Old Mushers, New Tricks

My fumbling attempts to transition a great sled dog into a great lead dog.

It was a mid-March day, my only day off work for the week. My dogs hadn’t been in the harness since the big race of the year two weeks earlier. With my family away, my dogs at peak fitness, and a beautiful forecast, I convinced myself that God would not mind my missing church to worship Him with my fellow creatures in nature—His first temple.

I loaded the team into my Expedition, strapped the sled to the roof, and headed to Saint Froid Lake. My goal was to mush 20 miles into the North Maine Woods to Deboullie Lake, at the foot of Deboullie Mountain, and then 20 miles back home.

At 9:30 AM, with the temperature at 12°F, we pulled the quick release. I intended to try my young leaders, Druid and Vodka, in single lead. Most modern teams use two leaders as an “insurance policy,” but I love the rapport that develops with a single leader. Because this was their first time, I started with my veterans, Frost and Bear, up front to settle the team into a trot and to keep the jealous Frost from chewing the younger dogs’ lines.

After a gradual uphill ascent, I moved Druid into single lead. At first, he looked back, confused as to why his partner Vodka wasn’t with him, but he soon focused on the trail. He drove on past Spruce Grouse and the screech of a goshawk.

However, Druid kept “doubling back”—turning toward me every time the team stopped. I initially scolded him, yelling “Line out!” thinking he was being lazy. Then I realized my mistake: Druid wasn’t being disobedient; he was seeking reassurance. He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing out there alone. Instead of scolding, I began walking to the front and lavishing him with praise. By the end of the 40-mile trip, he was a master of the position.

I also discovered Druid is a “trotter.” While the other dogs lope, Druid maintains a trot so efficient that the loping dogs behind him cannot outpace him. This efficiency makes him an ideal distance dog.

At Deboullie Lake, we took in the “Rock Glaciers”—massive slides from the last ice age that still trap ice under stone 35,000 years later. On the return trip, I watched my young dog Zeus start licking the muzzle of Sawyer, our blind diabetic dog. Zeus knew Sawyer was crashing before I did. After a snack and a break, Sawyer was revived, refusing to ride in the sled basket and insisting on running.

Five miles from the finish, under a 27°F sun, we took a final break. My conditioned veterans—Bear, Sawyer, and Frost—immediately lay down. The youngsters eventually followed my lead when I lay down in the trail. Only Druid remained standing, refusing to quit. Any doubt that he was the best athlete on the team was gone.

Druid sitting in the passenger seat of the truck

At the end of the run, I invited Druid to ride back in the passenger seat. He gradually crept closer until he was sitting on my lap. He had already crept into my heart.

— Jonathan Nathaniel Hayes, Poland Spring Seppala Kennels