Gr. 12 Dog Run (circa 1982)
For many years the grade 12 students at the Alberta and Manitoba schools gave up part of their Christmas break to head out on a dog run. New Year’s Eve held some very different memories after this trip.
Whether it was in the mountains or up along the shore of Lake Winnipeg, these trips were memorable. Not just because of the unique experience with the dogs – but because, how many 17 year old kids get to do that?
Send us your grade 12 dog run memories. Click on the title and scroll to the bottom to submit your story. Click on the picture to see a larger version.
December 31, 2012 at 12:49 pm
I originally posted this story in the strand on “Portaging Stories” that appeared in 2011. Anyway this strand seems more relevant for this story so I’ve done some pruning and grafting and re-posted it. Apologies if you’ve read it before…
I was on the SJCBS grade twelve dog run in January 1977. We were starting at Wallace Lake and heading north. I think the plan was to get to Little Grand Rapids or else to go as far as we could in that direction and then turn back. It was the last major outdoor activity we were going to take part in as students.
When I look back, it strikes me how much we had matured, perhaps without quite realising it, since we had started the Newboy canoe trip four years earlier. Back then we were in a state of shock and just did what the masters told us. By the time we did the grade twelve dog run, although we were accompanied by masters, we were almost equal partners in the endeavour. For example, for this trip the students took the lead in preparing the equipment and the food, with oversight from staff kept to a minimum, just enough to check we hadn’t missed anything vital. When decisions had to be made while on the dog run, although the masters had the last word, our views were canvassed and considered – we were part of the decision making process. It was all a far cry from the state of things one day out of Ear Falls on the Newboy.
On dog runs we travelled over frozen lakes where possible and, when necessary, followed the portage trail to the next lake. Once in a while there were hold-ups when the trail was blocked with a fallen tree and we needed to haul the sleds over it or get the saw out to remove it.
There were a lot of us in grade twelve that year and we were split into two groups. We needed so many sleds that we had to employ every available dog in the kennels. This meant we had to use Nanook.
January 2, 2013 at 4:25 pm
Your story reminds me of of several things.
Nanook went on to be a lead dog, if it’s the same Nanook I remember. The force wasn’t great, because of her size.
When training dogs later, we put brakes on the sleds. Training on the bushtrail circuit we’d encourange dogs while standing on the brake, teaching them that just because it was hard was no reason to give up.
The last year I was there we cut teams from 5 to 4. The shorter length made the teams much easier to control, double lead got more dogs in lead position, and we would run with 1 sled per two people, correspondingly lighter.
Cabins were important. As you pointed out, you never got completely dry around the fire. A cabin was a place to get everything bone dry once again. This was especially true in Manitoba where winters were often bitter. In Alberta a lot of the time the weather was warmer. This often meant that you were wetter, especially foot gear, but drying was also easier.
The night chains were such a pain. Keeping dogs separate only sort of worked. I realized that a 4 foot chain with 18″ side chain, and 8 feet on either end was the same amount of chain as a five foot chain per dog.
So version one was a 5 foot chain with a clip on each end. Go around a 6″ tree, and clip to the chain.
This worked great! Except…
The male dogs would pee on the tree. And the clip. Yuck.
Version two substituted a 2″ steel harness ring. You passed the clip end through the harness ring.
This worked better. But the chain bag was still heavy.
And a downside: If you dropped the chain in the snow, it was really hard to find. Tying 2 feet of flag tape to the ring helped. The flagging tended to float on the surface of the snow. But it caught and got torn off, so it needed frequent replacement. Chains also got left on trees in the excitement of breaking camp. “Bring the chain with the dog!”
Version 3 replaced the chain with 1/8″ airplane control cable. This was FAR lighter, but the downside was that the mess tangled like crazy.
But since they were individual, each sled could carry it’s own. That worked great.
Later, when I was running the program we kept constant teams. Each team had time to work out a pecking order, and the incidents of fighting dropped way down. At one point there was a grade 9 dog crew member, Laluk, who could harness and take out his team of malemutes solo. But we did lots of training with 6 dog traces. So there were 5 or 6 dogs per team in training, but only 4 or 5 (depending on year, and pragmatic choices, and bitches in heat) on a dog run.
