SHAYTAAN SIBERIAN
HUSKIES 
Happy are those that dream dreams and are ready to
pay the price to make them come true - Leon J. Suenes
|
Happy are those that dream dreams and are ready to pay the price to make them come true - Leon J. Suenes
|
2009 Can Am Crown Rob and the 60 Mile Team
Mike and the 30 Mile Team
Whenever
I have attempted to compose a race story I have always tried to stick to the
truth as best I remember it, except of course where the truth could lead to
criminal charges – then I lie shamelessly.
I even try to reproduce conversations and thoughts as close to as they
appeared at the time, or in good Thucydidian fashion, how I think they should
have appeared at the time. When I write a story I also want it to be somehow
entertaining; if possible it should be amusing in a truthful, look at me
aren’t I an idiot sort of way. Normally if I find myself laughing at the tale
then that is good enough, although over the last three years my sanity has been
tested to the extent that I find myself laughing at many things these days that
at one time would not have gripped my attention. The leprechaun that lives down
by the dog pen has some particularly witty anecdotes about life back in the old
country and to think that I never used to listen to the Little People largely
because they failed to follow up on the success of YMCA. At
the end of the day though if I send a story off to Maine Made and it passes the
‘Lucille Test’ then it is bound for publication on the website. If it
doesn’t meet with Lucille’s approval then it won’t being visiting
cyberspace – hence the reason why the blog I planned to begin over the winter
never saw the light of day; Lucille read the first installment and then stopped
communicating for fear that the psychosis that was causing me to spew forth such
inane drivel was catching. Anyway,
for
me to be able to write a race story something significant must have happened
that I think is entertaining and as I am a proper half-wit then that is on most
occasions that I am allowed to venture outside of the front door. Sometimes
however, and I know this is hard to believe, but sometimes nothing significant
does happen, the race may go off without incident, I may not even end up last in
the race. It is not every journey during which I tangle with our highly
respected officers of law or custom, although it does happen just a bit too
often for my liking. After such rare, uneventful outings I find that I am unable
to compose any form of missive. Hence the two times we have raced at Bartlett
for example, we have traveled without incident, had problem free, yet highly
enjoyable races, and traveled home unscarred by the occasion. Even at the Can Am
last year things went fairly well, we had trained well for a 30 mile race,
competed without incident, even finishing in a respectable and credible position
and returned home happy. OK so the van did break down on the way to the race
because I forgot to plug the block heater in overnight and I got right royally
ripped off by gargantuan gang of garrulous garage grebes that got it restarted
but heh – the van breaking down and me getting ripped off is old news now. I suppose I could have gone
on about how I was entered in the 60 but spent the whole week trying to get
moved into the 30 and finally decided to steal Louise’s place in the 30 but
didn’t I bang on about that in 2007 and will again in 2009 as it turns out. So it
would therefore have been pretty difficult to write anything about Can Am 2008
other than the fact that we had a good race, finished strongly and enjoyed
ourselves – and who on earth wants to hear boring stuff like that. Blood, guts
and full-on musher embarrassment is what the reader wants, neigh, demands; at least,
Louise is always calling for my blood. I
seriously thought that after the shenanigans of the L'Odyssee of a couple of weeks
previously, and in particular clashing with the forces of the law, then Can Am
2009 had been another of those regulation races that wasn’t really worth
writing about. The more I thought about it after the race though the more I
thought I could spin some sort of tall tail-end tale of titantic truthfulness
and titillation and so here goes. Anyone
who happened to read the ditty about L’Odyssee 09 will remember that I
concluded with the statement that it would take a half-assed fool not to have
the sled carrying trailer fixed of its wheel bearing ennui in the two weeks
between L’Odyssee and Can Am. Half-assed I certainly am and by the Can Am trailer fixed it
certainly am not; not wanting to take the larger snow mobile trailer all the
way to Fort Kent just to carry two sleds I decided a better plan was to take
half the cages out of the van and carry the sleds internally with the dogs. This
did of course mean that we would be pretty restricted on how many dogs we could
take with us. As Mike was running a team in the 30, and I was planning on
running in the 60, although I was already making overtures to try to drop into
the over-subscribed 30 too, then we would need to take a minimum of 14 dogs with us;
and that would mean no spares. Even with the best will in the world, and cage
matching the best behaved dogs, I could still only get 12 dogs into the
‘permanent’ cages at the back of the van so would have to take additional ‘loose’
cages. As I loaded up the van I quickly realised that with
two sleds and all the gear for the 4 day trip then one additional 2-dog cage was
going to be all I could fit in meaning that 14 dogs would be the maximum coming
with us – enough for a team of eight and a team of six but not enough room to
carry any spares if anything went wrong at the vet check or, heaven forbid, if
