The endless rain and warm temperatures at home in Seward were making us wonder if winter was ever going to show her face, so we piled in the dog truck and headed north. Traveling feels so natural to me that after long miserable weeks stuck in a rainy house, when I found myself in the passenger seat of the dog truck the only thing I could think was that I finally felt at home. So much of my life has been spent riding shotgun on long car trips. Before searching for dog trails and hunting down races, my poor parents carted me around New England and the entire eastern seaboard playing soccer for the Boston Renegades. I was a goalkeeper, twice playing in the national tournament for my age bracket and once winning my own bid to try out for the national team. But my dream was always dogs.
The quiet hum of the truck as we ride north relaxes me. We listen to the country station, singing along whether we know the words or not, grateful to be on the road together. We arrive late at Stump Jumpin Kennel and help Wade Marrs as he gets his last drop bags ready for the Gin Gin 200. He leaves early the next morning for the race. The first race of the season always brings excitement for dogs, mushers, and spectators. We’re sad to stay behind — not used to missing out on races but grateful for an opportunity to train.
In the morning, we get ready to gear up. Layering up is a slow process. First thermals, then fleece, then our own coats. The temperature hovers around -15 for the most part, our cheeks rosy from winters cold kisses.
The dogs are excited. We run, mostly at night, each day going further than before. Snow is so foreign to us that we forget how it dresses up the night. It shimmers beautifully in the cold glow of our headlamps. The moon, when it rises full, is so bright that we don’t need to use our headlamps to see so we shut them off and enjoy the peace of night. Our runners scratch over the icy trail and our dogs tongues hang out of their mouths. We can see each exhalation. In those quiet moments of dogs and stars and snow we forget about everything and as long as our dogs are running in front of us, the world is perfect.
It’s hard to tell who is having more fun out in the trail; us or the dogs. They thrive in the cold and even though the temperatures continued to plummet, their attitudes continued to sore. We stop occasionally to check in.
“Are you staying warm?” Travis asks.
“Yes,” I say somewhat surprised. Our runs are mostly at -15 or -20 and last anywhere from 3 to 6 hours but I never get cold. “My dogs are doing great,” I tell him.
“Switch for a bit?”
“Sure.” I say and so we swap teams for a few miles, happy to see how all the dogs have progressed.
One time we stop for cocoa only to find that the hot water we’ve brought out smells funny. “Do you think we can drink it?” Travis asks.
I take a whiff. “Eww. No.” I tell him, embarrassed that I packed a dirty thermos.
“Ya that’s definitely moldy.” He throws the hot water out and it freezes before it hits the ground into a fine powder — a cold weather magic trick. It was Probably too cold to be sitting around drinking cocoa anyways.
We keep mushing. The dogs have jackets on and at times we have to stop and check to make sure everyone is staying warm. Our smiles are big and our hearts are full. The dogs bark and jump and we, dogs and people, are all so happy.
This is it, I tell myself. These are the moments we live for.
