When I was young, my father and I raced dog teams. We would hook the sled up to the bumper of the pick up truck and then put four to six dogs in harness and onto the lead and gang lines attached to the sled. It was a loud and raucous and bursting with excitement and anticipation good time. The dogs would leap and howl and shiver waiting for the moment when all that pent up energy would be unleashed. Usually, there was a plow comb where the town trucks stopped plowing the road and the trail began a few feet from where we launched the teams. After all the dogs were ready to go, I would grasp the handle of the sled with one hand and reach down and unsnap the hardware on the line holding the sled, that was bouncing around and lurching forward with each lunge of the team, to the truck and swoosh-we were out of there like a shot. Within seconds I would be airborne on the sled going over the plow comb, hit the soft pack of the trail and the team would settle into their cadence. We would glide into the woods, the cacaphony of the making ready falling away and replaced by the tamped down footfalls of the team, the slight sound of the runners on the snow and the breathing of the dogs.
What I would give for one of those afternoons with my dad and dogs again...everything was possible then.