we had a recurrence of the disgusting doggie diarrhea that had been spiraling
around the kennel for the last 5 weeks. Naively I was still hopeful that I too
would get a slot in the 30 which would free up two of the dogs to act as spares
for either team. Even
before I started loading up the dogs, I
was already suffering a decision dilemma over which dogs to take. Eeek had been
the latest on sick parade the previous weekend and had suffered badly with diarrhea;
experience over the last couple of months had shown that any dog that fell prey to this was
taking at least a week to recover before I felt they were back up to full fitness to run in
the team. Ordinarily Eeek would be a first pick for the team so the fact that he
was potentially weakened, compounded the fact that even after a full winter of
training I really didn’t know what my best team(s) was and so not 100% sure
who would come with us. On the Thursday morning when I should have been well on my
way to collecting Mike and then, singing like Bing, on the Road to Maine, I was
stood on the bank overlooking the kennels trying to decide which dogs were
coming with us. Some dogs of course were a given. I had decided that Hektor and
Medea were going to be my two main leaders as opposed to my normal combination
of Paris and Medea. For some bizarre reason known only
to my masochistic split personality I had decided that Mike needed a strong
leader to run next to the young Ammo to guarantee getting his team out of Fort
Kent and so he would have Paris. See, who says I am not a nice guy; after the race,
and as a consequence of me suffering a minor leader panic, I concluded that to hell
with the niceties, next time I would let the sadistic side of the schizophrenic
me decide who ran which dogs – no more giving up my best leaders. Kermit too was a definite for my team, as was Mannie for Mike’s;
Kermit had been proving a good dog to have in lead in the latter stages of a
run whilst Mannie has been excellent all winter and just loves to run for Mike.
As I was going to need another
reliable back up leader for the 60 miles I decided I would pinch Cassie from
Mike’s L’Odyssee team and he could have Eclipse and Terror as back up
leaders for his team; this way both teams would have four leaders of differing
experience levels. So 9 of the 14 were selected without too much difficulty. Keelut
and Nero were two more definite picks: strong, reliable, dependable and bags of
stamina, Keelut to my team, Nero to Mike’s. 11 of 14 and importantly all 6 of
Mike’s team selected. Jim had done really well all winter, and particularly at
L’Odyssee, and so was deserving of a place but as he was only a youngster, and
still had not covered the 60 miles, perhaps this was not the best race to move
him up to longer distances. Reb would definitely have made the L’Odyssee team had he
not had diarrhea a few days before that race; unproven and also young I decided
he would stay behind and begin his race career another day. As much as it pained
me to think it Fya had struggled over the final few miles in St Pamphile and so
I figured 60 miles was going to be just a bit too much for him; although he wasn’t going to thank me
for it, I had to be both
realistic with myself and fair to Fya, Fya’s mid distance race career was over – for the first time ever
he wouldn’t be traveling to a race with me.
Tidgie was developing really well but again was too young, whilst Poppy
had had too many average runs over the winter to be in consideration for the 60
mile team. Both Dave and Cal had disappointed me on the last couple of runs:
Dave was frustrating because he should be a big, powerful dog, he just needs to
sort his head out; Cal has all the right ingredients but sometimes isn’t
always cooking on gas. Lewis too, having been excellent the previous winter, had
for some reason gone off the boil this winter; he was also carrying far too much
weight which although completely my fault wasn’t helping his stamina. So
needing to fill three positions I was left with 4 dogs: Moley, Joe, Aspen and
Eeek. I really wanted to run Joe as although inexperienced over 60 miles he had
nonetheless had a really good winter. Cage logistics kind of dictated that if I
took Joe then I should take Moley as those two normally shared a big cage with
Mannie. Aspen had shown bags of
drive, speed and stamina over the winter, trouble was she was still very
immature and doesn’t always get on with the other girls in the kennel – as
such I had to be careful who I ran her next too. I dithered and dithered
over what to do. Most of the other 11 dogs were already in the van and ready to
go but still I continued on in my indecisive fashion. Three times I went back
into the kennels, picked a dog and headed off to the van only to change my mind
half way up the bank and turn back to the kennels; if the dogs didn’t already
doubt my sanity before today then they did now. In the end I decided that of
these last four, Eeek would remain behind; there was after all a possibility he
hadn’t fully recovered from the diarrhea. With Aspen already loaded into the
van I then brought Cassie and Eclipse up from the kennels. As they got in the
van and spotted Aspen all hell broke loose; Aspen started shouting at Cassie,
Cassie and Eclipse returned suit; Medea, although this was none of her business,
decided to join in the wailing and gnashing of teeth. I suddenly realised that
if I had leader issues on the trail, and with neither Medea nor Cassie yet able
to run alongside Aspen, then I could end up having to do lots of shuffling of
dogs just to keep the girls apart. As bad as it was for Aspen, so close to
heading off to the race, and with her so excited about being in the van and
