I've Gone To The Dogs

Call of the Wild is one of my favorite books. My grandparents bought it for me to read when they took me to Greece in 6th grade. The story of the dog Buck, beating the odds, to survive dog sledding and the tough Alaskan Wilderness took me somewhere fascinating and to a place I thought I would never see. Fast forward about 40 years and suddenly I'm on a river bank in the Alaskan Tanana Valley listening to some dogs grumbling, moaning, barking, yipping, snorteling and a variety of other noises. Immediately I'm told they are communicating, and being Greek, I'm reminded of the cackling at any Greek gathering. Don't understand Greek...don't understand dog...I fit right in. The tempo and volume are working a steep crescendo that seems to match the beating heart of my youth. I'm stoked, I've thought about this for 40 years and now I get to experience it just like the book (only more expensive and without Buck's struggle between the socialist and bourgeois allegories that I missed in 6th grade. Shouldn't have reread the book upon arrival).

My dog musher is Jameson (He'll be detailed in another post). A 5'10" bearded lad who had 12 Alaska Huskies connected to our sled. The Alaskan Huskie is smaller than a malamute, saluki, Siberian but bigger than a breadbox. They are about 50 pounds each and powerful athletes. They have a variety of coats.Traditional black & white, black & brown, white (couldn't dance either), plaid...you get the idea. They are paired up with a nylon rope that bisects the team and yellow bungee chords attached to a black with Nordic stitching dog harness. The lead dogs, Chubby and his partner are in front, they set the pace. The bottom line is that more dogs don't mean speed, they mean power. "Huskie Power!" The next two dogs, Helium & Kai are the swing dogs. The others have a name that escapes me, but Otello from Norway anchors my team on the right. Two of his progeny are also part of the team. There are no reins or whips. Barbaric to even mention such tools. Simple calls: Hah for left, Gee for right.

We are getting ready to start and the dogs must have a pulse monitor to my heart because they are jumping up and down, communicating. I take my place in the sled, Jameson warns me about an upcoming bump and he releases the brake. At that moment, silence. The dogs stopped barking and they pulled the sled over the river bank and onto the river. We are running a river that is the frozen tundra in Green Bay only 42 inches thick and no Lombardi. The sun is in our eyes and what civilization is still there disappears within 15 minutes. The dogs are in full prance. All you hear is the prancing feet and the wooden runners of the sled cutting a swath through the pure white river. Looking onto the horizon is Denali state park mountains, then snow covered trees, and the hind end of dogs running with controlled abandon. We cut through trails lined with cat tails, trees lurched at us as the ground beneath them got so cold it pushed up the root system. Snow 8 inches thick drags down tired branches that form a sort of military sabre salute. God has breathed upon these trails.

Otello, his progeny, and the rest of the team are amazing athletes. They love to run and it shows. I think the only complaint from the dogs is that it's too hot at 5 degrees (and maybe I could loose another 50). They run in unison with a quick gait. I am amazed at there athleticism and then at there studliness. They can run, pee and crap at the same time. My right Orvis Jacket sleeve catching the latter. That's impressive.

I came to Alaska to take pictures but my dilemma is this: In order to be a good photographer you need to capture a moment. You cannot be the moment, you have to stand outside and observe. I wanted to absorb the moment. God has breathed on this land, the Spirit of the Earth calls to the dogs and they race to that whistle. I'm on this journey with my new friend Jameson and his team of dogs. My camera stays in my lap. I want to drink in every second (10,800 seconds to be exact). My favorite moment seems to be the shortest.

The dogs are full out. Snow is flying from the runners and the dogs' paws. Suddenly Jameson belts out: "Gee, Gee!" The dogs make a 90 degree right turn on a dime, I look forward and the swing dogs are already going right, the back dogs still straight. Jameson has the sled and we are whipping around the vortex of the turn. At that moment we were one with everything. It was like the perfect catch, the perfect shot, the perfect reversal to a pin, the chord that gave you shivers at the end of the nine hour Mahler tonal poem. The dogs looked like the horses galloping to the west in a Remington painting. I was part of the moment, to hell with the picture, there is nothing to develop, it was etched into my memory forever. The moment ends as we are straightened out and Jameson yells "Good Dogs, Good Dogs."

The day had other moments like that and I will revisit that river bed. I did get some decent picks, but today was about being in the moment, not observing.

Today I found Buck and White Fang.I've gone to the dogs.