Tales from the Trail: An Uphill Climb

“Hup! Hup!” he spurred the team on with each inhale. The intake of oxygen and spoken word having become one in the same offset the two count rhythm of his pace. The dogs kept a steady gait.

His feet had not stood on the runners longer than the brief stretches of downhill that provided respite to both musher and dogs since the daylight hours. Darkness had long creeped into the crevasses of daylight until the only light that remained danced above in the winter sky. Still he ran. He ran to make the load lighter for the dogs. He ran to reinforce to each dog that they are all part of the team. He ran because the master is the servant. He ran despite the fatigue, the hunger and the sweat that streamed down his back and chest.

It had been a warm race. Warm, indeed. The unexpected balmy winter temperatures and the heat exerted in the effort of running up one hill after another seemed as though the Last Great Race took a detour to the tropics.

The arctic ready parka with fur ruff, the layering coat rated to thirty degrees below zero, and the red fleece jacket punctured with holes from the teeth and claws of a playful pup had all been shed and stuffed into the sled bag filling the empty spaces around bags of kibble and meat, cooker, sleeping bag and runner plastic many miles ago---all that remained were base layer, boots and bibs.

Fingers wrapped around the handlebar, he pushed the sled up the hill, his head down to stretch the muscles in his neck and back, his knees nearing his face with each stride. He noticed the mismatched thread on the outer pocket of his bibs. He had asked for an after market addition, large outer pockets to be sewn on the thighs of his bibs, and as a last minute sewing request he knew he was taking a risk. The rule, her rule, explicitly stated: the materials for all last minute sewing requests are at my discretion---he was at the mercy of whatever colors of materials she may have on hand or how sleep deprived she was at the time of the request. The thread may be pink, the snippets of Velcro may be mismatched colors---tan, blue, green and pink, but the material for the pockets, that which the world was likely to notice was at least black. “Besides, you’ll think of me every time you use that particular pocket,” she had told him and she was right. He could and would dwell on his wife later, but the focus was listening to the dogs as they ran up another hill.

“It’s the last hill, I promise,” he tried to convince himself as much as the dogs. It was not a promise, it was hope, and it was false hope. As they crested the hill he saw it---another rise in the horizon. You’ve got to be kidding me. In her own way, Annabelle his lead dog communicated the same sentiment to him---No; you’ve got to be kidding me. He listened.

The cold steel of the snowhook felt good in his hand as the blood pounded warmth through his extremities from miles of running. He kicked the snowhook into the snow. It was time to play, time to have fun.

Soft words for Annabelle, an ear scratch for Charlie, a hug for Whitey-Lance, a scratch of the hind quarters for Elim, a belly rub for Louisa Mae. Each dog was given love, attention, soft words and snacks. “Okay, we’re ready,” she said to him, again in her own way a short time later, and again he listened.

“Ready!” The dogs stood at attention as he secured the snowhook in the holster. “Let’s go!” If they had run up a thousand hills before you would not know it. Unable to keep pace with the team, newly refreshed, he rode the runners into the next checkpoint.

-RHS