Tucker's Solstice Race Report

S-H-I-T was the first word I learned how to spell. My mom taught me. I remember jumping up and down on the bed as she readied for work, a letter per jump.

 “S-H-I-T. S-H-I-T. S-H-I-T!”

“Tucker, this is a word we don’t say or spell at school. OK?”

You can guess how that went. But my name only ended up in the kindergarten Dog House once when Wyatt, that little son of a bitch, ratted me out. I remember a conversation at home, but no punishment, so ubiquitous and versatile was the term. Twenty some years later it remains a top vocabulary word. Appropriately so.

When Ryne was in the process of hiring me to be a handler one of my references was kind enough to tell her that he thought I was going places. Later on, she told me in good humor that when he’d said that, all she could think was: “Ya, going places to scoop a lot of shit.” 

As a handler, “What about all the poop?” is among the FAQs of family and friends. There are several ways to answer this. In person I just say, “We scoop it up and throw it in a big pile.” But this answer wants justice. I could do some real math but I won’t because even a number with a unit in the tons does little to satisfy the chore. 

Well. Come along with me.

First of all, there’s a complex ranking system for poop-scoop-ability. It’s located in the heart of every poop-scooper and it takes into account temperature/surface/desiccation/tool/etc. Classification nomenclature is instinctual and often based on one’s mood — ranging from elaborate cusses to compliments that are usually reserved for a 5 year old’s art project. 

At Ryno Kennel we use garden hoes and industrial dust-pans to do our scooping. Dare I say there is an art form to hoeing shit into a pan? That it can become a honed skill worthy of the resume? That it is healthy for the soul? Yes.

There is a poem by John Updike titled “Hoeing”. It’s first stanza goes:

“I sometimes fear the younger generation will be deprived

of the pleasures of hoeing;

there is no knowing

How many souls have been formed by this simple

exercise.”

I think of these lines as I excavate the likeness of a crystalline amethyst from the hard-packed snow. Tink-tink-tink travels the sound of mining efforts through the frozen air. I move to the next dog circle where Oryx is excitedly running around with a frozen poop in her mouth. 

“Oryx, give that to me. Give it to me. Oryx. Oryx. Oryx. Fine, keep it.” 

Onto the next circle. I look back to predictably see Oryx, poop in mouth, squatting for a fresh dump. She looks me in the eye, as they tend to do, and says, “What of it?” To twist Kurt Vonnegut’s refrain: So shit goes. 

And so it does go into a sled which is then taken on a Sisyphean expedition up Shit Mountain — as it’s colloquially known. Look out Denali and mountaineers beware, there is a geological phenomenon in Two Rivers gunning for Alaska’s highest peak. Just know that when I use “shit-pile” as a metric, I’m thinking of a shit-pile that has footholds on its vertical face. 

Ryne’s asked Sam and I to write blurbs about the recent Two Rivers 50 mile Winter Solstice Race.

How was the race? How’d you make out? It was good, we placed in the middle. But for the Ryno Kennel dogs the term “race”, in this case, is a misnomer. As a handler, that misnomer is one of the more difficult things to communicate to family and friends about what we do. If I were to describe the details of my Solstice Race — how the dogs ran and looked, what the trails were like, how cold it was — it would sound like a description of a 50 mile training run on the trails right behind the cabin, holding the dogs' pace steady, always under 10mph. 

Two big differences, though: the commotion of the start and there were more teams on the trail than usual. We have a bunch of two-year-old dogs who are into the heavy mileages but have no race experience, the more exposure they can get to race-like conditions the better. As for the start, they did awesome. And as to running 50 miles on trails they are getting a little bored of, they had fun. With all the teams passing there was stimulation and excitement in the air and around the corners. At the finish, we pulled into the line, Ryne wrestled my race bib off of me, and instead of turning into the parking lot with all the dog trucks we continued straight on the trail, headed home. 

For some mushers, these races are an excuse, not necessarily to race dogs, but to run dogs. Whether that be in Two Rivers, or on the Denali Highway, in the Copper Basin, or on the Dawson Trail. For other mushers, certain races are opportunities to train dogs for future races where they intend to be competitive. This year, Sam and I are in both camps. With Ryne not racing she’s effectively become a super handler for Sam and I at our respective races. 

Really, I’m in the same boat as our two-year-old dogs. It was just as valuable for me to experience a race start on the sled. But ultimately, what stood out to me were the people holding my gangline steady, walking the team to the start. Ryne, Derek, Matt Hall, and a handler from another kennel. Ryne passed along this wise line earlier in the year: “You’ve gotta deal with the shit to do the cool shit.” And that’s the gist of who was holding out my gangline at the race start, people who have dealt with a lot of Sisyphean shit to help me experience some stuff that’s pretty damn cool. 

