By Sally Walton
arrangements, and casually asked, "How’s the weather there now?"
"Oh quite mild today," I was told. "Just a minute, I’ll check the
thermometer."
A moment later, "Yes, it’s 12 above."
In just one month I would be mushing dogs along the Gunflint Trail, just
south of the Canadian border in Minnesota. So if above temperatures were
mild, I guessed below temperatures would be normal by that time.
December 4th
The brochures arrived today. In my usual adventurous style, I had booked the
trip before I had seen the brochure.
My friends had warned me with comments like, "That is the worst idea I’ve
ever heard." and "If you like huskies so much, why don’t you just buy a dog."
Now I was reading the fine print:
"...the Gunflint Trail...surrounded by natural wonders most will never
experience. Here your neighbors are the moose, the loon, whitetail deer, bald
eagles, bears, owls, and the haunting cry of the lonely timberwolf..." I
knew which of those my friends thought I was. As I read on I wondered if they
were right. "The fun starts during Ice Box Days in January featuring events
like the ‘Freeze Yer Gizzard Blizzard Run.’"
December 5th
Today I phoned a friend in Minneapolis to let her know that I would be coming
to Minnesota. As she was in a meeting, her secretary offered to take a
message. When I said, "Just tell her that I will be mushing the Gunflint
Trail," the secretary replied in astonishment, "For real?" Now this was
someone who lives in Minnesota, I thought, getting really worried.
December 30.
It is a looong trip to Gunflint Lodge. First you fly into Minneapolis, change
planes to Duluth, and are picked up at the airport for another three hour
drive along the shore of Lake Superior. The Gunflint Trail begins at Grand
Marais, 110 miles north of Duluth, on Minnesota’s North Shore of Lake
Superior. The Trail winds through the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness,
and the three million-acre Superior National Forest. 18th and 19th century
Voyageurs journeyed here to trade among the Sioux, Cree, and Chippewa Indians.
As we drove along in the van, I felt as though I were on a Minnesota safari,
peering though the windshield to catch a glimpse of moose. Alas, however, it
the first day of ice fishing season, and all those folks rushing out to drill
holes on the frozen lakes caused too much traffic for the moose to appear.
December 31st
When I walked out of my cabin, four deer stood at attention in such stillness
that I thought for a second that they might be statues. We looked at each
other for awhile; when I moved, so did they.
After breakfast I met the 29 Alaskan Huskies, yelping with anticipation that
they might be chosen to be today’s team. Two were so shy that they ran to the
end of their tether when we approached them, while others liked to stand on
their hind legs, place their forepaws on my shoulders and give a welcome kiss
on my cheek or nose.
The morning was orientation: how to harness the dogs, the parts of the sled,
how the various lines function and connect, the vocabulary of mushing. After
lunch, Rhonda from Atlanta and I got into the sled for a half day ride driven
by the head musher. We saw how the dogs pulled together or didn’t, and the
commands used to move them on or slow them down.
January 1st
Some very plump blue jays are feeding from the seed that I placed outside my
cabin window. Later come the chickadees and a red squirrel who chomps the
seeds, then sitting on its back legs, folds its paws, lifts its head and
surprises me with a chortly yodel. Poles and stumps wear top hats of snow.
The silence outdoors is broken only by skiers’ blades along the groomed
trails or occasional snowmobiles along the snow-packed road. Inside the
cabin, there is no phone, TV or radio. The only sound is the wood crackling
in my fireplace. I’m beginning to understand why locals look so stunned at my
California friendliness. If I lived here long enough, I might stop speaking
altogether.
Today Rhonda took her solo flight with the dogs, and I went snowshoeing. We
met over dinner to share our adventures. Rhonda had brought turnip greens
(for wealth), and black-eyed peas (for luck) to be eaten on New Year’s day.
They were carried from the kitchen with gourmet garnishes. My new friend from
Atlanta told the waitress to compliment the chef on his presentation of
southern food. "Oh," she replied, "Bill’s from the South. He’s from
Chicago."
That kept us chuckling throughout dinner. I guess if you’re sitting on the
Canadian border, most of the U.S.A. is the South!
