Something Different

Training my team on the beach at Pistol River.

This post is indeed “something different”—an indulgence, an experiment. A few days ago I was looking in my file of past published writing (I keep a copy of everything that gets published and usually a copy of everything I thought should have been published) and I found a series of poems about sled dogs and racing published in various sled dog journals (International Siberian Husky News, Northern Dog News, Mushing, Oregon Outdoors, 
Cascades East). As background, Anne and I raced a sled dog team of AKC registered Siberian huskies throughout the northwest for twelve years in the 1970s and 80s. Our kennel was as large as 14 dogs, but I raced in the three, five, or seven-dog classes and Anne raced in the three dog class.

The poems don’t pretend to be of high literary merit, but they were good enough to contribute to my writing being nominated for a national award from the Dog Writers’ Association. Nominated is the operative word. Since these poems have only been seen by a limited audience in the 1970s, I thought it was time to allow them a fresh viewing.

I’m sorry to say my library of dog photos is quite limited. For this post I’ve tried to use what images I have from those days and to fill in with others that will fit the poems. As this post is such a departure from my usual travel blog, comments on the poems, the photos, the concept, or for that matter any other subject (except the current American political scene) would be highly appreciated. 

PRECIPICE

Running through the dunes near Florence.

My leader looks back

from the brink of the dune

like a small child

about to cross a road:

apprehensive, 

excitement moving him nearer and nearer the edge.

I tell him, “Okay,”

and he leaps down the face. 

My voice echos

my own trepidation: 

fearful

of when I am unable to

provide the needed reassurance.

Tired dogs, Amorak and Myko.

SHEEP RUNNER

for Pete and Keno

Evil Eyes

The husky lays, eyes shut,

on his side at my feet. 

The rancher caught him, 

laid him down with a single shot

as he toyed with the freightened sheep.

“No, no,” I tell him, 

“It’s okay. You did

the right thing.

He was where he shouldn’t be.”

I hold inside the scream.

How he got out I haven’t figured.

That he did

his cold body attests.

I can’t say how long he was free,

but he paid dearly

whatever roaming he did.

It’s natural for a husky to run.

It’s natural for a husky to run

sheep.

He was shot.

Civilization seeks its pound of flesh.

“No, no, it’s okay.

If it happens again

do the same thing. 

Shoot.”

THE TRAIL

Waiting for our turn to run.

My team starting a seven mile race at Beaver Marsh.

The trail, 

packed hard by teams

that had passed before 

is crossed by myriad paths 

never covered by 

dog team or driver.

In a long flat meadow

the trail is crossed by

the tracks of a field mouse

which ends in a patch of snow

ruffled by the wings of an owl.

Around the bend

the packed trail

bisect dots and dashes

left by a coyote

with a hare fleeing before it:

the end must be guessed at.

On a ridge

the highway is

almost bare,

swept by the track 

of wind going south.

When the trail turns to dust

the sled tracks will have melted

and been blown away.

Only the occasional tracks

of mouse, owl, coyote, and hare 

will disturb the sweep of wind.

Darrell Stewart racing at Painted Hills.

Anne with the team at Beaver Marsh with Mt Thielsen in the background.

B-RRRR!

My team running across the lake at the Diamond Lake race.

get out of the truck

icy winds slap at me

ripping away warmth of the truck heater

hat pulled down gloves put on

get the dogs out of the truck

they like the cold

least they don’t mind

harnesses stiff from yesterday

struggle to get them on

ganglines unkink with static-like staccato

dogs harnessed hooked high on cold

team starts cold intensifies with speed

numbing cold

too cold

enjoy

SQUIRREL: After Being Run Over by a Dog Team in Training

Dave Hoiland (brother-in-law) runs one of my teams in Medford summer race.

“I was scuffling, shuffling in the forest duff

hunting for delectable edibles.

I was warm in my fine winter pelt;

dapper in the damp.

I knew the day was fine for frolic

with Jay and Junco.

I had a great game of car dodge going; 

could see a good ways away.

I heard the wheels a long way off;

could see it coming slowly.

I flit from behind tree to under bush,

from stump to ditch.

I waited until the last moment possible —

the thing across from me.

I dashed out to do the difficult ‘complete under’

so slowly was it going. 

I was in the road leaping to get under

just past the front. 

I was in mid-stride when the thing stopped,

started snarling and snapping.

I dodged teeth, feet, heavy boots, 

fled from fangs and flailing ropes.

I twirled and jumped, twisted and flew;

finally free to run.

I hid in a tree, heart in throat,

wet from mouthings.

I saw in the road masses of mouths, tails,

feet, hands, and boots, too.

I left them there, stomping and swearing;

trying to put it back together.

I think that next time I’ll look more carefully

at what comes down the road.

MEADOW

for Ian and Meadow

She lay in my arms; 

a quivering, frightened bundle,

hot as an August afternoon in Barstow, 

her breathing shallow and irregular, 

eyes glazed, fluttery, and caked at the edges.

It was only days ago

she ran hard in her traces

while the sickness raged unknown.

It was only weeks ago

she romped in summer fields

chasing tails and butterflies.

It was only months ago

she marched mile after mile, hill after hill,

pulling steady at my behest.

I cried
when winter came early this year
to the Meadow.

NEXT: Most likely something from Scotland.