Mar. 24, 2010 - Issue #753: Zion I
Barking mad on skis
Wild mix of nordic skiing and dogsledding intoxicating
As described by Wikipedia, skijoring is, "A winter sport where a person on skis is pulled by a horse, a dog (or dogs) or a motor vehicle." At Mad Dogs and Englishmen expeditions, the answer is dogs. And I feel like a goddamn explorer around all this fur, these dogs and the genuine Englishman who is our guide. Dave the rancher and I have made our way to Canmore to be pulled around on skis by small- to medium-sized mammals and, at this point, we can't even fathom disappointment.
Russell Donald, our guide and host, introduces us to the dogs with a degree of reverence suitable to the introduction of good friends. With a gusto that seems pure and authentic, he asserts that his dogs love their lives. They cruise around in a truck, they go out running with people every day and enjoy much attention and affection from the company and its clients. "A city dog would kill for this life," he says.
As we are gearing up, a load of seniors is gathering at a tour bus parked nearby. Despite their age, jaws are dropping and blank child-like gazes abound. The men are jealous and the women are giddy.
As they watch us suit up, they have assumed I am some kind of ambassador of the sport, and I have accepted my role. They expect a lot from me, and I am not one to let seniors down. As I reign in my mutts, I am gathering my wits.
"Make it or break it," I chant internally, and the beasts lurch into action, jutting me into motion. I wobble back and forth, quickly gathering my balance in the middle of the pendulum. They are pulling like mad dogs. I am moving up and down slopes and careening around corners.
Although I have impressed the seniors' tour bus, I feel a strange sense of guilt, similar to when I ride a rickshaw, as I see the muscular little bodies in front of me tensing and flexing and pumping all their energy into my movement. They scan back at me periodically as if to check on my strange deadweight, wondering why I don't gallop joyously along as they do.
Before long we're back at the staging area and I pass the torch to Dave; he suits up expertly, though his takeoff is much less suave. As the dogs wrench him into action, he careens off the path and slides downhill.
Donald has told me that dogs can be ruined when people go down, that if they lose their trust in the skiers behind them, they go the path of the lame horse. Well, not in the glue vein, actually something more in the vein of a humane retirement villa. I imagine the Florida community where Jerry's parents live on Seinfeld, for skijoring dogs. I chastize Dave, begging him to pull himself together, for the sake of the dogs.
He looks back sheepishly and composes himself, then disappears on a winding mountain path. He manages okay the rest of the way.
The experience is incredible, though too short. I am keen on going further. Since coming across the pond Donald has ventured on extremely long journeys and races through the arctic, all behind his pack of trusty dogs. He has also formed a curious partnership with BATUS, the British Army training facility near Medicine Hat, instructing four-day survival courses with the dogs and the troops as they camp through the mountains. The activity gives soldiers the chance to experience a little of the beauty of the Rockies while providing them with some useful skills if the Brits ever follow through with their plan to finally annex Greenland.
As for me, I prefer the Jack London approach over classic British imperialism. The dogs, the crisp Canmore air and the yank and tug of a team of trusty little pups made this unique, a teaser of an experience something rather worthy of an epic. V
ON THE WEB
maddogsexpeditions.com
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