“Choo-choo, the poop train is leaving,” I say to Sam as she brings over a final dustpan load of the evening's mining efforts. I have the poop-sled’s rope in hand and as she begins to dump the pan I pull the sled away at the last second —a trick I learned from Simon last year, to keep shit interesting.

First Race of the Season- Solstice!

After a whirlwind of tours over Thanksgiving, then a burst of training runs, adventuring, and a guided overnight trip the last couple weeks, we have a moment to pause before the holiday tour rush in December. So why not sign up for a race?! This Saturday, we’ll be entering our first race of the season, the Two Rivers Dog Mushers Solstice Race. Sam and Tucker will be taking teams on the 50-mile race. I’m going to test out my skijoring skills with the 15-mile skijor race.

This race will be a lot of firsts for us. A first race for all the two-year-olds. A first race for Tucker. A first skijor race for me. A first skijor race for my canine team. I can’t wait!

I apologize for not writing more in the post, but I’ll share some photos and videos from recent adventures. All the Ryno Kennel schwag items for sponsors have finally arrived, so sponsors- your packages will be in the mail soon!

The camp during a recent overnight trip

direct sunshine during a trip to Susitna adventure lodge on the denali highway- those are mose’s big ears

View from the top of Rosebud

Derek, Sam, and I took snowmachines. Tucker took a small dog team.

Caribou- the Bringers of Life

When most of our guests see the reindeer, they see Santa. They see Rudolph and think of holidays, time with family, and holiday magic. The reindeer give them warm, fuzzy feelings of Christmas, and while I certainly have many fond memories of family holiday gatherings, I see something entirely different when I look at the reindeer.

For me, I see the caribou. I see massive herds of majestic animals bringing life to an otherwise desolate and unforgiving, windswept land. There’s something about watching the caribou as they so effortlessly cross the tundra, that steals my breath away. That brings tears to my eyes. Caribou are the bringers of life. Where caribou tread, life follows. Wolves, fox, ravens, wolverines, bears, mosquitos, birds, humans- where there are caribou, you will find other life. And even though I know that to be the case, it still catches me off guard. I’ll look out across a landscape, apparently devoid of life, and think- what can survive in this harsh environment? I feel exposed without trees to provide warmth and shelter. I think about how easily I would die if I didn’t have my Arctic Oven tent with Duralogs for heat and prepackaged meals. How easily I’d die without my parka and boots and team of dogs (or skis or plane or whatever brought me to this remote spot). And then from a far off hill, you see them coming. They look to be strolling, as if meandering through a garden, yet I know that their stroll is even faster than my speediest sprint (which I guess isn’t actually saying much, but you get the idea). And as they pass through the valley or drainage, other life appears. Sometimes I’m not fortunate enough to see it with my own eyes, I’ll only see the other life in the form of tracks or poop, but sometimes, I get to watch the wolf trot across hillside. The fox scamper beneath the willows. Caribou are majestic and regal, yet also so goofy. At times, I get the impression that no one knows where they’re going. I envision someone from the back of the herd going- who’s driving this bus? I’ll see videos of caribou standing on an ice floe in the Yukon during breakup. Caribou are these beautiful creatures of purpose and drive mixed with spontaneity and improvisation.

Photo credit- Kalyn Holl

Photo credit- Kalyn Holl

One of my core memories was from a hunt a couple years ago. I watched a large group descend a hillside and angle to cross a frozen river. I sprinted to a hiding spot in the cut bank and waited. I waited and waited, not quite sure where the herd would decide to cross. What luck- they crossed not 30 yards from my hiding spot on the cut bank. They bottle-necked into a single line and trotted across the glare ice of the frozen river. Well, some trotted. Others would slip and slide, spider-webbing onto their bellies as they (pardon my language) literally ate shit in front of me. Or as Tucker would say- biffed it. It took all my self control not to audibly laugh. The entire group ended up being cows and calves, so no meat from that bunch, but I found myself feeling so fortunate to have been sitting on that cut bank at that moment.

Photo credit- Derek Patton—WHAT? Yes Derek!

It is due to my love of caribou and everything they encompass that I find myself fearing for the future of the Arctic. And I know, I know, there’s enough stuff to be worried about these days, but this is worth talking about. The Arctic is changing. I made a post last year around this time about the disappearing salmon, particularly in the Yukon (numbers are still abysmal by the way). And as the salmon bring life to the waterways, the caribou bring life to the tundra. And there has been cause for concern. Now, before I go too doomsday, caribou are also known for their success stories. These animals can come from behind and with the right conditions, they can rebound. Take the Fortymile herd for example. The below chart shows their rebound from about 5,000 animals in the 1970s to 73,000 in 2017.