undoubtedly off for a run, nonetheless I decided that I didn’t want to
increase the risk of having fights on the trail and so led her out of the van
and back down to the kennels – you really could see the disappointment on her
face and the deflated way she trudged back down the hill. Oh well it looked like
Eeek was going to be in my team after all; fingers crossed he was fully
recovered. Fortunately
the journey up to Fort Kent was pretty uneventful. We did get a bit of a scare
at the border crossing at Madawasker when after asking to see my vehicle
registration, and me remembering that it was sat in the kitchen with the defunct
trailer registration papers from our previous excursion north, the border guard
ordered us into the immigration office. Walking into the border post in slightly
disconsolate fashion, and expecting another Quebec sized fine, this time meted
out by an American law enforcement agent intent on revenge for the Trent
and Alabama and all that,
I was delighted to be confronted by the same border guard who always seems to be
on duty whenever we cross here: “Heh,
how ya doing,
back again to try to win our prize money are you? Good to see you again” “You
know that we are not interested in the money and a good job too.” I retorted “Where
is your wife this year – finally had enough of you has she?” “At
home looking after the other dogs”. The
duty guard who had initially dispatched us into the office stormed in, obviously
intent on pressing all manner of charges, only to be greeted by a scene of much
international jocularity, it must have been a strange sight to behold, here in
the heart of the Republic of Mississauga a Brit, a Yank and a Canuck all smoking
the proverbial pipe of peace and not a single non-registration paper holding
fine anywhere to be seen. As it
turned out our original antagonist had in fact arrived just that day from
Atlanta; this was her first day on duty and her first taste of meeting mushers.
Despite the fact that she was planning on being in Fort Kent to watch the start
on Saturday morning, nonetheless we were all insistent that as soon as all the
paperwork and visa waivers were signed she should come out to visit the dogs.
Despite the stresses associated with making an international border crossing
with a host of dogs, it is still possible for amusement to be found whenever the erstwhile guard
decides that it
is his or her god given duty to ensure each and every dog is sound of mind and
body and fit to cross the border. Their determination to do what is good and
what is right always lasts right up until the point when the side door of the van is flung open and
they are greeted with 14 drooling mouths, 28 peering and piercing eyes and most
importantly 56 million dog hairs flying towards them. Every time you see the
guard note the hairs flung up from the floor of the van by the in-rush of air, a
quick glance down at their immaculate, perfectly pressed and to date hair-less
uniforms is always accompanied by a step back from the van and a quick hairless
affirmation that all dogs look really well and the food, well the food looks
perfectly American and goat meat free (or whatever the latest meat scare is).
Our newly Atlantan liberated lawmaker was no different; she said she loved the
look of all the dogs, but she obviously loved the look of all the dogs from a
non-hair encroaching distance. Very much
Reo Slowwagon we were Back on the Road Again. We
pulled into the Northern Door fairly early in the evening to find the area
remarkably devoid of dog trucks. For anyone who has not raced at the Can Am, the
Northern Door is right in the middle of Fort Kent, centrally located for the
mushers meeting and the ski lodge where all the vet checks, registration, Awards
Breakfast and, most importantly, the race finish take place; it is a haven for mushers
over the Can Am weekend and in previous years has always been full of dogs and
dog trucks (the trucks containing the dogs as opposed to the trucks that the
dogs drive – that would be just stupid. Why would a dog want to drive his own
truck to Fort Kent when he can get a free lift with a musher?) However we were only
about the fourth to arrive at what is usually the throbbing hub of Can Am Crown
musher activity. We dropped then fed then dropped then drank then quaffed some
ale, us not the dogs, then retired for a relatively early night. Now
2009 was to be our fourth go at entering the Can Am Crown and I wouldn’t be at
all surprised if the organisers were/are more that a tad fed up with us,
‘us’ being me as opposed to ‘us’ being mushers in general. The first
year that we were in North America, 2006, we entered the 30, only to pull out a
couple of weeks before the race citing lack of training and sled miles as the
primary reason. Second year, 2007, I foolishly entered the 60 and then try as I
might, right up to the mushers meeting, desperately, and fruitlessly, tried to
get moved to the 30 because, and quite rightly as it turned out, I didn’t
think I had enough miles on the dogs. Third year, 2008, I again entered the 60 in
a fit of August registrating over exuberance and also this time, and much to her
dismay, entered Louise into the 30. Once again I spent large parts of the week
leading up to race day haranguing the race organisers to try to get them to move me from the 60 to
the 30. This time when my efforts were met by failure we decided, much to her
relief, that we would pull Louise’s team and I would take her spot in the 30
and we would just abstain from the 60. In 2009 again the August madness took hold,
again I failed to learn my lesson and again I entered one team in the 30 and one in the 60.
