A Short Story for Mother's Day: Warrior Mom

By Rebecca H. Savidis

 

She had no choice.  The situation had worsened by the hour.  Three weeks of rain---rain on each of those days had flooded the kennel, leaving mutt and mushers water-logged and mud-bogged.  They had done their best, this she knew.  She had heard them say something about desperate times and she couldn’t agree more.

 

***

 

Each night when they arrived home, she watched as they dug several small channels throughout the kennel to divert the water away from the dogs.  That was the intent, yet with the abundance of rain, the banks of the several, small kennel rivers had flooded and the puppy pen was now a flood zone. 

 

Pushing her considerable weight against the gate, she tried it one more time.  Useless.  She knew that it wouldn’t budge, but she had to try.  She sized up the fencing around the puppy pen.  Four feet of wire and post.  It wouldn’t be a problem for her in her pre-puppy days, but it seemed now, though she couldn’t prove it, that there was more of her.  Desperate times.  Not to tight, but tight enough not to lose her hold, she took the young pup in her mouth.  Squeak!  

 

She set him down.  The squeaking stopped and the young pup looked up at his mother.  The new mother looked at her pup.  She tried again.  Squeak!

Helping or hurting?  Determined, she tried again and again the squeaker squeaked.  Ignoring the shrills, she leapt on the top of her dog house, built with love and big enough for mama and pups.  Nothing to it, not even a whisker out of place.  Taking flight over the fence, the scruff of her precious cargo secure between her teeth, she cleared the wire barrier and landed on the other side with little more than a thud next to her brother, Coach. 
 

He was always popular with the pups, and even the most novice of mothers could tell that he loved puppies.  His tail wag told her he didn’t mind, didn’t mind at all.  Less mud-bogged than other areas of the kennel and with such an eager caregiver, she passed to the entrance of his dog house and placed the squeaker inside.  Turning, aware that her task had just begun, she loaded the springs in her haunches and leapt the fence again, the second of many leaps to come.
 

Snatching the nearest pup and ignoring the squeaks---a newly acquired skill that would make any experience mother proud, she leapt then leapt again.  Tail wagging, Coach nudged the pup until it was placed on the ground at his feet.  Teeth to scruff he imitated his sister, and placed the pup inside his house. 
 

Perfecting the squeak and leap routine, she walked past the several in the kennel to find temporary and drier lodging for the third and fourth pups.  Past Tomboy who was still undecided if pups were dogs-to-be or very mobile squeaky toys, past Rowdy who had landed firmly in the Mobile Squeaky Toy camp long ago.  No to Bridger.  No to Fargo.  Yes to her father, Tenzing, and yes to her mama, Luna.  One left. 
 

Wiser, having watched, or rather heard his brothers and sister squeak as mama wandered off with each only to return empty handed, the last pup scrambled himself into a corner.  The job easier for his mama, she, for the last time, held the delicate hide and peach-fuzz fur between her teeth and leapt, and leapt again.  The options were few. 
 

Standing in between Coach and his protégé, Sue, A Boy Named Sue for long she made her decision and placed the pup at Sue’s feet.  An uncertain tail wag swished by both.  Her’s was the uncertainty of a mother leaving her pup in the care of a yearling.  His, the uncertainty at what she meant for him to do.  “I’ll help you,” Coach comforted with a tail wag and head bump worthy of a great mentor, “It’s not hard.  Sure they may chew on your ears, or search for dinner in all the wrong places, but nothing leaves a mark.” 
 

“Mark?  What do you mean by mark?”
 

“Have I ever led you astray?"

“The time we took a gee instead of a haw and ended up in a dead-end---yeah.”
 

“But in life?---Never.  Not with the important things.”  It was true and it was settled. With direct care over two, Coach would keep a watchful eye on his mentee and the little one now in Sue’s care. 
 

Less desperate, less weighed down and less cautious, Savannah leapt for the last time back into the puppy pen.  With no ark in sight, she waited atop the house, waited and watched her pups from a distance. 
 

Musher and wife arrived home, but there was no distress in the empty puppy pen.  Mama had done well. 

Home from Nome, Day 1: A Musher's Work is Never Done

 

The race team returned home less than twenty-four hours after crossing the finish line, and have rested and recovered well, yet there is no rest for the one on the runners.  Home from Nome less than a day, AJ began tending to chores ignored in the days and weeks proceeding the starting line.  Three concerns topped Rebecca's list as he set to the task of clearing ice and snow from the roof: 1) wayward ice falling, 2) gravity, and 3) to cat-call or not to cat-call. 

Snowhook's Rookie of the Year

Rio dozes at the Elim checkpoint.  (Photo by Philip Walters)

When you’re a sled dog named after an evil pug, some may think it is best to keep their expectations low.  Others may expect global domination.  Yet, for Rio, or Junior as he is called by those who know his namesake, his rookie year of racing was one of a steady rise.  