However, back to my more doomsday attitude, recent counts in 2022 are down to 40,000 animals, and the herd is on the decline. The overall nutritional status of the herd has been declining, and they have been overgrazing their range. Interestingly, their range has also shrunk drastically. Oftentimes, a herd’s range shrinks as the population shrinks, but the question is, will it return to it’s former size? Will future generations of caribou know where to migrate and travel? If a caribou scientist is reading this and knows the answer, please comment! Another peculiar thing to note- the current harvest plan for the Fortymile winter hunt allows the harvesting of cows. My uneducated assumption is that cows are instrumental in population growth. If that’s the case, why would harvesting cows be best for herd management? Even if their nutritional status is declining and they’d die from starvation, wouldn’t that motivate the herd to expand it’s range searching for additional food sources? Again, I’m not educated in biology, so take these speculations with a grain of salt. And if you’re a caribou scientist, again, I’d love to hear your opinion!

Moving on from the Fortymile herd and its decline, let’s look at the Northwest Arctic Herd. This is one of the largest herds in the world, and it too has been declining for the last five years. Current counts have the herd at 164,000 animals, an almost 13% decrease from last year. Herd population estimates have been dropping from 259,000 in 2017 to 244,000 in 2019 and 188,000 in 2021. Additionally, the herd has been changing its migration patterns. They’ve been migrating TWO MONTHS later than usual from their summering grounds. Typically, they migrate from their summering grounds on the North Slope and cross the Kobuk River to the Seward Peninsula. In the last couple years, some animals aren’t even making it to the Seward Peninsula and are instead ending up in the Brooks Range. Wildlife biologist Kyle Joly says, “Those movements are largely driven by snowfall and cold temperatures. They’re making those decisions based on changing climate.” He goes on to say, “the thing that stands out the most is that we’ve had a low survival rate of adult females, adult cows. What’s causing the decline or lower survival rates of cows, we just don’t know. We are looking into different factors.” Biologists speculate reasons may include changing migration patterns, increase wolf predation, and climate warming affecting food sources.

With larger factors like climate warming being more challenging to alter, this brings me to the last topic I wanted to discuss: resource development in the Arctic and specifically the Ambler Road. I understand the importance of resource development. I personally benefit every year with a lovely little permanent dividend fund check being deposited into my account. This last fall it totaled $3284 per Alaskan resident. Beyond that, I understand that resource development provides jobs and income to the state. However, I’m also a firm believer in balance and responsible resource development. There is currently a project being slowly pushed through called the Ambler Road. Totaling 211 miles, the Ambler Road would be a private industrial access road to the Ambler Mining District. The Ambler Road would cross through the Gates of the Arctic National Park (sidenote- it would bring noise to the quietest recorded landscape in the entire National Park Service- Walker Lake) and potentially disrupt caribou migrations (among other things). Remember how I keep harping on caribou being the bringers of life and a foundational animal in the Arctic ecosystems? I’ve heard supporters of the road say that the caribou can just cross the road. It won’t affect them. They walk all around the pipeline.

There was a decade-long study that looked at caribou and whether they crossed the 53-mile Red Dog mine road during their fall migration. It found that about a quarter of the caribou balked at crossing the road, the slowest of whom took 10 times as many days to get across as “normal crossers.” A handful never crossed the road at all and wintered in a completely different area. Those that crossed the slowest walked an average of 300 km more in their fall migration than the caribou that crossed the road. Caribou biologist Jim Dau said, “once they got to the south side of the road, they traveled 60 percent faster than the animals that crossed without delay. To catch up to the caribou that crossed earlier, the slow crossers put on the afterburners. What used to take them two to three weeks to go through an area -- they can do that in two or three days.” What does that mean for the food in the area? For the overall health of the caribou?

If so many caribou were affected by a 53-mile road in a corner of their range, what would a 211-mile road do? Many of the surrounding communities also oppose the Ambler Road as it will directly threaten their way of life. Not to mention, many of the herds are already feeling stress and populations are decreasing from the warming climate. Ultimately, I’ll leave everyone with this- a photo taken by Kristin Knight Pace as she flew over the landscape that could eventually be crossed by an industrial road. Life is a balance. Economic growth and resource development are needed for our state, but so is protection of our wildlands. And with those wildlands, caribou form the backbone. The bringers of life.

I’ll note, this is my personal blog. Please question the facts and do your own research. I’m not a biologist nor do I claim to know the answers. Caribou and the Arctic are something I feel passionately about, and I hope that future generations can experience the joy of wildness as I have.

