There is nothing that makes you feel quite as cold as the wind and Cantwell is known for it. Mother nature has spared us for the past few years, but this last week the wind was back. Blowing with a passion out of the North, the snowflakes travel nearly horizontally creating white-out conditions. The snowpack is whipped clear of loose snow leaving a surface of polished ice. Daring to make my way 25 feet to the car is not only bone chilling, but so slippery I must hold onto the tailgate so as not to be blown across the parking lot like an ice skater. The temperature has hovered near 20 below. The defrost must work hard to hold back the ice pushing its way inward from the edges of the windshield and my windows at home build up ice near the bottom.

The dogs have to run regardless. I wear three jackets at a time to hold back the cold. It amazes me that all of this clothing does not feel bulky until you get inside the house. Almost as if I have shrunk down in the cold. In addition to Mike and the handlers training, I have been trying to fit in runs after school, running in the dark over the winding trails behind our kennel. The darkness makes the world close in around you. Your face gets rimmed by ice, creating a frame around your view making everything you see resemble a picture. Your eyelashes also get heavy with ice buildup and I find myself raising my eyebrows to try to see more.

Steering on a sled is different than steering a car. On the car I slow down before a corner, accelerating on the other side. On a sled while I can slow down on approaching the corner, I must go around the corner without pushing the brake too soon or I will be pulled into the inside edge of the turn. One of the loops we take the dogs on approaches a steep incline. We have created a tight loop like a lollypop at the top, spinning the team back to return down the mountain the way we came. Approaching this turn the dogs are running up hill, so it is difficult to have enough speed. You must try to thrust you sled to the right as the team makes the sharp turn left. As you travel through the second half of the loop you must resist from braking too soon and making the loop increasingly smaller from run after run.

The night was cold and the snowpack hard. As I made my way around the loop I pushed the sled outward. I was easily away from the inside edge. Success, I was not making the loop smaller. But as I hit the brake I felt the sled want to tip to the outside. This happens all the time on the sled. The trail is seldom flat. It can be pitched to one side or the other from drifts. The sled can tip, but you do not have to. This is one of the lessons in riding the sled. You are not attached, you are not the sled. You can dance off of the runners to keep your balance. You can remain vertical while the sled angles away from plumb. On this night however, I was tired. Maybe I was off balance from trying to keep the sled to the right. Maybe I was not focused enough in the moment. Maybe I was thinking of what I had to do later. Regardless, when the sled tipped I remained too stiff. I can hear myself thinking “I am going over” which of course is the wrong thing to think. Once you think that your fate is sealed.

All in all, falling over on a sled is no big deal. The snow is soft. However, my timing was terrible. After the loop, the trail runs down hill. The dogs are excited from the change of running downhill after climbing up. You must push hard on the brake to keep the dogs from going too fast. From my tipped position I was at their mercy. Of course the first thing about tipping over is that you cannot let go. My hands were clamped to the handle bar. I was instantly blinded. My hood and hat flipped over my face. The snow covered me, pushing its way everywhere. The dogs were pulling the tipped sled with me dragging behind through the wind blown powder. They were not going very fast, as we created a lot of drag, but that drag was powerful. The snow grabs at you. All parts of you being pulled back away from your tenuous grip. I struggled to remain attached to the sled I knew that if I lost my grip, I would never get back with them.

“Whoa!” I yelled. “No!” I yelled. I wanted to find the snowhook, my anchor for stopping, but I could not see. I could not reach around, I needed every finger to keep me attached to the sled. We slid off of the trail into deeper snow. The sled stopped. I knocked off my hood and including both my hat and light to try and see. I tried to find the hook, to get myself further onto the sled. But before I could succeed they were moving again. I was being dragged through more snow. My arms tiring. My mind filled with visions of running into a tree. Again they stopped. I got one hook in, the sled upright and then we were moving again. “Get on the sled,” I told myself. “Ride the sled”. I managed to get myself back where I should be, to use the foot brake to stop them, to find the anchor a secure hold. I fixed my hat, my light. Breathing hard, it was over. What had felt like an eternity was probably 100 feet. The dogs were not even tangled. I tried to compose myself. To the dogs, it was just another part of the fun. We continued down the mountain. Through the rest of our loops and home.

In the days following, I kept finding new parts of me that were sore. I realized the every fiber of my body had worked to hold on to that sled. These words reminded me of a video clip we made a few years back, a tribute to a Raiders and Chargers commercial set to Vince Lombardi’s words. We remade the video featuring our canine athletes. Just in time for the Super Bowl here in the United States, I hope you enjoy it.