisors, the last few days have confirmed this. The only thing that saved the tooth, or teeth, is the fact that it had very good padding in front of it in the form of a lip. And that is what was bleeding. Of course, it swelled up smartly, but within a day a scab started to form over the damaged area.

You better believe I am counting my blessings. Stupid mistakes are often costly. What happened was completely avoidable but in my haste I made a near permanent alteration to my features. I can get the dentist to fill in the chip, but doing something about one or two knocked out incisors would have been a lot more painful…in more ways than one.

Oh, how did we do in the funale?

I don’t know. That should tell you something. Let me just say that I’m just grateful the eldest of the six, Janoon, is still running at 12 plus!