Photo credit- Kalyn Holl

If you feel strongly about the Ambler Road and would like to contribute to the No Ambler Road Coalition, any donations made between now and November 29th will be matched up to $15,000!

Double Your Impact- No Ambler Road Coalition

The Dog is My Professor- by Tucker

The shell of Dwight’s heavy skull emerges from the morning darkness to rest on the bed. It goes sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff and I reach out to scratch it. I can smell him. It’s a distinct sled dog smell, a medium-bodied minerally athletic aroma, a sommelier might say. If you’re more meat-and-potatoes you can talk to Sam, which I did.


“Go smell Dwight.”


“Why? Did he roll in poop again?”


“No, just sniff his head and tell me what it smells like.”


“He smells like a sled dog.”

If you know, you know.

Scratching Dwight’s head in the dark, I feel the sizable fin-like bone between his ears. Anatomy calls this bone the sagittal crest but my dad has always referred to it endearingly on dogs as the “dumb bone”. Turning on a light reveals squinty, yellow eyes and a big blue nose that hides one hell of an overbite. A muscled, 85-pound white-furred frame completes the physique. He’s one of those “that’s an Alaskan Husky?” looking dogs. At two years old, a heart defect has disqualified Dwight from becoming a professional sled dog. He’s aware of the disqualification; not the defect. At hook-up when the dog yard is going bananas, Dwight’s head hangs cooly from his box, observing. As to the defect, it bothers him not.

Down the road at Angel Creek Lodge the other night we were talking about loans. I had a few beers in me and I thought, you know, if I were to ask for a loan, I’d go to the banker and I’d say: Look, there’s this dog, he’s a hulk, defines the term “romp”, absolutely no sense of proprioception. 85 pound blur that doesn’t instinctively understand inertia, runs smack into trees and will take you out at the knees. He comes into my one-room cabin like a polar wind. He swallows toys whole and he plays rough with others. He needs a lot of space, he probably needs a whole barn on a ranch with good views. He needs a horse and a pack mule to accompany him on long trips into the mountains. He needs all this to be happiest. Dwight and I, we’ll pay you back eventually. 


I spent the prior season familiarizing Dwight with indoor living, having lots of conversations like, “Dwight, stop licking that book.” Nowadays, he comes into the cabin more like a cold draft than a polar wind, though it’s doubtful he’ll ever make it to soft, ocean breeze status. Anyways, I watch the guy sprawled out and actively dreaming on the couch and it’s apparent that, like any dog, he doesn’t need a loan to swallow up bliss.


Casually flipping through Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac one quiet morning with sled dogs dozing about, I come to the chapter where Leopold compares his dog to a professor and refers to himself as a “dull pupil”. I consider this. Ryne recently had to remind me that Dwight does indeed know how come to his box and sit for a preferred treat. I had been fed up and wrestling him to his spot the past days. A dull pupil, I think. 

This summer, Ryne called me. 

“What do you want to do this winter? Would you rather race more or adventure more? I’ve got a skijoring trip in mind.”

“Skijoring,” I said, easy.


Skijoring, I’m finding, is not that easy. A dog’s inclination to pull you on skis is fairly unpredictable. A dog that’ll lead a whole team through a storm might shut down with just you back there on an easy road with fine weather. A dog that pulls like a son of a buck in a team might just coast when there’s nothing to chase. A big goof who bounces all over the place might focus up, bear down and be awesome. Professors at work. 


Ryne’s been cycling through pairs of dogs, bikejoring with them while we wait for better snow. Better snow? That’s ski-able snow, I thought, disregarding the patches of dirt and rock. Just gotta test it out. We’ll take the short, easy loop on the back forty — the river loop.


In the opening scenes of the movie Iron Will, you see flashes of sprint mushers whipping sleds on tight turns, driving like hell, gnarly X Games type stuff. When the river loop is wanting snow, it’s rutted and groovy, it’s — as I dramatically described to my parents over the phone last year — “some Iron Will shit.” Additionally, since it’s directly off of our exit trail, the dogs are revved to full throttle. They fly. So was the case strapped into skis and hooked to a sprinting dog, no way to stop except via eating shit. I ate a lot of shit. Woody says to Buzz Lightyear: “That wasn’t flying. That was falling with style.” This wasn’t skijoring. It was dragging with style. And soon enough, as I lay groaning in the dirt, a Leopoldian Professor sat there patiently and said to me, “Hey kid, this isn’t very much fun. If you unhook me it will be fun. Maybe another time.” 

“Do you want to borrow my ski helmet so you don’t look like such a nerd?” I asked Ryne the next day, “Maybe protect the sides of your head, too.” 