Another trick I found: An acrylic scarf was much easier to dry. I had my skish scarf with me because it was The Rule. but acrylic doesn’t absorb water. At night, you let it freeze then you’d whip it against a snowshoe or smooth stick, and knock most of the frost out of it. Made a huge difference.
Sleeping bags changed too over the years. The duck feather surplus bags were replaced with holofil dacron. At Selkirk we had these monster 6 lb fill outer bags. This pretty much forced the 2 people per sled, because these bags plus your own would just barely fit into a duffle. So two guys would have 3 personal duffles — one each for sleeping bags and a shared one lightly filled (and often not a full size one) for spare socks etc.
Alberta when with a lighter 2 pound outer bag. This was enough most of the time, but that week in the persimmon range, most of us slept fully dressed,with dry socks, and our parka spread over the bag, and we were still cold.
You are so right about the equality around the fire. I think I’ve done about a dozen dog runs, and I count myself lucky to have been with such fine groups of young men, for with very few exceptions, they — you — all acted like men, not boys.
December 31, 2012 at 9:55 pm
It was called the Grade 12 Dog Run when I was in school. For no good reason at all, I choose not ro go, but completed the Christmas break at home. After returning to the school, the trip hadn’t returned so a couple of us worked on the grade 12 common room.
Long story short, I didn’t go and now I’m howling forever.
January 3, 2013 at 3:51 pm
Over the years I’ve had several grade 12’s who made that choice — decided to miss the grade 12 run. Many of them, like you, expressed regret.
While it would not be quite the same, have you considered organizing a winter expedition with your class mates? You use those kid’s 5 foot x 16″ plastic tobogans for your gear. A few holes along the edge gives you tie points. While you can tow with a rope, it works better if you bolt a couple pieces of 1″ black PE pipe to them for handles. That way they don’t bark your shins going down hill.
Go in February. More light, not as *(&(& cold. Willmore is lovely at that time of year.
December 31, 2012 at 11:44 pm
Where to begin?
My first dog run was with PJ. Two staff. Grade 12’s Nind, Frayling. Hibbard, Barrett, McGillis, Stocker, Two others.
We started near Cadomin, and the first day was the only easy day of the trip. We camped either at the trail head, or only a short ways from it. The next day we started up the mountain.
Keeping the trail was a problem, and most of the time we weren’t on it. Eventually we got to the saddle. I won’t call it a pass. Passes, to me, are above tree line.
We started down the other side. This side of the mountain faced south, exposed to the wind, and sun, the trail was bare rock. The creek channel, really just a shallow vee in the landscape, had snow in it. So we went down.
I was mushing. PJ was up front. Came the shout to halt our sleds. We’d been going so well. So halt, tip the sled. 10 minutes. Nothing. Take a rope and tie the lead dog to a tree to keep the team strung out and not fighting. Go down to see.
Pond there. Beautiful 50 meter diameter pond. Frozen solid. Clear ice. With a chunk missing on the far edge. Picked up a rock from the shore. Skidded it out across the ice. It vanished over the far edge. A few seconds of rattling sounds. A very long silence, a CRACK and more rattling sounds.
I worked around the edge of the pond to a small cliff overlooking the gap.
The edge of the pond was an ice waterfall, about 40 feet high, then a sheer cliff. Another rock and my watch. 15 second fall. About a thousand feet. Not a good route.
We couldn’t go down the creek bed, so we had to find the trail. We found it. 500 feet up. Emptied the sleds except for one food duffle each. Go up with the sleds. Park them. Back down. Up with the personal packs. Most sleds have a 4th pack. Pots, chains, something. One man from each sled stays to put the sled together. The other goes down for the last pack.
It’s now mid-afternoon.
The trail is shale, thin, and very sharp. To reduce friction we run the sleds on edge. But it’s still mushing, and sleds are dropped. The sharp shale cuts into the tarp. In one case it cut open a dog food bag. Stop, and repack that sled so the tear is facing up. A trail of kibble is distracting to the teams behind, and we will need those kibbles.
December 31, 2012 at 11:56 pm
I wasn’t glib enough to get on the Christmas trip the next year.
My first year in Selkirk I built new sleds. I figured I was a shoe-in to get on the trip. No. I was pretty pissed off about that.