 

“How did Junior do?” Rebecca asked AJ after each run this season.  And, later, “Do you think he’ll make the team?”  AJ’s response was always positive, yet always cautious.  Best not to get her hopes up.  Realistic and protective---that is AJ’s way.  Yet, as the season progressed, Rio found himself training more and more with the fine-tuned machine of AJ’s race team. 

Rio crossed the finish line of his rookie run in Iditarod with a healthy appetite, good weight, a happy attitude, and his eyebrows perked. 

Well done, Junior.  You make a pug proud. 

Burled Arch Thank You to Twig

Each year after the team crosses the finish line, AJ has lifted up a dog above his head to touch their paw to the burled arch. In 2011 it was Whitey-Lance, Snowhook’s infamous wanderer, in celebration of staying with the team and not doing a repeat performance of his 2010 wanderabout. Last year, to show appreciation for a career well run, AJ lifted his main lead dog, Annabelle above his head to mark her retirement. Who was it this year and why? Lead dog and Annabelle’s daughter, Twig.

****

His stomach had been in chaos for a string of several trail markers between the team and Koyuk.  Each mile brought more cramping, lurching, sloshing and twisting.  Each mile brought weakness that was beyond sleep deprivation, beyond the wind that pounded him from the side, beyond the dizziness of the white on white landscape.    

 

He made a decision to run Twig, a strawberry blond female in single lead rather than in double lead as he usually did.  Would he regret his decision?  Time would tell.  The strongest minded dog on the line, he placed his delirious confidence in her, and pinned himself between the basket section of his sled and the tail-dragger, the second section of his sled.  His stomach cramped.  It lurched.  It sloshed and twisted.  His vision ebbed and flowed between black and white, between clarity and misery.  He thought of the comforts of home, his wife, dry socks and warm feet, and the privacy the ill desire.  What would it be to scratch?  No---he stopped the thought---scratching and giving up isn’t their way.  He ducked his head out of the wind.  Twig lowered her head, called up the team, and ran to deliver AJ to the next checkpoint of Elim.  Upon Arrival, AJ cared for the dogs with food, water, massage, blankets and straw.  Care for the dogs first, musher second.  After rest for musher and mutts, AJ prepared the team, staggered to the sled, held the handlebar, and once again handed the controls to Twig before continuing on the trail. 



AJ holds Twig close after lifting her to touch the burled arch.

*****

 

Twig rallied and cared for AJ as he had done for team earlier in the race when a virus ran its course through the team.  As a result, he changed his race from running on a competitive schedule to one of nursing and pampering the team with extended rests and dropping dogs as necessary.   It was Twig’s turn to be nurse, coach and caregiver.  For this—her gentle care, her undeniable tenacity, her inner resolve—AJ lifted Twig above his head and touched her paw to the burled arch in gratitude.

Thank you Twig, you are our special girl!

Snowhook's Southern Route Slog

After thirty hours on the trail of warm temperatures, poor trail conditions and hills---oh, how AJ dislikes those hills!---the team made their way to the ghost town of Iditarod and then on to Shageluk. Talk from the trail is about warm temperatures and poor trails including open water, neither of which make for an easy run. For many people, temperatures in the thirties and forties hardly seems warm, but for the race it is a heat wave. As AJ rested the team in Nikolai, reports indicated the thermometer hung in the low fifties. Resting in warm temperatures is comfortable for the dogs and more restorative, yet unwelcome while running.  

The ideal temperature for the team to run is ten to twenty degrees below zero. Temps like these are enough to have most people heading for their warm, soft bed with their electric blanket, but not Snowhook. The dogs run better in colder temperatures, and as a musher you can still function quite well.  When it is warm, AJ will take special care to rest the dogs often. Yet in cold temperatures, the same kind of care will be taken to keep them warm with the use of dog jackets and blankets sewed by the official seamstress of Snowhook Kennel---me.  Snowhook’s dogs tend not to be as thick-coated as some other dogs on the trail.  We compensate for thinner coats with dog jackets and blankets. AJ made the decision to keep some thick-coated dogs home when he made the decision as to who would be on the trail with him; I'm grateful he did so.

The weather has been strange this winter in Alaska. We've had frigid cold, unseasonable warmth, rain and low snow---most of which AJ has or is forecasted to experience on the trail. Give us cold temperatures any day.

Sticks and Stones will Break my Bones, but the Trail will Break my Sled

It's a sled, alright.  (Photo by Philip Walters)

For the second year in a row, the trail has delivered AJ's sled with punishing blows within the first third of the race.  Last year it was a bridle beaten by the Farewell Burn leaving AJ to drive the sled like a boat without a rudder for nearly a hundred miles before he could properly repair it.  This year, a stanchion suffered defeat.  Not having an extra sled shipped out along the trail like other mushers, AJ has one option----Channel his inner-MacGyver (we all have one to some degree) combined with Red Green.  A stick or branch, some clamps, a bit of hockey tape for good measure, and this year's fix should be easier than 2012.  

