Around midnight last night, I saw a pair of headlights sweep into my driveway. After pulling on fifty layers of clothing, a weak headlamp, and mitts the size of bear paws, I went out to meet Eric, his girlfriend Connie, and 18 tail-wagging, muscular, ill-mannered sled dogs. We exchanged greetings, took all the dogs out of their boxes to stretch, shoveled up after they had taken care of business, and drank beer under a cold black sky. They introduced me to Spock and Grizzly, the two accidental puppies, and displayed the interior damage that the big husky Chaos had done when left alone in their truck.
The Classic sled dog race began at 10 o'clock. I was in charge of dropping the flag, a bright piece of orange plastic stapled to a piece of rough wood. The sides of the race chute were lined with hordes of elementary school children out to watch the teams depart. As the dogs took off, one team ducked to the right of the netting barrier and barreled towards a group of students. I ran into the knot of children, yelling and shoving and probably doing more harm than good, as the team flew past us, crested the berm, and landed back on the trail. Crisis averted. Later on, I ran a small bunch of dogs while Eric and Connie followed with eight powerful hounds under a sky so heart-achingly blue it hurt to look above you for too long.
Racing begins again tomorrow at nine a.m. I'll be racing in the four-dog, four-mile class for sure, and may be running the ten dog class as well for a musher with back trouble. We'll see how things play out.
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