Read Online The Letters by Luanne Rice, Joseph Monninger - Free Book Online
Authors: Luanne Rice, Joseph Monninger
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team and yelled “Mush” and disappeared in a cloud of snow. Imagine if you can the worst dog you ever walked on a leash, then multiply that by ten, then multiply it again by some factor that expresses the dogs’ athleticism, and the fact they have been bred for centuries to do this one single thing, and you might begin to get a feeling for the enormous strength of the team. They reminded me of an undertow. Something broad and strong and inevitable.
The sled has a rudimentary foot brake and I used it a fair amount as we followed a snowmobile trail for the first few miles. The dogs, by the way, run in absolute silence. I’m not sure why I didn’t know that. All their barking, their mad lunges to get going, stopped the instant we began forward. We went from chaos—the dogs barking and jumping in the traces as high as your waist sometimes—to pure silence. It’s possible, I’m told, to run a sled with two people standing on the runners, and I thought of you, Hadley, how I wanted you in front of me, my arms around you, your body leaning back into mine. Maybe we will run a team together someday. You would love that part. You would love the dogs and the silence and the trees and snow passing beside you. I’ve never experienced anything to match it.
We went pretty fast. World-class sprint dog teams can reach thirty miles an hour in bursts, but we ran cargo dogs and so you can picture us chugging along well under ten miles an hour. Still, that’s fairly fast when you are standing on two ash 1×3s in the snow. The runners have a dimpled plastic pad where each foot belongs, so with your hands providing a third point of balance, you feel fairly stable. It required about a half hour before I began to feel I could look around at my surroundings. And about ten minutes after that, I was aware of my fingers and hands growing numb with the cold.
It’s a little difficult to describe the terrain. The mountains exist off in the distance. It seems every direction you look, you see mountains. The Brooks Range. The air smells of juniper and snow and moisture. It is wet here and gullies and rivulets crisscross any trail you can find. Then the water freezes and you have heaves and buckles—nothing like it is out on the sea ice, Martha assures me—and it’s like running a team over a small hedge, only the hedge is comprised of ice and is slippery as hell, and the sled invariably bounces up, then teeters down. Grunt work, as I said.
Before I forget, let me list my dog team. I already mentioned Grabby and Sneak. So it looks like this from the sled peering out over their backs.
Grabby—Sneak
Jenny—Penny (sisters)
Wiley—Dash
Blondie—Dutch
Snowball—Kya
ME
You always harness them in the same position. They prefer to run in established pairs. Occasionally Martha moves a dog up or down the line, or changes a pattern when she judges they are not running to their full potential. She works in younger dogs over the summer, but usually by the time fall arrives her lineup is set. She says it’s a little like managing a baseball team, with rookies breaking in, and wily old veterans keeping the team balanced. I am, truly, running the junior varsity squad. Her dogs are faster and stronger and they break trail when it is required.
I have to stop here, sweetheart. I’m exhausted and need sleep. I’ll describe the rest of the day tomorrow, if that makes sense. One thing I am thinking about right now: the last glimpses our son had of this world were as beautiful and majestic as anything that exists on this earth. Snow and whiteness and mountains and lakes that catch every reflection and mirror them so that you can sometimes forget what is the real image, and what is the light thrown back at your eyes.
Sam
November 26
To be clear, here’s a note on sleeping arrangements.
We sleep in a tent. We sleep in fat clothes, with our hoods pulled up and a small stove operating in the center of the
The sled has a rudimentary foot brake and I used it a fair amount as we followed a snowmobile trail for the first few miles. The dogs, by the way, run in absolute silence. I’m not sure why I didn’t know that. All their barking, their mad lunges to get going, stopped the instant we began forward. We went from chaos—the dogs barking and jumping in the traces as high as your waist sometimes—to pure silence. It’s possible, I’m told, to run a sled with two people standing on the runners, and I thought of you, Hadley, how I wanted you in front of me, my arms around you, your body leaning back into mine. Maybe we will run a team together someday. You would love that part. You would love the dogs and the silence and the trees and snow passing beside you. I’ve never experienced anything to match it.
We went pretty fast. World-class sprint dog teams can reach thirty miles an hour in bursts, but we ran cargo dogs and so you can picture us chugging along well under ten miles an hour. Still, that’s fairly fast when you are standing on two ash 1×3s in the snow. The runners have a dimpled plastic pad where each foot belongs, so with your hands providing a third point of balance, you feel fairly stable. It required about a half hour before I began to feel I could look around at my surroundings. And about ten minutes after that, I was aware of my fingers and hands growing numb with the cold.
It’s a little difficult to describe the terrain. The mountains exist off in the distance. It seems every direction you look, you see mountains. The Brooks Range. The air smells of juniper and snow and moisture. It is wet here and gullies and rivulets crisscross any trail you can find. Then the water freezes and you have heaves and buckles—nothing like it is out on the sea ice, Martha assures me—and it’s like running a team over a small hedge, only the hedge is comprised of ice and is slippery as hell, and the sled invariably bounces up, then teeters down. Grunt work, as I said.
Before I forget, let me list my dog team. I already mentioned Grabby and Sneak. So it looks like this from the sled peering out over their backs.
Grabby—Sneak
Jenny—Penny (sisters)
Wiley—Dash
Blondie—Dutch
Snowball—Kya
ME
You always harness them in the same position. They prefer to run in established pairs. Occasionally Martha moves a dog up or down the line, or changes a pattern when she judges they are not running to their full potential. She works in younger dogs over the summer, but usually by the time fall arrives her lineup is set. She says it’s a little like managing a baseball team, with rookies breaking in, and wily old veterans keeping the team balanced. I am, truly, running the junior varsity squad. Her dogs are faster and stronger and they break trail when it is required.
I have to stop here, sweetheart. I’m exhausted and need sleep. I’ll describe the rest of the day tomorrow, if that makes sense. One thing I am thinking about right now: the last glimpses our son had of this world were as beautiful and majestic as anything that exists on this earth. Snow and whiteness and mountains and lakes that catch every reflection and mirror them so that you can sometimes forget what is the real image, and what is the light thrown back at your eyes.
Sam
November 26
To be clear, here’s a note on sleeping arrangements.
We sleep in a tent. We sleep in fat clothes, with our hoods pulled up and a small stove operating in the center of the
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