Again I failed to train enough to be confident running the 60; again I harassed
the organisers to let me drop to the 30 in the final week leading up to the
race, even adding my name to the slowly diminishing reserve list. This year
however we had asked Mike to run Louise’s team in the 30 and as he was really looking
forward to it I would not have the same get out option as the previous year i.e.
it was looking like the 60 or nothing unless I could pull some rabbits out of
the proverbial hat. And
so this was the context as we turned up at the vet check on Friday morning - I
was still intent on getting moved from the 60 to the 30.
We were early arriving at the vet checks, hopeful of getting both teams checked quickly thus allowing us to have a leisurely afternoon wandering around Fort Kent, picking up the last few pieces of equipment and food that would need to go into the sled bags the following morning. Although the car park was virtually empty when we arrived, trucks soon started filtering in and with them old friends who I hadn’t seem for at least twelve months, largely because we made neither the Trade Fair nor any of the early season US races that we have attended in previous years. There were expected to be quite a few Siberian teams entered in the 60 this year, Rhonda O’Hearn and Kathy Lesinski (both of whom I anticipated would be vying for the position of top pure-bred team), Wes Baum who always runs a very strong team, Kasey McCarty who had finished just behind me in the 30 on the previous year and Ingrid Bower who I knew from experience at Stratford, ran a very fast Siberian team. I figured that one of these teams along with myself would be in the hat for the red lantern and I kind of figured I would be the one winning that dubious honour. Now I remember writing elsewhere that I have this feeling, largely borne out of my own character deficiencies, that on occasion the Siberian musher may try to encourage a slower musher to take part in the same race in order that he will reduce his own possibilities for ‘winning’ the red lantern. I am not too sure if Wes was thinking along the same lines but whenever I mentioned to anyone who would listen that I was trying to get out of the 60, Wes was always pretty discouraging. I have no doubt that I am doing Wes a great disservice with statements such as this, it has after all been said many times, and not always by my wife, that I am the one who really needs to see a psychiatrist; I shouldn't project my own mental frailties onto others. As it was there was not, nor would be, any spare places in the 30; both Kasey and I were still on the very short waiting list, a list containing just two names in fact, one with the initials KM and the other the initials RC. I had to face up to the fact that it was the 60 or nothing and I was kind of leaning heavily towards the ‘nothing’, still not confident in either the stamina or the health of the entire team. However I now had nothing to lose, there would be no refunds at this late date, and so we went through the process of registering, getting the vet books sorted out, and completing all the vet checks without incident. As the
morning wore into the afternoon I was gripped by that Can Am good-will feeling
and there and then made up my mind that I would run in the 60 after all. With that decision
finally made Mike and I set off into town with dogs in tow to get the last few
items of mandatory equipment. As
we drove along the Fort Kent high street an urgent whining began emanating from
the back of the van; realising quickly that this wasn’t the van’s time to
break down, especially when whine turned to desperate howl, I knew immediately
what this meant. I dived into the nearest car park, scrambled out of the van as
quickly as I could and, with a bemused Mike looking on, pulled Eeek out of his
cage as quickly as I could. No sooner was ginger bum clear of van, Eeek’s not
mine, than it was expelling the most noxious liquid with a force and trajectory
that would have impressed even the most erstwhile fan of The Exorcist. This was
not the first time this diarrhea ridden winter I had heard those sounds coming
from the back of the van; on previous times I had not been quite so responsive
and had been left with a most unpleasant cleaning job as punishment for my sloth.
