I thought I would take a break from my regularly scheduled polar programing and take a stroll back in time. Before Merritt, Maria, or Everest or my move to Colorado... I was living in Grand Marais, Minnesota (one of the best places on Earth) and spending my winters training and racing sled dogs. In 2003, I raced in northern Minnesota's John Beargrease Sled dog race (the 2014 race is happening right now). Afterwards, I wrote this article for the local paper about my experience:

B-Team Beargrease

I hadn't thought I was nervous about running the 2003 140-mile mid distance John Beargrease Sled Dog Race, but then again, I love the cold and have been working with sled dogs on and off for the past ten years. Still, this was the first year I had ever raced and Robin and Greg Beall's B-Team (the team I was running) was fairly untested. Worse yet, this particular race was the Beargrease - a venue that makes even veteran mushers shake in their mukluks.

Named after a legendary mail carrier of the late 1800's, the John Beargrease Sled Dog Race is easily one of the lower forty-eight's most grueling sled dog races. The 140-mile half marathon and the longer marathon have attracted names like Butcher, Riddles and Swingley to northern Minnesota and the shores of Lake Superior. The abrupt inclines of the Sawtooth Mountains provide an unforgiving backdrop and mushers must gauge their team's strength carefully. Running and resting over the course of two to four days makes mushers, dogs and the handlers trail weary and short tempered. Only tough dog teams with smart mushers finish. At the Beargrease, being good isn't good enough. The attrition rate is high.

To say the start of the mid-distance John Beargrease Sled Dog Race was exciting would be extreme understatement. Suddenly, I was at the center of a hive of activity. Tucker and Boomer, a pair of two year old males whined and lunged. I brought Sara, my lead dog, to the front of the gangline. After that, dogs were being hooked into the team by people who I had never seen before. 'Start' handlers took their positions behind each pair of dogs. The whines grew into growls, growls progressed into barks, and in a few minutes, all eight dogs were screaming like wild banshees. They wanted to run.

Somebody asked me a question, but the dogs were so incredibly loud that I could barely hear my own response. I nodded hoping that it would be a sufficient reply. I yelled to Sarah, my handler, that I was ready to go, but she wasn't looking at me and couldn't hear. Another handler nudged her then pointed in my direction. "Let's go," I mouthed and she led my snarling dog demons to the starting chute.

I now had to wait another minute before my official start. Hour, minute or second, to the dogs it no longer mattered. Any interest in resting or relaxing had long since vanished. Diva leapt into the air. Boomer kicked and scratched bull-like at the snow. I had wanted to tell Sarah, who is also my girlfriend, that I loved her, but was fearful of leaving my position on the sled's brake. With the loudspeaker counting down the final few seconds, I wondered if I had packed my water bottle.

We blasted through the starting chute and out past throngs of people. My sled bounced off small snow banks and grassy tussocks. We skidded and fishtailed around corners at breakneck speed. The snow eventually evened out and I managed a smile at a several groups of people as I screamed by. After a few minutes, the crowds thinned, then disappeared altogether. I was even able to relax a bit.

I tried to keep the pace slow over the first hour. This was a long race for my team and I needed to pace them carefully. Whirlaway, my steady old man, trotted purposefully into his harness setting a tempo for the rest of the crew. The dogs are so focused on running that they barely even notice other teams as they pass. Knowing better myself, I inspect every team carefully and mentally note who looks strong and who might falter. Some I will leap frog continuously over the next few hours, others I won't see until the final banquet. Ten miles after the start, we finally settle into a good rhythm so I choose my snack stops carefully, and luckily, only needed to replace a few booties.

I refer to the team and myself as we; but realistically, it is just them. After all, they are doing all the work. I just stand on the runners and try not to get in the way. But I do have a role in this endeavor and my winter hats with a dog team are many. I am the coach, doctor, friend, teacher, student, disciplinarian, dietician, and of course, humble servant. I know each dog's personality, strengths and weaknesses more than I could possibly explain here.

When I'm out with the dogs, I spend a lot of my time wondering about why they want, and are willing, to run so far and so fast. They give willingly to me everything they have. Sled dogs pull and pull and pull hour after hour with only a few words of encouragement. Their drive and desire are unparalleled. "Because we can," I imagine their response.