“Nah, this has been working fine,” she said, strapping on a bike helmet over her purple wool hat.


We headed out for a run. Two teams of twelve dogs pulling ATVs, Ryne on the bike with two dogs. Ryne was ahead of me and I watched her biff it. 


“Biffed it,” I said out loud, using the term for the first time since I was 12 years old. Now that’s the term, I thought. To biff: To fall hard. I’ve been missing that term. Since when did I transition to eating all of this shit every time I hit the earth? 

Later on that same run I sat, ATV idling, as Sam and Ryne talked up ahead about the trail. 


“Not the solidest [sic] of poops today, Fly,” I say to my wheel dog, Firefly. She grins back at me, pooping more liquid. I go back to singing the Irish folk song “The Rocky Road to Dublin” of which I know one line:


“Wellllll, in the merry month of May…”


It’s a song that was lodged into my head the other day by a man named Sean Villanueva O’Driscoll. He’s a mountaineer of epic proportions. From various footage of him on YouTube you can easily ascertain that he’s a guy with goofy childlike gusto and drive, a guy who biffs it. He described himself in one video as enjoying “proper adventures”. I caught that quote and looked over at Dwight on the couch, his big blue nose squished into the end of a marrow bone, licking into its center, eyes closed. 

Skijor Planning

In many ways, it’s “winter as usual.” Training miles are increasing. We’re regularly doing the snow dance in the hopes of parking the ATVs for the winter and transitioning to sleds (nothing is colder than a several hour ATV run in negative temperatures). Wood stove smoke becomes a constant and comforting odor. Diesel trucks require a little extra TLC to coax them to wake up this time of year. The dogs are cocooned in beds of straw (except for Dwight or Havarti who prefer to yank it out of their houses and treat it like a toy). But this year, there’s a new adventure to plan- our skijor trip!

It’s been really fun to change gears and ask a different set of questions. What gear will we need? What is a reasonable distance to travel in a day? Should we travel dogs, pulk sled, human or dogs, human, pulk sled? Which kind of pulk sleds are best? Should we have skins on our skis or jut wax? What kind of skis are best? How do we keep our feet warm? And the questions go on and on and on…

Luckily, we’re not reinventing the wheel. We reached out to experienced skijor travelers Emilie Entrikin and Laura Wright. Both have been EXCEPTIONALLY helpful and shared their knowledge. We’re now narrowing down a list of gear to test out. Laura even keyed us in to dehydrated dog food! I’ve never heard of that before. When traveling with a big team, dehydrated dog food doesn’t make much sense, but when only two dogs are pulling a sled, it might be worth experimenting.

My favorite part of the planning is trying out the dogs. Some dogs have excelled- Muenster, Wingman, Elmer, Thresher, Fox, Dolly, Cooke.

Some have done well with a partner- Yoshi and Faff.

And some have been…um…well.. a failure. One of the biggest surprise failures was Etta! Typically a strong leader can make the jump from leading a team to leading a bike; however, Etta was not one of those dogs. She’s one of the strongest leaders in the entire kennel and single-led through a snowstorm from Nikolai to McGrath, yet something about running in front of a bike- Etta said a hard NO. I even let her loose and tried to have her just jog along with us. NOPE. Etta laid down in the saplings, and I had to walk home with her.

Muenster, on the other hand, has been exceptional! He was partnered with Yoshi for a 20-mile bikejor. He passed teams head-on, overtook teams twice, and pulled my out-of-shape self up Jenny M hill without looking back once. I was so impressed. Last year, when Muesnter was a yearling, he never stood out as a potential leader. This year, Fox and Muenster are some of the strongest two-year-old leaders!

In addition to being comfortable pulling a bike (or person on skis) it’s important that the dog also has great recall. There’s a good chance that one or two dogs will run loose (or on steep downhills they will definitely be loose), so good recall is a must. This unfortunately rules out dogs like Tobin (amazing leader and would probably do great. Instant recall, subpar).

With 3.5 months remaining before the trip (during which time we have two big races- Copper Basin and Quest 550), the skijor teams are by no means set in stone. We’ll keep experimenting with dogs and gear until we get it dialed in!

Unrelated to skijor planning, but fun photos from the past week!

Dino Dwight loves his AlaSkins treats!

Gearing Up- by Tucker

It was dark and early on my last mornings in Idaho. In the wood-floored wall tent, I squinted at Charlie as he warmed his skinny butt by the stove. The coffee was made, breakfast was coming, and I was waiting for Charlie to say something that, in my morning mood, would surely piss me off. So were going the mornings.