It took Eeek two or three minutes to clear his system entirely and when he was
finished he looked dreadful; pale and pretty deflated. Well that was that, he
wasn’t going to be fit to run the next day and ruing now my decision not to
bring any spare dogs with me for the first time ever, there was no way I was
going to compete with a decidedly under trained seven dog team. As I tried my
damnedest to clear up the noxious, fluorescent yellow liquid with a small plastic
bag, Mike offered to either give up one of his own team or drop out of the 30
completely. I
declined on both counts; Mike had taken time off work to race and I was
determined that he would have a good time. Sat
back in the van I felt at a complete loss, there was absolutely no way I could
risk Eeek. We did have some Diarsanyl paste which had been proving great at blocking the
other dogs up immediately when they had been bad and we had also taken to giving
then a small amount of psyllium in the form of Metamucil to fight stress diarrhea but even if we got him
‘bunged up’ surely he would now be too dehydrated to run. I
was sufficiently concerned enough about Eeek that I thought we should return to
the Ski Lodge immediately in order to have a vet look him over. The same vet who
had done our original vet checks gave Eeek a thorough examination and then went
off to check that the Diarsanyl that I had given him wasn’t on the restricted
substances list. She came back and said that the paste was fine and she thought that Eeek seemed
healthy enough to race. Just to be on the safe side she did give us some sachets
of FortiFlora canine nutritional supplements and some Metronidazole tablets – free of charge – now how good,
and rare, is that? We agreed to monitor both his food and water intake over the
afternoon, evening and into the morning and then have the vets look at him again
just before the start to make sure he was fit to run. I was still not convinced
that I was going to run but at least I could delay the decision until the
morning. The
rest of the day passed pretty much without incident; Wes made sure that he sat
next to me at the musher’s meeting, just to ensure that I didn’t take this
opportunity to scratch; or perhaps he sat next to me just out of friendship, or pity;
where on earth is that psychiatrist's number? We fed and dropped the dogs; Eeek ate well,
drank well and must have had nothing left to come out, but at least he wasn’t
passing liquid. Having washed our hands we fed ourselves, or rather the local
Chinese Restaurant fed us, we supped some more beer and retired to bed early in
preparation for the long day ahead. I
would say that we arose the following morning to a nice, bright dawn however we
were up long before the sun; we fed and dropped the dogs, all were still eating, Eeek
was now solid, and so we headed off on the short drive down to the start line in order
to have the vets look over Eeek again. As he was eating well and looking good I
resolved that barring undue concern from the vets I would run after all.
As
the 60’s were heading out first, and so I wouldn't be around when it was time
for him to hook his own team up, I gave Mike final instructions on who would be
better off running where on his team and then busied myself getting the sleds
all ready. One more visit from Wes just to make sure Because
I had so graciously given up my number 2 leader, Paris, to help Mike out (oh no,
never again would I be doing that) I was planning on running Medea and Hektor at
lead for the first part of the race with the aim of moving Kermit and Cassie up
later in the race as and when the other two tired. Medea had led the
full way on her first 60 mile race two years previously and so I had few worries
about her ability to remain at lead the full way. I was probably most concerned
about Hektor though as in training his stamina had been dropping away just after twenty
miles. I may have mentioned before but when it comes to running Hektor is a
lunatic and so he was to be the last one out of the van in order to conserve him
for as long as possible. As ever when the time came to finally hook him up he
came flying out of his cage and was bouncing off the walls of the van and
slamming into the door trying to get out. I noticed then that there seemed to be
a lot of blood around the door handle but as I had previously cut my finger I
assumed that it was mine and thought no more about it until later. As
if to demonstrate that he truly was back to full fitness Eeek chose his moment
well and as the team was being led down to the start line chewed through his
neckline, this was becoming quite a habit. Almost, almost I say, chuckling at my
own good planning I grabbed a new neckline off the supply attached to the
handlebar, and with a wink in Eeek’s direction so that he was well aware that I
had his mark, replaced said line and proceeded towards the start. Never one to
be outdone by Eeek, as we hooked down in the start chute for the final two
minutes before my off, Moley decided that he too would use his gnashers to
liberate his neck from the gangline. Definitely not smiling this time I grabbed
another neckline off the dwindling supply on the sled, had the briefest of
discussions with Moley about the why’s and wherefores of not chewing necklines
and jumped on the runners ready for the off.
