Dog Run
By Edmond Leaveck - Posted Aug 28, 2024
I was about 11 or 12 years old, home alone on the farm, surrounded by the comforting yet eerie silence of winter. My dad had taken time off from running dogs after racing in the Beargrease the previous year. The reasons for his hiatus were his own, perhaps akin to the reasons I saw in military selection events. But that's a story for another day.
On that crisp winter morning, I decided to take the sled out. My dad had crafted it himself for the Beargrease race, a masterpiece of wood and metal. I pulled out the custom sled, hooked up the gang line, and tied off to the pole by the large swing gate just outside the T-barn. It was the perfect spot, pointing straight downhill to the snowmobile tracks that led to Buffalo Creek.
As soon as the dogs saw me pull out the gear, they went absolutely berserk. I've heard louder things in my life, but in that moment, their excited howls and barks were deafening. I started laying out the harnesses, the routine etched into my muscle memory. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to harness the wheel dog first or the lead dog, but I decided on the lead dog. We were buddies, and I knew he'd help keep the gang in line.
The harnesses, each familiar to the dogs by look and smell, were spread out on the concrete in front of the gate. The lead dog made his way to the gate, the others backing up to give him space. I squeezed him out, and he stood over his harness, trembling with excitement. He stayed still, allowing me to lift each leg into the harness. Once he was set, I walked him to the sled and hooked him up. The jumping and pulling never stopped.
One by one, I harnessed and hooked up a total of three dogs. It was much smaller than our usual run, but I wasn't a 200-pound man, and I figured this number was manageable. I remember thinking, even back then, that just the lead dog could pull me at breakneck speeds. But this was mushing; we needed a gang for the gang line.
With the dogs ready and the sled prepared, I grabbed the handle and pulled the line to untie it. The safety line would drag behind the sled as we rode. In an instant, we were off, the dogs shooting forward like a 120-millimeter howitzer firing a 5.56 round. The world blurred as we raced down the creek.
The dogs loved to run, their paws finding perfect traction on the groomed snowmobile trail. We sped downstream, and it took a while for my initial excitement to wear off and for worry to set in. How would I turn these wild animals around?
As we approached the neighbor's land, where the creek passes through, I started to get nervous. This was the furthest I usually ventured in winter. I'd been down this way in summer, canoeing and hiking, but never this far during the colder months. I had no idea about the ice conditions.
We hit a sharp bend by County Road 74, where a downed tree blocked the path. It must have been recent because the snowmobile tracks went right under it. Panicking, I yelled "Gee!" to get the lead dog to turn right. I should have yelled "Ha!" for left, but in my stress, "Gee" came out. This mistake led us over a section of calm water, covered with a deceptive dusting of snow. The dogs ran right through it, realized their mistake, and scrambled for the bank. Before I could react, the sled was in the water, taking me with it.
The rush of cold water was unforgettable. I had no thoughts, just a primal instinct to hold on tight. The water's weight peeled me off the sled, and I dunked under, coming up for air just to see the sled cresting onto solid ice. I dunked again, my clothes weighing me down. Flailing my arms, I felt something—a rope wrapped around my wrist. Grabbing it with both hands, I yelled "Ha! Go! Go!" to spur the dogs on.
The dogs pulled me over the crest and onto solid ice. They were unusually calm, almost as if they understood what had happened. Everything my dad had ever told me about survival and perseverance came rushing back. Without questioning my position, I knew I had to get to the fire.
I tipped up the sled, and the dogs didn't hesitate. They turned around and followed the trail back up the creek, across the field, and towards home. I ran behind the sled, pushing it as hard as I could, my lungs burning with each breath of sub-zero air. When I couldn't run, I hopped on the runners, locking my elbows over the handle until I could feel the cold creeping in again, then I'd start running once more.
The trail led to the back of our farmhouse, where the wood chute was for the stove in the basement. I lobbed off the cinder block and threw myself down the chute. The fire was still going.
That day, I learned about the raw power of nature and the incredible bond between a musher and their dogs. It's a memory etched into my mind, a reminder of perseverance and the unyielding spirit of adventure.