The next three years I was running the dog program, so I got to go on them every year. Those trips blur together, but a few highlights:
Rod Voss was a pipe smoker, and carried a box of wooden kitchen matches in his pocket. We were running down a winter road, and Rod fell off the sled, landing on his box of matches in his back pocket.
He got up before he realized that his bum was on fire.
***
Bruce Benson asked Fred Parr the trip leader for more responsibility. Fred asked him what he wanted. Did he want to cook. No he knew nothing about cooking. Did he want to navigate? No, he couldn’t navigate. How about radio? No, he didn’t want that.
How about making the fire for morning? And Bruce couldn’t claim ignorance on how to build a fire, so he got that thankless task.
During the night I woke up to someone stomping about. Still pitch dark.
Looked at my watch. 3 a.m. “Bruce it’s 3 in the morning. Go back to bed.”
“How will I know what time to start it?” I gave him my watch.
At 6 or so firelight was brightening the undersides of the spruce above us. Bruce again was stomping around dressed in long johns and snow boots.
Abruptly the fire went out. “Son of a WHORE!” Bruce had stepped on the fire. Another 10 minutes while he gathered another bunch of twigs, and restarted the fire.
Bruce learned. For the rest of the trip he gathered his twig bundle in the evening, along with the first armload of little stuff. I don’t think he actually got out of his bag to light the fire for the rest of the trip.
January 1, 2013 at 2:26 pm
Vignettes:
It was bitter cold on one dog run with Simon Jeynes. We were in Willmore Wilderness. One day on the Berland we watched the sun on the mountains next to the river, looking forward to getting into the sun, for the shade was cold that seeped into your bones.
It teased us. We could see that it was lower down on the mountain ahead of us, but we never seemed to catch up. To the south we could see a notch in the mountains where a large stream came in. Surely by there…
We arrived opposite the notch. The sun line was 20 feet above us. We never did see the sun that day, even though it was crystal clear.
On New Year’s eve, camping at timberline, the rum froze solid. That night at the Hinton Ranger Sation, 50 miles away, and 3000 feet lower it had been -57 degrees. Brrrr!
***
On a dog run up the Cline and MacDonald with Simon Jeynes and Paul Woolnough it started cold, but as the trip progressed it got warmer and warmer. On the way back, crossing Coral Creek, it started to rain. Much of snow was gone, and we were running on rocks on the old access road.
We got to the trail head, and being clever, rigged the tarps that lined the sleds as a shelter. Miserable place for slush camping. The camp is well used, and we had to go far and wide to find wood. Much of that was wet from the rain and slush, so it would release a lot of smoke before getting dry enough to burn well.
Late that afternoon, a group from the school showed up. Steak, Mile High Strawberry Pie, and good conversation. They spent the night. Next morning we loaded up into van and trailer and truck, and headed back to the school.
***
I had built new sleds, sleds of ashwood and polyethylene. They were tough. I didn’t realize how tough. We dropped on off the back of the dog trailer. It bounced. Later on one lad missed a corner at the bottom of a steep hill and hit a 4″ scrub spruce. He knocked the tree down.
***
We were on a day hike, giving the dogs a rest. That same trip in the Persimmon Range. We were in a bowl, climbing up toward the ridge. I looked down, and saw a crack in the snow, about a quarter inch wide, and two feet deep.
I called over to Simon and said that we needed to very quietly and carefully turn around and go back. We were walking on an slab avalanche that was starting to separate. We tiptoed on our snowshoes back to our camp.
***
One of our trips ended at the Bighorn Dam. The last day of the trip we wanted to get close to the dam so that we could phone the school to set up the pickup. Radio hadn’t worked worth spit, and this was pre-satphone.
If there was a regular trail we lost it in all the cutlines that the oil companies had made in the area. Some places we had nice wide cutlines. They would end and we’d have to bushwhack until we found another cutline going our way.
Just before dark we came onto a snowmobile trail that was packed hard from many machines passing. Now we were making good time. The moon rose as the sun set, and we continued on through the night, silver landscape, with inky shadows.
***
we were camping at timberline in the Persimmon Range. The rum froze solid at 9 p.m.
January 8, 2013 at 3:41 pm
First day of a Christmas run. We started on the Clearwater — the one in Rocky Clearwater Recreation Area, not the one with the Methye Portage.
The cold was unreal. I didn’t have a thermometer with me, but all morning while we broke camp we would point out white noses, and white cheek spots.