'Don't poke your tongue out at me.' 'Well stop pointing - it was only a neckline"
Now there is one small but vital piece of information that I have failed to add to date, and as we English are renowned for our metaphorical meteorlogical mania, I must now remedy the situation and discuss the prevailing weather conditions in Fort Kent in the lead up to the race. As all forecasters had been predicting, the previous afternoon the temperature had shot up well above freezing and this most unwelcome condition had been joined, in the late afternoon and into the evening, by heavy rain … heavy rain ... in northern Maine ... and not on the plain in Spain and this the beginning of March; make that bugger rhyme if you dare? The rain had continued until about 4am and must have been generating doubts in the minds of mushers and organisers alike that the races would not go ahead. Then at 4am the rain stopped and the temperatures plummeted towards -10°C and continued dropping – so good temperatures for running dogs but far from ideal for setting up a good trail, especially after all that non-Spanish rain. The organisers had done the best they could in the short time available to set up a trail along the high street but you could see just how fast the trail was running out of Fort Kent. As my final two minutes slipped away and the dogs grew ever more hyper Georges Theriault, who seems to be ever present in the start chute at the Can Am, leaned over and asked if I wanted a rider to help weigh the sled down for the initial half a mile or so whilst the dogs blew their metaphorical cobwebs away. I politely declined; if I was going to die, and there now seemed every possibility that I might, I didn’t particularly want to take anyone else with me.
On your marks, get set.... GO!!! Pictures courtesy Can Am Crown. Photographer Leslie Marquis
Someone's always lookin' at ya © Matthew Michaud I have to confess that there were a couple of instances over the first mile or so where I regretted the decision somewhat not to have a passenger on board. The right turn off the high street down towards the river for one where I very nearly wiped out as the speed of the dogs and trail conditions caused sled and musher to ‘sling shot’ around the bend. Then again as we careened down to go under the International Bridge and I seriously envisioned myself and sled parting company with me taking an early dip in the river. Fortunately however we
stayed together and were soon making good progress along the Heritage Trail and
out over familiar and more stable ground. The conditions were still fast however
and I was stood on the drag mat all the way along the Trail just to keep the
speed down; still we were making good progress and were only passed by a couple
of teams of hounds and Alaskans. Worryingly though there did seem to be a lot of
blood spots on the trail however whilst I couldn’t confirm for definite that it
wasn’t coming from my team, I was pretty sure it wasn’t as they were mostly
all booted especially those more prone to cut pads. We soldiered on but the
blood on the trail was always at the back of my mind and often in front of my
eyes. The
dogs really were performing well, certainly better than I had expected coming
into the race, and whilst I was still holding them back, they made the
climb up to the lake without any worries. Now I do still have very English reservations about being out in the middle of a
lake without a boat, or a life jacket or even without a boat and a lifejacket (but not a boat wearing a
lifejacket) but the lake crossing was also going well, until that is we got to a point where some
clown on a snow machine had obviously decided to do tricks earlier in the day
and there were trails heading off in all directions. For some reason, probably
because I wasn’t really paying attention, looking as I was for the exit point
on the far shore, the team decided that they were going right onto a side trail;
unperturbed I called haw and haw they did, onto a side trail on the left and
heading straight out into the middle of the lake and into some soft and very
deep snow. All those nightmares I had had over the previous few years about
plunging through the ice into the freezing waters below came rushing back at me. I
screamed at the dogs to go gee but they were now getting really confused and
thought that I must have gone mad…again. Before they could go any further out
into the middle of the lake I dropped the hook and dove thigh deep into the snow
to grab the leaders. I hauled them back onto the main trail, jumped back onto
the runners, popped the hook and got off the lake as quickly as I could.
Physically we had never been in danger but mentally … I guess I had better get
over this lake/river phobia if we are ever to take part in the Yukon Quest, it could be quite tricky avoiding running on rivers then. We
climbed off the lake and up towards the point where the 30 and 60 trails
separate. As soon as we made the gee onto the 60 trail it was as if the whole
team suddenly realised it was going to be the long run for them this year; the
team that had up until then really seemed up for the race suddenly went
completely flat. Up until this point I had only really been concerned about
Eeek, constantly checking to see if I was going to have to drop him at the
checkpoint; he hadn’t seemed that keen but now the whole team had gone the
same way and it was hard to differentiate between his performance and that of any of the others. As
we pushed on, slowly, more and more teams caught and passed us, even some of the
other Siberian teams were catching us a lot earlier than I thought they would. As
I made the checkpoint at about 27 miles I had lost track of the bib numbers that
had gone by but I was pretty sure that I was now at the back of the pack. I
pulled over in front of Wes in the checkpoint to give the dogs some water and
move Hektor out of lead. As I had predicted his stamina seemed to have dropped
away and he seemed disinclined to run. I was to discover later when looking at
some photographs from the start that his loss of racing appetite probably had
little to do with his stamina and much more to do with the blood I had seen in the van and
on the trail. It seems that in his frenetic desire to get out of the van at hook
up he had cut through both his boot and his pad and must have been in some
discomfort – how could I have been such an idiot not to have checked that.