January 2nd
Last night I went to bed memorizing "gee/ haw." I was already talking about
wheel dogs and ganglines as though I had been mushing all my life, but gee
(right) and haw (left) didn’t come as easily.
I woke before the alarm, excited as a kid on Christmas morning. Today I would
drive my own dog team. Gee, haw - I had it!
The air nipped my cheeks just walking to breakfast. The first day, during our
dog sled orientation, the temperature was in the teens, and I was cold..
Yesterday during my snowshoeing the temperature hovered around 0, and I
thought my fiery cheeks were frost-bitten. Not to worry, I was told. As long
as was in pain, I was OK. It was when the stinging, burning sensation turned
to numbness and blazing red turned to white that I would be in trouble.
Now this morning for my all-day expedition, the thermometer read - 25, 25
below! And I would be mushing across the frozen Gunflint Lake into Canada.
Remembering yesterday’s burning cheeks, I put on two face masks, as many
layers as I had, and mitts over my gloves. I moved with the grace of an
astronaut taking the first steps on the moon. My peripheral vision was
impaired, and I had no manual dexterity. And with all this, I was still cold
just harnessing the team in the dog yard. At least the lake would be in the
sunshine.
I finally took off with my mushing instructor and the next two hours were
worth the whole trip. Crossing the lake on the sparkling snow, the dogs ran
well. When we got to the woods, the challenge increased. Even on a flat lake
a musher has to watch that the gangline stays taut, with all dogs pulling
equally. If not, the dogs bunch up, may get tangled, or even start to fight.
Along the narrow trail, steering becomes much more difficult. Going up and
down hills, sometimes on curves, is a challenge to steering, as well as to
keeping the gangline taut, and the dogs on course with the temptation of all
those trees and bushes to mark.
The beauty was exquisite, though sneaking looks at the view, staying
attentive to the dogs and lines, learning to steer by shifting my weight and
position on the sled, and ducking low branches and fallen tree trunks kept me
more than busy.
The misery began at the lunch stop. I started to realize about 15 minutes
before that I was getting really tired. We had some difficulty finding a
place that was both good for the dogs, and to tie off the sled. Then my
mushing instructor began gathering wood for a fire. It seemed to take
forever, and the resulting fire seemed to have no effect on the numbing cold.
I was glad to be off again. As I mounted the runners, however, I realized how
tired the muscles in my shoulders and arms were, and I had about 2 1/2 hours
to go.
However, I was happy with how quickly I had caught on to the mushing
techniques, and how amazingly the sled responded to several overcorrections
in steering. As we got to the lake for the final stretch, the low sun backlit
the dogs, now running steadily as a team. The almost-full moon hung in the
deepening blue of the sky. How would I ever describe the visual beauty or the
unique experience of standing on a dog sled behind the running team?
When I got back to my cabin, the water in the water bottle I had carried was
frozen. I realized I was half frozen myself.
The Final Day.
Today we had two sleds out in a lead-and-chase. I drove the ten-dog team in
front, and Rhonda the nine dog team behind. We each had a mushing instructor
in our sled. The two of us had become know as the "Walton and Cook
expedition", and this was our final run with the dogs.
The temperatures were still in the minus 20’s, but I had now mastered
techniques, such as slipping my hand out of my mitt while still driving the
sled, and holding my fingers gently to my eyelashes to melt the ice so I
could see. I softly crooned to dogs, "Tighten up," "On by."
The wind penetrated all my layers. At the lunch stop, while I was enjoying my
walleye sandwich, my baked beans froze to the plate. But I was mushing
huskies in the northwoods. I wasn’t watching a travelogue; I was one.
Epilogue.
When I returned home, I had a message on my answering machine
that said, "Hope you had a great trip, and that you’re a better person for
it." Now what was that supposed to mean?
Well, I can say that some of the commands given gently to the dogs apply to
daily life. When I find myself getting scattered during the day, I say to
myself, "Tighten up." Or when I’m distracted by something that isn’t
priority, "On by." Yes, perhaps the art of mushing can teach me how to better
run my business – and my life.
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