Walk away from the fire, and fingers and toes started going numb immediately.
I brought a pair of synthetic fabric sweat pants to sleep in at night. I work my long johns and sweat pants under my nylon wind pands.
We didn’t even think of putting the fire out before the sleds were loaded, and the dogs hooked up. Even harnessing dogs, we’d grab a dog, bring the dog to the fire to put his harness on. And thaw out another white spot on our nose.
Once the trail breakers were ready to go, the mushers put out the fire, as they left. We started up the river, crossed it, crossed back, crossed it again. Darren got his foot wet crossing the Clearwater, and didn’t say anything. He had frostbite by the time he said anything. After that we worked hard to keep it warm. Hurt like hell, but he didn’t bitch. We decided that crossing an open river (20 feet wide, 4″ deep) over and over wasn’t agood idea. But most of this country had benches — level stretches that used to be flood plains before being left high by erosion. — at various levels above the valley floor. And there were tons of seismic trails. Even tough going would be better than building a bridge out of driftwood every half kilometer.
So we started up this steep hill. Breakers broke to the top of the hill to a bench paralleling the river, then went back to help the mushers. The entire hill was 1,2,3, BREAK TEAM. Get a yard up. Repeat.
Only 20 feet up the hill, suddenly the day was warm. Part of it was the hard work, but most of it was actually warmer air. The night had been still, and the valley had started to fill with super chilled air off the mountain tops.
It was never that cold again on the trip.
January 17, 2013 at 8:20 pm
Dog sledding has to be physically the most demanding program I ever participated in at SJ. Ok, I never made the interschool snowshoe team as a referee, so I can’t compare to that.
Snowshoeing is hard, but you are doing it at your pace. Dog sledding requires that you respond to the dogs pace, which usually means way too fast for the first two hours of the day, and dog-slow, dog tired for the last two hours in the day, and just a lot of work the rest of the time.
We went through the day in various degrees of dehydration.
We carried big thermoses of hot concentrated juice, and at a stop, we’d fill our cup with snow, pour on the juice, and slurp that down. But one thermos per sled at the best of times, meant only a liter or two.
Sometimes we’d cross a creek that was running open, or a spring that had a seep running. Or a crack in the ice. Or a slush spot. Get out the hatchet, chip a divot. I always had a bic pen with me. I’d take it out pull out the cartridge, and use the barrel as a straw.
Descending a hill was often a series of controlled (or not so controlled) crashes. Every musher learned to move the outside hand to the cross bar to keep it from being the meat in a sled-tree sandwich. Often the dogs would make the corner and the sled would overshoot. Or if you slowed down too much, they’d drag the curl into a tree on the inside of the corner.
In either case, you had to go up to the front, get the front of the sled back on the trail, and catch the handles as the dogs, now with renewed energy form their rest tore off again.
The sleds were heavy. Most sleds carried two food duffles (dog or people) at least two personal duffles, and one miscellaneous pack. The cargo was between 300 and 400 lbs for a long expedition. (Weekend trips were somewhat lighter, but not a lot — usually we had 4 people per sled.)
Later, at Selkirk, we moved to smaller teams and lighter sleds, but my first trip at Alberta was on these ‘unbreakable’ sleds that Dave Neelands made out of fiberglass and iron pipe. Empty they weighed 150 lbs. They were 10 feet long, so that you could put 3 duffles on the bottom layer, and one standing up at the back.
That one at the back was important. Usually it was only partially closed. Night chains went in this bag on one or two sleds. This may be wehre the coleman lantern went. If it was stored upright, and you didn’t hit too many trees, the mantle might survive until night. Mushing was hot work. The musher’s outer layers got peeled off as he hit tough country, and stuffed into the top of this bag. This was also where the juice thermos lived.
The big sleds didn’t turn well. They had molded in runners on the bottom. In wet snow in particular these would mold channels that made it tough to change the direction you were going. You tended to run off the outside of the curve. Felt like driving a car with the steering locked. So you’d put the sled on edge. The edge still formed a channel, only 1, and with sloped sides but the curl at the front helped you turn and the right sort of kick, sort of a one legged deep knee bend at a slant against the inside edge of the foot rest could swing it around.
The dogs were pulling the front of the sled around the corner too. So slowing down the back of the sled made for more force pulling sideways at the front.