Tundra Mushing
Part 1
Sponsored by Five Ten
By Michael Raffaeli and Jen Brown
I grab the cross stitched army-green canvas bag, and stuff the sawed-off shotgun inside. Four red plastic cased double ought buckshot shells and two green cased lead slugs go into my pocket. Muddy Xtra-tuff boots have to be carefully slipped into the mostly dry on the inside, cracked on the outside rubber rain pants that were lent to me. Now smeared with a mix of mud and dog poop from the unusual fall rains, I pull the pants on, not quite sure where to wipe my hands. I step outside the shop. With a slam, the bungee rigged to the door snaps the door shut behind me. I see their ears perk up. The dogs know what's coming. A visual of me with the gun verifies their suspicion, and barking ensues, quickly spreading from the front of the lot all the way back to the dogs on the back line that are hidden by a row of Black Spruce. The puppies whine and squeal, jumping against the fence. The yearlings bark the loudest. They know. Even though it's not their turn, even though they've never pulled a sled before, they know. It’s something innate. They've been bred to run, to want to please. They are eager for love, despite the wildness in their genes. I see that heritage when I feed them, the Pavlovian froth coating their muzzles, spindles of saliva flying through the air.
On my way through the yard, I pass dogs on their chains, whizzing in circles, trying to catch my eyes with an eager look, as if to plead, "It’s my turn today, isn't it? Please!" I go down and strap the gun into the sled in case we run into a moose on the trail. Jen pulls the gang line out if front, checking that each dog's tug line and neck line are in good condition. She inspects the gang line's attachment to the sled and double checks the anchor's and snow hook's secure placement into the ground. Routine pre-flight logistics. I make sure there is an axe and an assortment of extra lines in the sled. The barking hasn't stopped, it only oscillates, waning until Billy or Cloudy gets it going again. Some dogs wait patiently now, only a slight wag of their tail denoting their excitement. Others are a flurry of fur attached to a chain, flying as far as their tether allows them. This length is different for every dog, depending on how wound up they are which is usually equal to how wound up in knots their chain is-sometimes around itself, others around the main line, and every so often around a stump or root that they have dug underneath in the yard.
"Is Zaar a red-yellow or just a yellow?" I holler out to Jen as I gather the different sized harnesses for the dogs that get to run today. I look down the list of the team we've made up. Jen mentions we should harness and hook up Bugs last, because he gets the team all riled up by barking and tugging against the anchored sled. We learned our lesson in the first few days when we were running dogs on the tundra. We had been hooking up two teams at a time. Twenty dogs in the runway was chaos, the energy seemed to increase exponentially with each dog we put on one of the two gang lines. Somehow dogs in each team had coordinated to jump and pull at the same time to pull the anchor and pop the snow hook before the command to go was announced by the sled drivers. Fortunately we had tied safety lines with slip knots to posts sunk into the edge of the runway, which kept the sleds and dogs from leaving the yard without a driver. However, the dogs had pulled so hard that the knots were un-releasable and had to be cut with a slash of a knife to free the sled into motion.
Today is mellower. Zoie and Phil, now harnessed up in lead, both sit waiting for the entire team to get attached before they allow the buzz of excitement to overcome them. I take Flap off his chain at his house. He leaps up into a nose-breaking jump, pushes off of me with his muddy front paws and then jolts towards the runway. He stops to mark a stump that every male dog leaves a scent on when they come down to run. I smell poop. I look up to see Arrow crouching, tail up, hind legs straining while he squeezes a loose turd out, getting ready to go. Flap, unconcerned, runs right through the pile and hops up to share his excitement with me, oblivious that the warm, soft mash of digested kibble between his toes is pressing against my chest. His enthusiasm to get to go on a run is overwhelming, and before I can grab him, he's off to greet the other dogs tied into the line with an hind sniff. "Flap, come!" I call. I wait a few seconds. "Flap, come!" "Protect my nose if he jumps," I think as I grab him by the collar before he can bounce at me again, blue eyes so alive! I fold the harness; his hips squeezed between my calves, and pull it over his head. He settles for a moment and knows what to do. He lifts his right paw, and I slip one leg through the loop in the harness, and then the other so it fits snugly and effectively transfers his energy to pull the sled to all of his body.
Jen puts Bugs on and moves to the front of the team. I hop on the back of the sled. The dogs start jumping and jerking as soon as the leaders are free from a tie down that keeps them and the gangline tight. The clang of the anchor as I lift it into the sled provokes a false start. I step hard on the brake. A calm moment, I pull the slip-knot back-up and then look up at the dogs. I reach down to the snow hook- a two clawed grappling hook meant to sink deep in the snow, or during this time of year, to grab onto a tenacious tussock, a basketball shaped lump of grass glued through roots to the tundra. "Hup!" I call out. Whoosh. I hardly hear the barking and howling of the other dogs.
Focused on my team in front of me, watching that their lines don't tangle, managing our speed out of the yard, we go sloshing through coffee colored mud puddles. Water up to my knees, they keep pulling hard and then gain solid ground. I have to step on the snowmobile tread chained between the runners of the sled to provide friction and keep us moving at a reasonable pace out of the yard. I think that the mud is my least favorite part of this whole experience-thick, gooey, poorly drained puddles of ooze. Not surprisingly, the dogs don't like it either. Some jump off to the side of the trail to avoid it, and it seems as if my leaders are on a campaign to widen our trail. We crash through live willow and cut a corner so that the sled almost tips. Cruising a little faster than ten miles per hour, they jump to the side of a big Black Spruce at the last minute, leaving me and the sled at the end of a whip-like action-memories of "crack the whip", that game we played as kids to feel G-force before we lost our grip and went tumbling into the ground, grass stains on our jeans. At times, it feels as if the dogs are trying to throw me off the sled.
The initial rush gone, a howl from the dog yard is distant and barely heard. We settle into a steady pace. I sigh. Whew, I made it out again without getting hurt. Dogs panting now, we turn right. "Gee!" I call out and uphill into the upper tundra we head. The sled bumps over tussocks, I shift my weight left and right on the runners to keep the sled moving smoothly. I relax a little more as the dogs follow the trail they have worn through this grassy landscape. I notice plump blueberries off to the side and reach for some. I ignore the smell of dog and smattering of mud on my hands as I throw my reward into my mouth. Spit out the leaves that were in the bunch, eyes on the dogs again. I feel the sled slow as Blaze's neckline gets tight and the power of the other nine dogs pulls him along. "Blaze, get up!" I chastise, as he tries to stop and mark our path. We jolt back into a good trot, traipsing past the red leaves of an autumn painted landscape. "Haw!" Zoie jumps left, helping to pull Phil along, and the rest of the dogs follow. On the open tundra, the breeze and our pace keeps the gnats, flies, and mosquitoes from landing on me. The hills to the north have their first dusting of snow, Kobuk Lake glistens with rays of sun breaking through a steely grey sky. Steady pace, my gaze softens, my mind wanders. I begin to think about how I might attempt to describe what its like to mush dogs on the Alaskan tundra.
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