Summer Sled Dogs

Bill snapped a clip into his .45 and racked a shell into the chamber. It's his melodramatic way of saying, "We're in the bush now."

Bill and his daughter untied the horses and rode them down to the beach. My newly purchased sled dogs, still chained inside the boat, yapped and barked crazily at the Icelandic Ponies. The dogs had never seen horses before and their excitement maddened Bill.

“I will not tolerate the dogs barking at the horses!” he yelled with spittle flying from his lip. He grabbed a loose harness and tried whipping the dogs from shore. The dogs cowered and instinctively went mute.

We were 26 miles across the bay, northeast of Kotzebue, Alaska. From that point, camp lies another 2 miles inland and we would need to cross the tundra to get there. Bill and the kids rode the horses and I anxiously harnessed my team for the first time to see how they'd pull.

I bought these particular dogs from a musher named Chad Nordlum whose father Roger Nordlum is of Iditarod fame. Chad had a new girlfriend in Anchorage and after being disqualified from a race known as the Kobuk 440 he wanted out of dogs and hadn't run them in over a year. So, as you might imagine, when I got them they were fairly weak.

I anchored the sled to the gravel beach and from front to back harnessed the dogs. First my leader, Wiley, then in swing position the twin sisters Sapphire and Saluka. Next went Orion in team, then Chuck and Husky in wheel position nearest the sled.

They didn't lunge or scream as sled dogs often do when they are about to pull, and for a split second I thought maybe they'd forgotten how. But as soon as I gave the command, "Hup!" and gave the sled a little push, they instinctively threw their weight into the harnesses and pulled me along from the back of the sled at heart-stop speed.

The desire to pull was in the dog’s blood and they couldn't forget what they were born to do.

(continued on page 2)





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	Bill snapped a clip into his .45 and racked a shell into the chamber. It's his melodramatic way of saying, "We're in the bush now." Bill and his daughter untied the horses and rode them down to the beach. My newly purchased sled dogs, still chained inside the boat, yapped and barked crazily at the Icelandic Ponies. The dogs had never seen horses before and their excitement maddened Bill. “I will not tolerate the dogs barking at the horses!” he yelled with spittle flying from his lip. He grabbed a loose harness and tried whipping the dogs from shore. The dogs cowered and instinctively went mute. We were 26 miles across the bay, northeast of Kotzebue, Alaska. From that point, camp lies another 2 miles inland and we would need to cross the tundra to get there. Bill and the kids rode the horses and I anxiously harnessed my team for the first time to see how they'd pull. I bought these particular dogs from a musher named Chad Nordlum whose father Roger Nordlum is of Iditarod fame. Chad had a new girlfriend in Anchorage and after being disqualified from a race known as the Kobuk 440 he wanted out of dogs and hadn't run them in over a year. So, as you might imagine, when I got them they were fairly weak. I anchored the sled to the gravel beach and from front to back harnessed the dogs. First my leader, Wiley, then in swing position the twin sisters Sapphire and Saluka. Next went Orion in team, then Chuck and Husky in wheel position nearest the sled. They didn't lunge or scream as sled dogs often do when they are about to pull, and for a split second I thought maybe they'd forgotten how. But as soon as I gave the command, "Hup!" and gave the sled a little push, they instinctively threw their weight into the harnesses and pulled me along from the back of the sled at heart-stop speed. The desire to pull was in the dog’s blood and they couldn't forget what they were born to do. (continued on page 2)