I was squishing job end/start dates together, packing hunters in and elk out for the busiest part of hunting season in the Frank Church Wilderness and then hopping off the horse into the car (after a sojourn home) and hooking onto a dog team at Ryne’s. 

In his fifties, with the wiry frame of a boy and facial hair of the Lorax, Charlie had a knack for filling spaces, like the quiet. Today he began with a ballad: 

“Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows…” 

From there, The Cremation of Sam McGee stumbled along with some pauses and oh-how’d-that-go’s, only to trail off around Sam’s last request. Too soon, I thought, as the redundancy of the new day marched on with talk of politics and hunters, how many mules to take where, and how the earth might not actually be round anymore — pity. My dad had given me a copy of The Best of Robert Service but I didn’t begin to appreciate his poetry until that morning with Charlie.

A few days later, I found refuge at home. With a beer in hand I sat on a kitchen stool, watching my dad put together a pizza from scratch. In a good mood, my mom toodled nearby. 

“How now, brown cow?” She asked me, non sequitur. 

“Yes, how now, brown cow,” my dad chuckled and continued:

“I never saw a purple cow, 

I never hope to see one; 

But I can tell you, anyhow, 

I’d rather see than be one.”

The radio chattered on the counter.

“That’s just one of those things that always stays in your head. One of those universal things that’s out there. Like The Cremation of Sam McGee,” he added.

Soon enough, out walked the ballad, pulled from the shelf.

Mom read:

“And I burrowed a hole in that glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. 

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so,” 

“Ha!” She cackled, “That was always my mother’s favorite part.”

I left Montana. The Best of Robert Service sitting shotgun. Memorizing my way along into the Yukon, I slept next to the car just outside of Watson Lake with some foggy northern lights above, passed Robert Service Rd in Whitehorse the next day, and bumped along to Two Rivers by that night. Words from school like iambic and anapestic bobbing around in my head.

Then, it was hum, hum, hum, setting into the rhythm of running dogs; a gear shift after packing. From saddling in silence to harnessing in chaos. From pulling a string of mules to being pulled by a line of dogs. Cowboy boots to rubber boots to mukluks to overshoes to Michelin Man status.

“Tucker, how are you supposed to spot lichen on our lichen quest if you’re asleep?” Ryne asks me as she drives along the Steese Highway. 

“I’m resting so I can collect lichen more efficiently.”

Ryne, Sam, and Cartel the husky sit up front, scanning the sides of road for lichen to feed to the reindeer. I stretch my legs out along the back bench in the dog truck and yawn. Out the window goes a birch, a birch, a birch. I think about how I want to buy my own cold weather gear this year.

“Ryne, what over-mittens should I get?”

“Beaver mitts.”

“How much is a -40F sleeping bag?”

“$1000.”

I double check the math in my head: 10 fingers + 10 toes - 0 = Priceless. 

I gaze out the window some more to see a birch, there’s a birch, there’s a birch, “And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee…” 

Bounce along the trail, ATV hooked up to the dogs, “Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay.”

Chisel at a soft yet solid dog poop during morning chores, “It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the ‘Alice May.’”

Carry a bundle of firewood up the cabin steps, “And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum.”

Watch the daily ravens fly by, “Then ‘Here,’ said I, with a sudden cry, ‘is my cre-ma-tor-eum!’”

Ryno Kennel hosted a spontaneous, neighborly get together the other night. And amidst the conversations across the room, I heard it: “How now, brown cow.” 

I poked Sam, who was sitting next to me.

“How now, brown cow?” I asked her, eyebrows raised. She looked at me quizzically as I relaxed back into my chair, took a swig of beer, and settled into the rhythm and rhyme of being back.

Race Fans- LET'S RACE!

Alright race fans- we have some exciting news!

We’ve just submitted our applications for a couple big races! Drum roll…………

A Ryno Kennel team mushed by Tucker will be running in the 2023 Copper Basin!

AND

A Ryno Kennel team mushed by Sam will be running in the 2023 Quest 550!

For Tucker, this will be his first dog sled race. For Sam, this will be her second. In 2021, Sam ran in the Willow 300. For both Tucker and Sam, the main goal will be having fun for canines and humans alike. They will run a slower schedule and hopefully take many of the youngsters who have not yet run a race. I plan on handling for both races, which might be a bad idea, but I’ll try my best to behave myself and not get too wrapped up in the race. The Copper Basin and Quest are two of our favorite events, so I’m PUMPED that Ryno Kennel will be at the starting line!