A Line in the Snow

As the countdown begins its descent, I know it's coming.  Five---I stand on the brake and hold the handlebar as AJ nears the sled having completed one last check of the dogs.  Four---I do my best to etch his image in my mind.  His large stature---tall frame, broad shoulders and narrow waist---all accentuated by his arctic clothing.  I focus on his smile.  It is the same smile I've seen when he's playing with the dogs and he doesn't know I'm watching.  It is one of joy.  Three---his feet and hands replace mine on the sled.  I step away.  Two---one last kiss that replaces all words.  One---at one, he crosses a line that will separate us for a thousand miles and what seems as many days.  It is a line I cannot cross.  

Separate, we are half, we are far from whole.  The separation that accompanies the announcer's call of, "One!' leaves me wanting solitude and temporary distance from the crowd and well wishers.  The edges of separation are uncomfortable and raw.  This Side of the Line, party of one.  

With each passing mile, every sleepless night, and the countless refreshes of race updates, AJ travels further from this line.   These same miles, sleepless nights and race updates also bring him closer to me.  There is another line, one that this invisible, one that is not surrounded by spectators and commentators.  This line---usually crossed between the Kaltag and the coast---marks the point that AJ, despite increasing the distance between us, is running towards me.  It is a line that means we will soon be reunited.  The raw edges of separation start to repair, the half slowly refills to whole.  This second line cannot be crossed soon enough.  

Unaware we were on camera, we said our good-byes at the last stop before the starting chute at the restart in Willow.  Thanks to Jose Pires for snapping and sending this screen shot to us. 

Snowhook's Sixteen Starters

Abe

Bjourn (leader)

Charlie (leader)

Doc (left) and Rio Jr. (right)

Elim (leader)

Fritz (leader)

Jem and his nose

Jesse as in James

Resident thief, Lefty

Louisa Mae (leader)

Marco

Orion

Quigler (leader, left) and Garrett (right)

Twig (leader)

Coat of Many Colors: Clearance Rack Coats & Mismatched Mushing Materials



Her rule is simple.  It is also long standing.  Any last minute sewing requests will be completed with the materials and colors of Rebecca’s choosing.  But, it wasn’t the rule the caused the mismatched and multi-colored dog coats.  It was the lack of materials, time and resources.  Such is the nature of Snowhook Kennel.



Thanks to the jaws of Pancho and Lefty, Snowhook’s resident thieves, the used dog jackets repaired and re-enforced the previous season needed a face lift or complete overall.  Some could not be saved and new dog jackets would have to be sewn from scratch.  Why go to all the trouble?---It’s all about the dogs, it’s all for the dogs.  

Every effort was made to use black---the official color of all of AJ’s mushing gear---yet, as Rebecca’s several late night sewing sessions continued, supplies dwindled and the starting line neared, she looked to her stores of discounted fleece and nylon purchased from the clearance rack---paw printed, purple, hunter orange, light blue fleece and blue, grey and burgundy nylon combined with hot pink thread---to complete the task. 

Finishing sewing the last of the dog coats just hours before the restart, two things are clear: 1) Rebecca stopped caring about the small details and sewing technique, and 2) Snowhook won’t win any best dressed contests.  That’s alright.  We’re gunning for congeniality.  

Despite the mismatched colors, like the song in the link says, there was love sewn in every stitch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1zJzr-kWsI

Cermonial Start Customs: Some Times Your Pony Just Won't Go (again)

If you’re no stranger to Snowhook, then you know we’re no stranger to mechanical troubles, and usually at the worst possible time.  In 2010, prayer quickly became a vital part of our auto maintenance plan as we smoked, sputtered and lurched to the Ceremonial Start.  In years since, volunteers have placed a lot more faith in our bald tires and our non-existent four-wheel drive capabilities as they directed us to our parking spot.  When all else fails, gun it. 

There is one thing you don’t want to see and the end of Iditarod’s Ceremonial Start---the eleven mile stretch running through the streets of Anchorage--- your dog truck with the hood up.  Yet, if we had to see it, this unexpected, unwanted mechanical delight, there is one thing we did want to see---Mick, friend of the kennel and mechanic extraordinaire already under the hood. 

After saying good-bye to our Iditarider and loading up the dogs in a neighboring musher’s truck so they could get home before too long, there was one focus---the truck or the damn dog truck as it has become known in some circles. Thanks to long-suffering VIPs who traveled from New York to be part of our race, advice from other mushers, borrowed tools, even the biological expertise of Iditarod’s Chief Vet, Stu Nelson, a lucky guess and Rebecca’s willingness to sacrifice the cheesecake---the official race watching food of Snowhook Kennel--- money given to her by a Snowhook fan for a run to the auto parts store, we were able to limp home. 

Lucky for us, the restart is in our backyard.