Hektor, Cassie and Medea © Matthew Michaud Hektor's Bloody Foot Oblivious
though to all this I still had a special weapon to get the team home in
reasonable shape – Kermit. Kermit had been one of the main leaders at Kraken
Kennels and whilst he had really messed me around when I had tried him in lead
when he had first come to us, I think I was being tested, he had since settled
down and demonstrated on any number of occasions a real desire and ability to
get the team going again during a long run. Well normally he would do that; on
this day he would not. I am not sure if it was because Medea, alongside him at
lead, was coming into season or if he was just not up for it that day however
after really struggling for a couple of miles and completely unable to get him
to keep his tug line tight, I decided to see if the back-up, back-up leader,
Cassie, would perform any better. Up until this race Cassie had not had a huge
amount of exposure to long runs at lead and as we still had over 30 miles to go
I was somewhat dubious about putting her at lead so early on however I really had no other option if I wanted to
finish the race on the same day as everyone else. Cassie though proved to be
more than up for the challenge and we started to pick up speed again. I checked
the mileage on the GPS and then checked the elapsed time – hell’s teeth at
this rate we were in danger of completing the race in less than 8 hours –
maybe we weren’t as slow as I had thought.
As
we turned off the main 250 mile trail onto the side trail that would lead us
back to Fort Kent I started to experience real handling difficulties with the
sled, for some reason I was having to fight it all the way, even on some of the
straighter sections it kept drifting off to the side. I figured that I must have
broken something on the sled or there was a problem with one of the runners but
I couldn’t think of any reason why nor could I see any physical problems,
despite the fact that I checked everything I could whilst still moving along.
The handling issues weren’t going to tax me for too much more of my immediate
future however as much to my surprise a body appeared before me walking along the
trail. As I got closer I could see that the body was wearing a ‘60’ bib so I
guessed it was another musher who had stopped to answer the call of nature and
was about to get back on his sled. As I drew closer still I realised that this
body was a musher sans chien as they say in ... well, somewhere, probably. As I
pulled up alongside him he looked absolutely exhausted and to be fair the trail
conditions were so punchy as a result of the previous night’s high
temperatures and rain that trying to walk along the trail in heavy boots must
have been draining. “Hi,
what’s happened” “Oh
man, I got off the runners for two seconds and the team popped the hook – I
dived after the sled but before I could grab it they were gone.” “How
long ago?” “Oh
about ten minutes. I am sure the hook will have set again by now and they’ll
be just up ahead.” “OK, jump on I’ll give you a ride.” “I couldn’t do that, it’ll ruin your race.” Now
I really don’t need someone else’s help to ruin a race for me, I am quite
capable of doing that all on my own and as I was 99.99% sure that I was
already last and wouldn’t be catching anyone else up ahead of me, what difference would it
make? “It
really doesn’t matter, jump on behind me.” “The
other teams that went by all said that they would notify the next marshal and
get them to come back on a snow machine to pick me up so don’t worry.” We
were about 31 miles into the race and if I remembered correctly from
the last time I ran the 60 there wasn't a safety station or any marshals until well past 45 miles. The guy already looked really done in and I
wasn’t that convinced that he could walk much farther. What’s more in the
past I have
lost a team in the middle of nowhere and so know how panic stricken and
disconsolate you can become, convincing yourself that as a result of your
stupidity dogs on the team will end up stumbling, getting dragged and, as a
result, killed. “Please
jump on the runners, it won’t be for too long and I really don't care.” And so he did. Now
even being polite neither of us were particularly svelte like and given the fact
that I was already struggling like mad to control the sled, then this now really
was Laurel and Hardy do mushing. Within the first mile we must have dumped the
sled at least three times – once with me wrapped neatly around a tree.
