I remember – it seems like a lifetime ago now – standing in Travis’ old dog lot at his mom’s house four years ago. The leaves were just starting to fall off the trees and the wind would come along every now and then ruffling them up out of their loose piles in the dog lot and driveway. Travis spent his days working construction for a local builder. We spent our evenings together running dogs and dreaming of a future where we were self sufficient and making names for ourselves as racers.
That September for his birthday, I’d gotten Travis two new beefy snow hooks. Our first “date” months beforehand he had taken me mushing on the historic Iditarod trail in Seward and once, when we stopped to rest the pups, they eagerly pulled his snow hook. He had a rag-tag set up which included his hook being on a bungy line. When the hook popped, the line stretched forward and then snapped back, the hook almost hitting me square in the face. My goalkeeping reflexes kicked in and somehow I managed to either deflect it down or catch it.
He apologized profusely. “Ya I shouldn’t have it on that buts it’s the only rope I have.”
I laughed. I was having a blast.
We still joke about it. Those first runs we did together will always hold a special place in my heart. Our gear was often broken or pieced together. On one run, we had a stanchion snap, our brake bar fall off and we somehow managed to lose our drag.
We wouldn’t bring tools or sled repair kits. Often we were woefully underprepared but our logic was that we weren’t far from home — always less then seven miles. Nothing that bad could ever happen.
When things broke we’d take necklines and tug lines, splicing together spruce trees, duct tape — anything we could find and deem usable — to help us repair our sled and get back to the yard. We always managed. We smiled. We learned.
Looking back, we were a minor disaster but it never mattered. We had fun and we were training the puppies — now the core of our race team — and there was no stress.
We learned to fix what we needed to fix and we had fun doing it. At times I’d get annoyed we sure spend a lot of time fixing things I’d think and occasionally vocalize.
Travis’ response was always the same. “I’m a broke dog musher. I can’t afford new stuff.”
So we were resourceful.
But that fall day in 2012 when we were gearing up for our first full season of running dogs together, I can remember shivering from the wind. It was howling. We were hooking the dogs up to the four wheeler when Travis casually mentioned he’d bought me a present.
I was thinking maybe he’d bought me a new pair of gloves or a better rain jacket when he told me he bought me a sled my jaw dropped and I looked at him in disbelief.
“Where on earth did you get that kind of money?!”
He’d saved his tips from work that summer and slowly saved up. “It’s not like brand new or anything,” he said sheepishly “but it should hold together pretty good.”
From the moment we got it, it was a beautiful sled albeit well-loved and trail-worn. Made by “prairie built” it was incredibly light and fun to drive. It sported a bicycle seat on back and was the first “sit down” sled we owned.
The first time we took it out we had a blast, switching teams so we could both take turns driving it.
“You’re really good on that thing!” He said beaming at me.
We drove that sled everyday we had enough snow. It had sleek aluminum stanchions and a bright blue and yellow sled bag. Driving it, we felt like rock stars — not that we shared trails with anyone.
But then, of course the inevitable eventually happened: the aluminum stanchion snapped coming around an icy corner the following spring . We took necklines and a hair tie and part of an alder and made a quick trail repair that got us home. A local welder fixed it for us and before we could order a replacement stanchion the second one snapped.
Life happened. And what should have been a simple fix went untouched and sat in our garage waiting to be fixed. We started doing tours and business life soon took over. Suddenly it seemed we hardly had time for each other, let alone sled repairs!
A year went by and we still hadn’t fixed it. We’d acquired other sleds and drove those lamenting our lack of time and energy to fix my first sled.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday I came back from a meeting to find Travis tinkering in the basement. I could hear the saw running and heard the occasionally tap tap. I opened the basement door to see what on earth he could be working on.
“No! You’re not allowed down here!” He said.
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s a secret.”
“Ok.” I said.
He worked well into the night, not coming up for bed until 3am. And the secret he’d been working on was my dog sled — Except it wasn’t my dog sled at all. Travis had seen me eyeing our friend Wade’s homemade single stanchion sled and had apparently overheard me asking for advice on building one. Travis had taken the runners off my old dog sled and made a completely new creation.
To say I’m excited to drive it is an understatement.
Isn’t it a thing of beauty? We can’t wait to try it out.
