Muddy Paw Sled Dog Kennel

1 The SLED DOGGER MAGAZINE Vol. 5 - No. 2 Summer 2018 In This Issue: Feature Stories: Regulars: • One Blue Eye Pg 7 • From The Publisher • Winterdance Tours Pg 12 Pg 3 • Shout Out To Female Mushers Pg 25 Jr Mushers • Muddy Paw Interview PG 31 •Jr Musher Spotlight • My First Sled PG 44 Christina Gibson pg 83 Columns: •Dryland Mushing UK pg: 57 •Mushing down under pg: 61 •training pg: 64 •Power Dog Sports pg: 72 •gear addict pg: 74 COVER INFO: Musher: Mary Wolf and her team of Samoyeds. Race: Fair Hill Challenge near Elkton MD. Presented by Pennsylvania Sled Dog Club. Photographer: Donna Quante/Husky Productions. 2 The SLED DOGGER MAGAZINE Vol. 5 - No. 2 Summer 2018 The SLED DOGGER Magazine Vol. 5 - No. 2 - Summer 2018 FROM THE PUBLISHER: *************** This has been a really off couple of months. Mom Editor/Publisher: went into the hospital with pneumonia and then they Bob Donovan transferred her to Rehab and she’s been there since Easter Sunday. So, for the last 2 months, I kinda Design/Layout & Website: haven’t know what to do with myself. So, I focused SledWebs.com on the magazine! Between donations and me taking some of my disability check, not that I could afford it, I negotiated a sweet deal for the latest version of the Writers: software I’ve been trying to get for a couple years. I’m Bob Donovan, Ashton Horn, so excited. Ayanna Cavera, Dylan Kilby, Jason Rupp, Jessica Richter, Paula Whitworth, Most likely it will be used a little in this (Summer) issue, but I’m still playing with it and figuring it all out. Richard Meldrum, Stacy Spencer So, more than likely it won’t fully kick in until the Fall Issue. Things should look a little better, be more user Columnists: friendly, be able to read online or download for almost Gina Hinter, Meredith Mapes, Siobhan Burrell, all kinds of devices and more! Kristi Benson, Kelsy Gibos, Nany Cylkova In addition to all the above-mentioned positives with Contributing Staff: the new software, we will be working on Paid Sub- scriptions for those who want to receive each issue (4 Della Severtson, Kaitlyn Tidewell, a year) on disc. So, to accomplish that, we got into Purple Haze, Michelle Jackson our Subscription Database that contains our subscrib- er list. It’s been down for a long time. But, I think we Staff Photographers : have it fixed, and not only do we have all the older Bob Donovan subscribers e-mail addresses, but new subscribers And, A Special Thanks To Alaska Bob! can sign up FREE too! So, things are looking up! R.I.P. ALASKA BOB! Best of all, I think Mom is coming home from 2 months in Rehab on Monday! Jr Staff: Julia Cross Thank You Everyone! William Shade Bob Donovan Publisher The Sled Dogger The Sled Dogger and TheSledDogger.com is (c) 2014 We Want Your Comments: - 2018 by Maine Busy Bee Publishing. All Rights Re- served except where otherwise stated. All commen- [email protected] tary, reporting and content within the publication is the responsibility of the writer. Content may or may This Is A Reader Supported Publication not agree with the thoughts, feelings and ideas of Your Donations Play A Huge Part the publisher and Maine Busy Bee Publishing. Of Making It Available Free! Writers are liable for their submissions. PLEASE DONATE 3 4 5 6 ONE BLUE EYE Fiction By: Lori Windows Photos Submitted By Readers Of Various Huskies. She wasn’t all husky, but rather a mixture of northern breed. She had one blue eye and a zig-zag white line on her muzzle. It didn’t look like a natural marking, but rather an old scar that spoke of a past trauma. We didn’t know anything about her history, only that she chose us. Mum said, “No dog,” but that didn’t matter. Dad said, “Yes.” There wasn’t much that Dad would deny me. I was the youngest of three sisters, the quintessential tomboy, his favorite, and the only one he understood. We shared everything: the love of the out-of- doors; sports; good movies; good food. And books! He introduced me to fiction beyond my years. Nero Wolfe mysteries. Robert Rourke tales of Africa. Grey’s and Brand’s yarns of the Old West. But of all of those, my favorite was Jack London. Growing up in Minnesota, you either hated the cold and left for warmer climes as soon as you could, learned to live with cold, or you learned to embrace it. Dad and I loved