Eventually however we got the hang of things and whilst we weren’t eating up
the miles, and I could see the possibility of the 8-hour finish slipping away,
nonetheless we kept moving. I was especially impressed with the team, and Cassie
and Medea in particular, because even on the hills they were pulling two heavy
guys along with virtually no assistance from the back of the sled; you just try
pedaling or running when there are two people trying to occupy the runners – easy it ain’t. Now I do
appreciate that after 23 years in the military I should be hardened to anything,
a roughie-toughie sailor boy so to speak, but I do have to confess that I was so proud of the
dogs, and so full of admiration of their efforts, that it fair brought a tear or
two to the eye. Seeing the way that they were pulling both of up the hills
I just wanted to go along and hug each of them in turn. I didn’t though as
that isn’t the macho thing to do; maybe if I had been on my own. What
I had thought would only be a mile or so and maybe 10 to 15 minutes soon
stretched into 10 miles and as we sailed by the 42 mile point there was still no
sign of assistance for ahead; for almost 1 ½ hours
the team were hauling two mushers. I guess the good thing was that we didn’t
come across the loose team, tangled and injured or worse, nor did we see any
evidence that the team had veered off the trail. And then, much to the relief of
driver, passenger and dogs, the hum of a snow mobile was heard from up ahead and
soon the rescue party was coming down the trail towards us. As
soon as we had ascertained that his team had been caught, all were fine and were
now hooked down at the safety station about 4 miles ahead, my reluctant
companion and I shook hands and
went our separate ways; well, to be exact we went the same way but he went that
way a lot quicker than I, being sat on the back of a snow mobile as he was. Not to
worry, I am very much used to seeing the backs of other mushers as they travel down the trail a
lot faster than me. The
feelings of pride associated with helping out a fellow musher were very short
lived; almost immediately I saw that the trail had been decimated by what looked
like moose tracks and by comparing them with the runner tracks of previous sleds
I could tell that these were very, very fresh. Was this to be my first fateful
and fatal encounter with a trail hugging moose? Thankfully a very simple answer
to that one – no. I discovered later that Kasey,
running ahead of me, had had real issues getting by a moose on the trail which
had then decided to follow her for a while. Thankfully, for me, the moose was
long gone by the time I turned up; we picked our way through the tracks,
cognisant of the wrist and shoulder injuries that can be caused by a dog
stepping into the hole left by a moose hoof and on we pressed. And thankfully, for me again, the rest of the race was pretty uneventful. I did continue to have real problems handling the sled but an awful lot of other mushers, much more experienced than I, also reported that they had a lot of handling problems and attributed it to the melt, rain and quick freeze of the night before. However at around the 56 mile point my problems handling the sled did finally result in me breaking a stanchion. As I approached a tight left hand turn, at reasonable speed for us, try as I might I couldn't stop the sled from sliding towards the right side of the trail and a very big and immovable looking tree. As I was using my full, and not inconsiderable weight, to lean left whilst pushing out right on the runners with my feet, and as the tree got ever closer, I heard a huge crack from down near the runners. We made the turn, just, and as I couldn't see any damage to the sled and the handling didn't get any worse, we pushed on regardless; I discovered the following week that the left hand upright stanchion had cracked and separated completely just down near where the stanchion connects to the runners . I could have no complains however, I was driving the Maine Made C48 which has been my absolute favourite sled for the last four winters whilst I have been learning my trade and has not only traveled quite a few trail miles with me but has taken a lot of punishment into the process, without previous complaint. Anyway
broken sled or not, I crossed the line in just over 8 ½ hours, and so probably
could have got closer to 8 hours without the passenger; although I don't think I
would have got under 8 hours. I did however have
another story to spin and despite my best efforts and thoughts to the contrary,
I still wasn’t quite last. Mike was there to greet me at the finish line and
he too had had an enjoyable run although on crossing the finish line at the Ski
Lodge earlier in the afternoon he discovered that the sanctuary of the van
was nowhere to be seen – the volunteers had forgotten to bring it up from the
start area. Never mind, the important thing is that it was there by the time I
turned up, happy but exhausted. And
so with all the dogs cared for we retired to quaff some ales, scoff some scoff
and spin some lies about the trail – well we went across the border to
Edmundston to stay at Gino’s but that is another tale and still involved a lot
of quaff, scoff and tosh. Oh
and Eeek, how did he do? Well Eeek being Eeek, he improved greatly as the race
went on and was one of the hardest pulling dogs for the second half of the race
– in the end I was very glad to have him along. Another
Can Am weekend over and done with for another year and another race season completed – my god life
is just too short. Rob
|
all photos © Matthew Michaud 
all
photos © Matthew Michaud
Picture
courtesy Can Am Crown. Photographer Leslie Marquis