And while I haven’t officially signed up yet, I do plan to run in the Solstice 30 Skijor Race and perhaps another skijor race in preparation for our big spring skijor trip! In recent bikejor practices I tried:

Wingman- B+

Fly- D-

Havarti- D-

Elmer- A

I do want to note that while I am grading some dogs harshly (Fly and Havarti), that by no means rules them out. I attached the dogs to my bike and went for a short ride, hoping the dogs would pull. Both Fly and Havarti didn’t understand if it was fun loose run or if they were supposed to be pulling. With actual training (not just conditioning), I’m sure many of the dogs could be great skijor dogs. Dogs who aren’t instant naturals just need a partner or perhaps chasing another team to learn what sort of game we’re playing. So I’m not being entirely fair when I give them such low grades without training.

Anyways- lots of excitement on the calendar for this winter. We hope you all follow along!

Fire

The first photo of Fire is seared into my mind. It was my first Yukon Quest in 2015. I had many young dogs and Fire. I made a silly decision to camp 37 miles outside of Dawson (after taking my long rest, meaning rather than stopping at Earl and Sandy’s, I thought four, 37 mile runs would make more sense ). We camped directly on the frozen Yukon River. I imagine Fire thinking- well, if you insist on stopping after we JUST stopped for hours in Dawson, I guess I’ll just enjoy the scenery. It was like she knew I was a newbie and took it upon herself to coach me through it. I’ve met few leaders with the drive that Fire possessed. She never tired of running in lead. The responsibility didn’t affect her. Fire coached me through our first competitive Copper Basin runs and showed me how good leaders don’t need trails. She set a high bar for future Ryno Kennel leaders. Her great grandkids- Spitfire, Foxfire, and Firefly- are starting to follow in her footsteps. The last couple of years, Fire lived with my good friend Kalyn. In her old age, Fire became goofy and playful. A once sometimes shy dog would meet guests in the Chena OC yurt with a weird head cock and snapping,short woofs! She lived a life full of adventure and taught me so much. You will be missed Fire.

Skijor Prep

Instead of running in a 1000-mile race this year, I’m switching it up and designing a skijor trip. The current plan is to skijor from Kaltag through Unalakleet to a cabin in the Blueberry hills then back to Unalakleet. This section is one of my FAVORITE sections on the Iditarod trail. Also, with Tripod Flats cabin and Old Woman’s cabin, there are sheltered places to stop along the route. Unalakleet is also a major hub for coastal communities, so I can just book an Alaskan Airlines flight to bring us home at the end of the adventure. As long as we don’t get blasted by a coastal storm, it sounds perfect right? I’m excited.

Prior to this winter, the farthest I’ve skijored is 10 miles, so needless to say, I have a lot to learn! I grew up cross-country skiing and have still been using my 20-year-old skis to practice. At least there’s some foundational knowledge. While my old skis work great for playing around the kennel, I’ll need to do some research to figure out what kind of skis are best for a remote trip. Also, my current clothing options (parka, boots, bibs etc) are great for mushing; however, I doubt they’ll be the best choice for skijoring. Other gear I’ll need to experiment with are pulk sleds, tents, gloves (beaver mitts are probably not great for skiing), and hats. What kind of cooking apparatus should I bring? Our massive cooker pots are great for a team of 14 dogs, but perhaps not necessary for a human and two canines. Which brings me to my next big question, and honestly the one I’m most excited about- which dogs should I bring on the trip? How many dogs? Should I bring massive, powerful dogs like Mose or Sherlock? Or is that too much power since it’s hard to slow a dog down with skis? Should I bring smaller dogs with perfect recall like Oryx so that they can be loose on downhills. I’m inclined to bring younger dogs to show them the coast, but perhaps I should bring at least one trail-hardened veteran who I can 100% rely on if the conditions get dicey. So many decisions and experiments! Tucker will be going on this adventure as well, so at the moment, I’m planning on four canine athletes to join us (two for Tucker and two for me, unless Tucker is in too good of shape in which case, two for me, one for Tucker, and one running loose).

Last week, Sam and I brought Fox, Thresher, and Tucker’s dog Charlotte on a day of bikejoring for the first test. Fox was spectacular. A+++. Like a rockstar from the first moment. We biked a trail that went straight up a mountain (I might have left my lung up there from wheezing so much), and Fox drove hard into his harness as if he’s been bikejoring his whole life. Thresher was a bit more confused. He did great in chase, meaning pulling Sam behind me, but he was a little softer on the tug when he partnered with Fox to pull me at the front. Thresher- B. Charlotte (who is only one year old) was solidly mediocre. C-

Since bikejoring with Fox and Thresher, I’ve tested Mose and Sherlock. I’d give Mose a C+ and Sherlock an B+. However, I think both are too powerful, making it hard to regulate our speed. My initial thought is dogs in the 45-55 lb range are best. We’ll see!