We cross Hwy. 1 and run into Finland Checkpoint at a full lope. I have to stand on the brake with both feet to avoid slamming into several trees. We had just completed 43 miles but the dogs still have enough energy to drag six people across the parking lot toward the waiting dog truck.

A Checkpoint means food and rest for the dogs, but handlers and mushers have lots to do. A quick watery snack, remove booties, apply foot cream, coordinate vet check, feed a more substantial dinner, spread straw, apply wrist wraps and massage muscles, visit with each dog, and when they settle down to sleep, tuck them in underneath straw and a warm blanket. During an average six-hour rest, a musher can hope for two hours of fitful down time at the most.

Rainy was being her usual finicky self and just picked at her kibble. Frozen fish, I found out in previous training, is a delicacy in her book and she wolfed down several big chunks. Staked out next to the truck, my team relaxed quickly as several handlers and myself cared for the dogs.

We blew out of Finland after a three-hour rest. Speeding out the narrow trail, two small females, Diva and Rainy, took extra pleasure in their fresh energy. The whole team seemed to float on the dark night air and their fast pace made me laugh out loud. I was awestruck with their speed and effort and congratulated them frequently. They were unflappable. Even the fifty foot stretch of sloping overflow ice with moving water raised little, if any, concern or caution.

Look up the word magic in any dictionary and I'd bet you'd read a description of my 39-mile night run to the Sawbill Checkpoint. The stars were out in brillant force and I managed to spot several of my favorite constellations. Throughout the run, I checked my progress with their position. It was so cold (minus thirty I was told later) that each dog was covered with a layer of frost from nose to haunches. Thick icicles stuck to their chin and whiskers in goat-tee shapes that made them look like icy canine beat nicks.

Sawbill Checkpoint was crowded and cold, but I arrived with eight happy dogs, and to me, that was really all that mattered. Rainy must have told Levi about the meat snacks because they both decided not to eat their kibble. Of course, the beaver and fish snacks were devoured in record time. Once all the dogs bedded down, the only thing left to do was wait and hopefully sleep. I climbed into my sleeping bag with my boots, coat, hat, headlamp and the rest of my gear still on. I was tired and wanted to maximize the five and a half hours left of our required eight hours rest time.

The first fifteen miles of the final fifty-nine to Trail Center and the finish were brutal. The hard and fast race miles were beginning to show. Sara, one of my main leaders, got moody and slowed the team to a crawl. I put Levi up front with Whirlaway, but he seemed distracted and turned around constantly. It was Ida, she was in heat. I tried other combinations, Rainy with Sarah, Sarah with Levi and Rainy with Whirlaway. Nothing worked.

"Well," I said to the team. "Time for the proverbial carrot." I put Ida in lead next to Whirlaway. This worked great and the team's speed picked up noticeably. When we were running everything was fine, but snack times were exceptionally tricky. The only problem now was Whirlaway, who was deeply moved by Ida's newfound beauty. However, I could deal with over active hormones. I breathed a long tired sigh of relief.

About the same time the trail began to flatten out, I noticed that Diva had a slight limp. I stopped and removed her front booties (she doesn't like the ice that forms near the Velcro) but that didn't work. She was still limping. One of my goals for the race was to finish with eight healthy dogs. Twenty miles from the finish it wasn't to be, and instead of preserving my pride, I put Diva in the sled bag. She wasn't happy and whined constantly for the next few hours, but at least she would now be able to recover quickly.

Eventually, I began to recognize landmarks and roads. I knew we were close. Waves of emotion and relief spread over me. We were going to make it! I thanked the dogs over and over and over. We ran past a cabin, turned on a ski trail and then onto Poplar Lake. The trail curved around a peninsula, toward Trail Center Restaurant and Lodge and seventeenth place. I could see the finish line banner near the parking lot. "Bring it on home dogs," I called joyfully.

At the same time, my leaders picked up the scent of another trail and veered to the left directly away from the finish line. "Now why would you dogs do that?" I thought.

"Because we can," I imagined their response.