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THE DOG THAT LOOKED BACK
After several months of this,
Ed got the notion that I should learn to run the team so we could go
on winter camping trips together, mush to a friends cabin or maybe
even take a long trip and stay at a lodge. These ideas appealed to
me so I began standing on the runners with him. However, whenever I
gave the dogs an order, they always looked back at Ed for
confirmation. This annoyed me. Somehow, despite what we told them,
they assumed Ed was in charge, and I was just “the passenger.”
Everything I said, Ed had to repeat. “This just isn't going to work
unless you go without me,” Ed said one day. I really didn't like
that idea. It was Ed who always fixed the lines if they got tangled,
or settled any dog fights and I was having some problems even when
Ed was there. For instance, I rarely recognized an upcoming trail as
the one I needed to take, until it was too late to tell the dogs to
take it. Then too, sometimes I got mixed up and said “Gee” when I
meant “Haw.” However when I did get it wrong the dogs would often go
the right direction anyway, because it was obvious even to them that
I couldn't possibly mean the other way. As they took their regular
trail they would exchange looks among themselves that seemed to say
“What a ditz!” And to make things worse from
my perspective, Ed had been training them for speed, hoping to enter
them in some races. This was not the best team for a novice. Nor was
it the best trail. Some people might be visualizing a nice open flat
area. But no. Ed had wanted a nice view of the whole valley, and I
wanted to be completely surrounded by trees, so we had staked off a
heavily wooded mountain. And since we had to cut the trail in
ourselves it was just wide enough for a four wheeler, or a dog team.
“They will probably ditch me in
some snow bank somewhere,” I lamented. But I could recall a few
incidents where even Ed was left behind. “Remember when your line
broke and Skookum took the team halfway to Healy and you had to walk
home?” I asked. “Or how about that time you hit a branch and fell
off the sled? They didn't stop then.” “Yeah but they usually do,” he
said. “Besides they just aren't going to mind you as long as I'm on
the runners. They know who feeds them.” Ed continued to encourage me to
try a trip by myself, so eventually I relented. I planned a short
trip of about a mile to our nearest neighbors. Ed hooked up only
half the team so they wouldn't go quite so fast. He hooked up my
team and then took off with the others so he would be there when I
arrived to help me. The dogs were leaping forward
and yipping when they saw Ed take off, but with the help of the ice
hook and both feet on the brake I managed to make them wait a full
ten minutes. When I finally pulled up the ice hook there was no need
to say “let's go!” They took off at warp speed. I hung on for dear
life, too speechless to give any commands. We whizzed past a blur of
trees, skipping over dips and bumps, sliding around corners. Just up ahead, I realized with
a start, was the steep slope we had named “The dog house hill.” So
named because that was as far as we could get the dog houses we had
tried to haul up to our place. Even with only one, strapped onto the
back rack of the four wheeler, the hill was just too steep to make
it up with a big load. I usually got off the sled right at the point
we had just passed, and walked down, too chicken to ride with Ed. I
wanted to stop the dogs and walk them down the hill, but here I was,
heading down with the dogs at a full run, because they knew the sled
might run over them. They were on hot on Ed's trail
and excited. At the bottom of the hill was a bump and a turn. I
flipped off so suddenly, I couldn't even recall how it happened. I
rolled into the snow bank—fully expecting the team to be long gone.
But to my surprise when I collected myself and looked up the
trail—there was Cotton, the dog Ed had put in the lead. He had
brought the team to a complete halt and turned the team halfway
around, where he stood at attention, looking right at me, with eyes
friendly, quizzical. “Are you alright?” We are not leaving without
you,” he seemed to be saying. I was so pleased and delighted
I went up and gave them all a good scratching behind the ears and
patted them all on the back. Ruffling up their fur and cooing, “good
dogs! good dogs !” They responded with obvious
delight. They had left others, but they had waited for me. I was
honored—I was hooked—I was a “dog person.” |
