We’re in Brownville, Maine. That’s in Piscataquis County for you geography buffs. It must be the moose capital of the world. Every road has a “Watch Out for Moose“sign. You don’t want to hit a moose. As Casey Stengel once said: “If you hit a moose, we’ll be talking about you in the past tense.” Actually, Casey said it about getting hit in the head by a particularly wild fastball pitcher, but it’s applicable here.
The Head Musher has just left the starting line bent on running fifteen miles of the Brownville KI-30. There are sixteen serious mushers who will do the full thirty miles but this is the Head Musher’s first race on snow this year and she’s looking to take it easy and “get the feel of the sled and the feel of running on snow”. This sounds like a good idea to me because we just got here and I’d hate to have to turn around and drive back to Maryland with the Head Musher wrapped from head to toe in Ace bandages and complaining about the fact that she can’t check her e-mail and text messages with her thumbs in splints.
There was some excitement at the starting line a few minutes ago when the first group of mushers, the serious guys, headed out. The first team out of the chute, a twelve-dog team, runs about twenty yards and the lead dog decides to return to his truck, or perhaps he thinks it might be fun to visit the dogs in another truck. Whatever the reason, he makes a quick left, goes around a telephone pole, and takes the rest of the team with him.
Did you notice the word “quick” in that last sentence? That’s an important word in mushing. When a dogsled team makes a quick turn, even a team with as few as four dogs, the sled gets pulled further and further into the turn. If there is a tree (or a telephone pole) at the corner, the sled tends to get pulled into the tree or pole. Mushers like to make wide, not quick, sharp, turns, particularly with large teams.
So by the time half of this twelve-dog team gets around the telephone pole, the musher has bailed off the sled to the right and is trying to pull the sled away from the pole. This, of course, makes the sled lighter by the weight of the musher and makes it easier for the dogs to get their way. A mushing Catch-22.
Have you ever tried to pull a sled the opposite way twelve fifty-pound Siberian Huskies are pulling it? That’s 600 pounds of dogs whose genetic disposition is to pull. That’s 600 pounds of dogs at peak energy at the start of a race who are bent on going somewhere, even if it is just back to their truck. That’s 550 pounds of dogs following their 50-pound leader who is absolutely sure he wants to make a quick left. And now they are pulling an empty sled with the musher holding on to the handle-bar with both hands and the sled about a foot off the ground. It’s a tug of war that the musher can’t win. Luckily, five guys grab the dogs and slow them down enough for the musher to save the sled.
So, now the guys have dragged the dogs back onto the trail, the musher is back on his sled. Egos are bruised. Faces are red. But the dogs and musher are fine. The eleven other dogs are looking at the lead dog as if to say “What’s with the quick left?” He’s looking at the ground plotting his next move. When you put someone in charge, sometimes he takes you places you’d rather not go. That applies to mushing also.
The five guys release the team and the musher yells “Let’s go!” The lead dog’s head is back up in the air.
Now let’s just stop here for a second and ask ourselves what we think is going to happen next. The musher obviously thinks that the team is going to bolt straight down the trail. He’s already lost valuable time and it never crosses his mind that the lead dog will make another quick left, almost the exact same quick left that he just made moments ago. But he does. The only difference is that this time the five guys who just released the dogs are right in their path. The dogs can’t get up a head of steam and in fifteen seconds they are back in the center of the trail in the custody of the same five guys.
On the third try, the lead dog decides he will head on down the trail and the crowd cheers wildly. I’m betting that thirty miles from now, when that lead dog returns to the starting line, he’ll try to go to the other side of that telephone pole.
The race marshal decides to put up a saw-horse just past the telephone pole to prevent any other team from making a quick left around the pole. Everybody agrees that this is a wise move.
Have you ever heard the old mushing saying “Dogs learn best by watching other dogs”? Well, while this quick-left-turn thing was unfolding, the next scheduled team was standing at the starting line, champing at the bit, and…well…watching. I say to myself: “Jeez, you don’t think…”
The countdown starts. Five…four…three…two…one. The second team bolts out of the starting chute, goes past the telephone pole, and…makes a quick left right after the saw-horse! It’s only a six dog team so the musher in on top of the saw-horse before he can say saw-horse. The saw-horse bites the dust and the five guys are in hot pursuit of yet another team. This is like watching the Republican leadership trying to get the Tea Party under control!
Finally, about ten of us form a human barrier on the left side of the trail. The dogs won’t make a quick left into a line of humans – at least that’s what someone with an authoritative voice tells me. And, luckily, he is right. It would be ironic if I turn out to be the one in Ace bandages all the way to Canada complaining that I can’t turn the pages in Nicholas Nickelby.
The rest of the teams get out without incident.
The Head Musher completes 15 miles and the dogs perform admirably. Fenway and Aura run in lead all the way. The dogs are hardly panting as they cross the finish line. Ten minutes later, after a bowl of glycocharge-flavored water, you can hardly tell they have run. Pretty amazing animals. The Head Musher is going from dog to dog hugging and praising them. Sled dogs respond to hugs and praises better than they do to food. Pretty amazing animals, or did I say that already?
We’re heading off to a spaghetti dinner for the mushers at the local United Methodist Church. Someone once explained to me why there is a “United” Methodist Church. I still think that there must be a corresponding “Divided” Methodist Church somewhere in the area. But that’s neither here nor there. We’re off to a spaghetti dinner and my forte is eating, especially pasta.
Then we head back to CC Polaris Snowmobile and Cabin Rentals, our place of domicile, in Milo. Milo is Brownville’s twin city, population 34, including us. There is a combination gas station, liquor store, bait shop, deli, beauty parlor, convenience store, and mortuary directly across the road from our cabin. So, we’re covered for just about any eventuality.
Tomorrow morning (Sunday), the head Musher and Ruth are running the dogs on the trail that starts behind our cabin. That’s, of course, after we have had breakfast at Elaine’s Basket Café and Gift Shop (“Do you want a Rolaid with that order of Biscuits and Gravy?”). Then we are on the road to Canada, with an intermediate stop at Critterwoods Kennel in Corinth, Maine, to get a new drag-brake for the Head Musher’s sled. She insists on being able to slow the sled down while careening through the Canadian wilderness.
I may have to stop at the Houlton, Maine, tourist information center to send this bulletin. Several years ago I was held hostage there by two little old ladies armed with information brochures intent on ensuring that I was well-informed about the local attractions. I may have to arm myself with some of the Head Musher’s bear repellant spray. Life is hazardous at the edge of the empire!
Later,
The One-Man Pit Crew
P.S. Attached below are two pictures of the Head Musher at the race.