our winter adventures, and read Jack London’s novels with envy, often around a January fire wrapped up in down sleeping bags under a star-lit frigid sky. Not to be forgotten was his love of photography and his prize possession, a Nikon single lens reflex. I didn’t have an eye for the camera as he did, but I was his favorite subject. My albums were filled with our exploits in black and white format, pictures he developed himself in the little dark room he built in our basement. From the time I was twelve and the stray husky cross joined our family, Dad found a new subject for his lens. We named her Riddle after the first woman to win the Iditarod three years prior. She loved me, but she worshipped Dad. How she would pose for him. He would capture her splashing in creeks or scaling a rocky crag at our favorite camp spots. He’d freeze her tremendous stride forev- er as she raced after me on my bicycle. He’d preserve her undying affection and protection as she and I slept curled together after a hard day’s play. The most glorious photos of all were of Riddle in a homemade harness pulling me on a homemade sled. We didn’t have to teach her to do it; it came as second nature to her. And as I flew through the Minnesota snow, I dreamed that someday I, too, would race a team of sled dogs. 7 We were never sure of Riddle’s age, but as I progressed through High School, she began to slow down. Her stride shortened, her runs behind the bike or on the sled shortened as well. More of Dad’s photos became portraits of her noble look, intelligence and native wisdom so prominent in her blue-eyed stare. She remained the dependable “character ba- rometer” that she always had been. She ignored my sisters, as did I. She met the boys who came to pick me up for dates. If she liked them, fine. If she didn’t, there was no good-night kiss or second date. She lay by my feet as I poured over the choices for college. Then one night, as I read to her my final decision for further education, as I said to her, “Rid- dle, how would you like to go live in Ely?” she made a sound I had never heard before. It wasn’t a sound of pain or fear. It was just a soft sigh. And then she breathed no more. Dad and I buried her that next day at a spot where we used to camp. In her grave I placed a photo Dad had taken of her when she was in her prime, and a copy of Libby Riddle’s book. That Fall, I moved to Ely and attended classed at Vermilion College. I wanted to turn my love of the out-of-doors into a profession. I loved my classes, I loved the area. I canoed the Boundary Waters in the warmer months and snow-shoed the trails in the winter. I thought my only regret was not having Riddle with me. How she would have loved the freedom. A year had passed and I still missed her badly, but I was soon to learn an even deeper sorrow. I had spent the summer in Ely, working as a wilderness guide and volunteering at Ely’s Internation- al Wolf Center. My parents had come to visit for a week, and while Mum enjoyed the unique shops and art boutiques Ely had to offer, I introduced Dad to a panorama of photo opportunities. Oddly, he declined my invitation to spend several days on the Boundary Waters, saying he felt bad leaving Mum alone at the lodge. Then, as my second year of classes was just beginning, I got the phone call. Dad was sick. Very sick. The cancer was progressing faster than the Doctors had predicted and he had a short time left. Could I come home? I spent the last few weeks of my Dad’s life at his side. I read to him at night when the pain wouldn’t allow him to sleep. I started with CALL OF THE WILD. We never tired of Buck’s adventures. Then I surprised him with a fairly-new novel by Gary Paulsen. WINTERDANC: The Fine Madness of Run- ning The Iditarod. After I closed the book on it’s final page, he said to me in a quiet voice, “You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you?” “You bet I would, Dad,” I answered. “You do it. Riddle and I will be there to watch you.” Then there was that sound again, that soft sigh of reconciliation. And the man who had shaped me, who had been there for me every second of my life, was gone. All this was flowing through my mind as I stood on my sled runners, waiting the starting countdown.

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