Permafrost Tunnel

My folks recently came to visit, and during their time here in Two Rivers, we were treated to a Permafrost Tunnel tour with Roy from the Army Corp of Engineers!

I like to think of myself as a moderately educated person when it comes to permafrost; however, I quickly realized that my comprehension of permafrost was as shallow as black spruce roots (aka real shallow). Good thing I was able to go on this tour and get a better grasp of how COOL permafrost is!

A lot of what Roy described was a bit over my head, but I’ll share some of the facts that stuck with me. Permafrost is perennially frozen ground for two or more years. Since temperature is the only requirement, permafrost can be with or without ice, ranging from hard rock without ice to organic-rich soil with more than half ice by volume. (Also, side note, I’m copying a lot of this info directly from info signs on the tour.) This graphic below shows how the northern part of Alaska is continuous permafrost, meaning over 90% while the Fairbanks area has a discontinuous permafrost distribution, meaning 50-90% permafrost.

The graphic below shows the the permafrost distributions across the polar regions. Take note of Greenland and the lack of permafrost. This is due to the Greenland ice sheet that actually insulates the ground and prevents permafrost!

After laying a groundwork of permafrost facts, we opened up the refridgerator-like door and stepped into the permafrost tunnel. I was picturing a narrow, dark tunnel with spelunking vibes, when in fact the tunnel was enormous and well-lit. Originally created by the Army Corp of Engineers, the tunnel was designed to research permafrost as a possible defense against nuclear attacks during the Cold War. Since then, the permafrost tunnel has been a place for research.

Throughout the tunnel, we could spot ice wedges, like the one shown below. Ice wedges form in a polygonal pattern similar to patterns seen in dried mud flats, except a much larger scale. Each polygon is in the range of 30-50 feet across. The ground cracks, water along with silt, organics, and sometimes air bubbles infiltrate the crack and then freeze. Since the wedges are created with millimeter size cracks forming over and over and over, it can take as many as 3000 years to create an ice wedge like the one in the photo below! Ice wedges haven’t grown in the Fairbanks area since the end of the last Ice Age (about 10,000 years ago). The ice wedges in the tunnel start about 20 feet below the ground surface and reach a depth of 60 feet.

You might notice that alot of the ground isn’t just ice, but is dirt-like:

“Most of the frozen material in the tunnel was originally loess or wind-blownsilt picked up off the river floodplains and deposited in the hills. The silt is bonded by interstitial that fills the pore spaces between the silt particles. In the tunnel, this interstitial ice slowly sublimates (goes from solid to gas without a liquid phase), allowing the silt to fall to the floor as dust. Organic material frozen in silt, now exposed to the air, oxidizes and produces a peculiar odor.” In other words, it smelled strange in the tunnel and was very dusty. We had to walk carefully so as not to kick up clouds of silt.

Doug and an ice formation… I can’t remember which kind so I won’t pretend to know.

Mom, Dad, and Ryne

Kalyn, Sam, and Ryne

Many bones have been found throughout the tunnel. Most are single or pieces of bones, not full skeletons. Most of the bones are dated to about 14,000 years ago; however, here is a stick dated to about 43,000 years ago!

Jess showing off a mammoth bone.

As we approached the door at the end of the tour, I was still in awe at this little slice of ground that we would typically never get to see. I have a new appreciation for the struggles of the Alaska Department of Transportation (no wonder Alaska roads aren’t smooth), and a deeper fascination with the incredible Arctic landscape. A big thank you to Roy for giving us this incredible experience!

Sam, Dalzell, & Gibbs

Joining the RK crew this season is Sam and her pups Dalzell and Gibbs! Though Sam is new to RK, she is not new to the mushing scene. With three winters of mushing including a Willow 300 and many training miles, Sam brings a lot of experience to the team. The last two seasons, Sam trained with ATAO Kennel (Will Troshynski), so she also knows all the Two Rivers trails!

Sam grew up in Michigan where she spent her time hiking, biking, and playing with every dog she met. She graduated from Northern Michigan University in Marquette with a Bachelors of Science in Outdoor Recreation Leadership and Management. She spent some time working for a carpenter who specialized in log homes, and recently admitted that she didn’t mind peeling logs (so Sam has been tackling the log prep for the new retired sled dog living room addition- a big thank you to Sam!). Her favorite food is stir-fry, unless coffee counts, in which case it’s coffee. Sam likes watercolor and her bike is her best friend (which she can say since Dalzell can’t read and won’t see this post). Sam loves reading memoirs and has recently taken a dive into fantasy after prodding from both Kalyn and myself.

This season, Sam will be helping train the dogs and will take a team on the Quest 300!