BAISLEY LODGES - MY SLICE OF HEAVEN

“DOGS OF WAR”

2012-01-03T04:41:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to all the men and women who at one point did wear the uniform and now find themselves with some form of PTSD. - Remember that you are not alone feeling this way. If you find yourself engulfed with thoughts of suicide, do not hesitate to reach out and talk about it to someone. It can only help.

To the spouses of these men and women that did wear the uniform, we might not say it enough but “Thank You for your love and compassion”.

“DOGS OF WAR”

For the longest time, he had been doing almost fine. When he had chosen six years ago to deliberately live a simple semi-secluded lifestyle, this had helped tremendously in forgetting that “previous life”. His nightmares were re-occurring less often, his mood swings were less intense and he could actually find that urge to laugh out loud when in good company.

But unfortunately this was not the case during this month of October as a multitude of events were making it that this “someone” had crept up in his head and this person wasn’t the “musher”. This uninvited guess was that entity that he knew so well but also that despised “evil side” that he had learnt to keep under lock and key. This “someone” was at best, a “beast of a man” that had been created by a well oiled and finely tuned military establishment. Like the many others before, during and after, he had been molded for one purpose and one purpose only and the mandate was quite clear – Produce super soldiers with robot like behaviors that can be controlled and can be unleashed by the governing body anytime they see the necessity arise. Unknown to him then, he had become one of the millions of “pawns” in the various World Class Chess Matches who had been brain washed in thinking that their services to their countries were absolutely indispensable. Like the other Chess pieces on the front line, he then would walk around nonchalantly, chest pumped and head high, truly believing that it was allowed to sanction someone else in a “Kill or be killed” scenario…

Anyway, that was to be the theory behind this doctrine and it would have been more than all right if the “puppet masters” could have controlled completely the minds of these individuals. However, this would never be the case as somewhere and sometimes maybe buried real deep inside under that “Kevlar” armored plated vest, exists the soul and beating heart of a person of good scruples. And that Ladies and Gentlemen is where it gets complicated.

The soldier that is asked to go to far away lands so to enforce the dictated policies of his country, does it because that’s what he’s trained for and that’s what he was ordered to do. The stressful external conditions that he encounters are way beyond what the common mortal will deal with on a daily basis and something that if you haven’t experienced it, you will never understand. Under these hostile and dangerous conditions, if the soldier is to survive, he must develop that much needed sixth sense that could be categorized as a constant state of “hyper-vigilance”. When in this mode, he becomes super alert and like “Spiderman” all his senses are tingling. If this is not grand enough, when he is to be “combat tested”, he enters an even higher sphere of euphoria which the new generation of veterans refers to as being in the “zone”. That’s when the brain is invaded by this sensation that can best be described as being on “morphine laced with steroids”. What this intriguing and very addictive “high” is all about, is what we call that “Adrenaline Rush”. This hormone/neurotransmitter is found in the body and when called upon, it increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and assists the nervous system when dealing with the phenomena called the “the fight or flight” syndrom.

In lameman’s terms, it is a chemical that is released as a defense mechanism through the entire body and brain. Its sole function is to put the recipient in a highest state of alertness when facing any type of threatening situation. It is most useful when facing danger but also most addictive. Consequently, with these high levels of euphoric episodes comes real serious downsides. Depleted of its reserve of adrenaline, the body goes into recuperation mode and tiredness sets in. The soldier that has to deal with an environment where violence and death is a daily determinant, lives with these “Ups and Downs” cycles constantly. And if continuously bombarded and that the body has no time to replenish itself with a new supply of these hormones, the brain warns the body of this shortfall and orders it to go into self-preservation mode. At this time, the body automatically shuts down certain functions that it considers non essential and sets itself up in survival mode, something that we would recognize as “depression”. The more you tax your system for the adrenaline, the more acute the delivery of the hormone is. Of course there is to be a downside to this and it’s the fact that it takes longer and longer for the body to recuperate from the last “rush”. So when the soldier has pushed his luck way beyond what his body can supply in adrenaline, it stops to function properly and he can and probably will develop a medical condition associated with “chronic depression”.

You think that this is complicated? Well let me tell you! We’ve just started scratching the surface. In the combat environment, this acquired taste for the “stuff” is most valuable if our soldier is to stay alive. However, he eventually develops some sort of habit and becomes what they call an “Adrenaline Junkie”. Just like any other addict hooked on whatever the addiction is, in his case, he needs to have this “hyper-vigilance” state of mind stimulated and this constantly. This is where another additional problem lies. The brain doesn’t recognize the nature of the threat. It simply automatically and unconsciously responds to a demand and that’s what makes it hard for the soldier to adapt to a lifestyle outside that combat environment. Although he is conscious that he is back home safe amongst friends, tucked away, locked in the back of his mind, he’s still in “full alert” ready to “rock and roll”. And that’s what makes it dangerous. He is so accustomed to counter violence with violence that it becomes his main tool used to address any stressful situation, regardless of the size. It doesn’t matter what the stress factor is, he lashes out with this most basic instinct of survival. Now, if he’s lucky enough to be aware of this downfall, he tries to control these bouts of fury but unfortunately, the anger boils inside of him and just like a pressure cooker that’s left on the stove on high heat for too long, he’s ready to explode at any moment. This makes it that his existence is chaotic. He walks around all day with this feeling of animosity and resentment towards his fellowman and brings this to bed with him at night. Of course, still upset and even angered, he’ll have a hard time falling asleep and if he does get to “catnap”, this is certainly not a peaceful rest. An “Up and Down Yo-Yo like mood swing” pattern eventually sets in, leaving this walking wounded tired, depressed and living in some sort of “Zombie” world.
In World War One, they used to call it “Shell Shock”. During World War Two, the new name given then for this condition was “Battle Fatigue”. Today, it is known as “Post Traumatic Stress” and is identified by the medical profession as a psychological disorder that develops in some individuals who have had major traumatic experiences (for example, have been in a serious accident or gone through a war like arena). The “zoned out” person is typically numb at first but later certain symptoms eventually evolve to include depression, excessive irritability, guilt (for having survived while others died), recurring nightmares, flashbacks to a traumatic scene and of course over exaggerated reaction to stressful situations and/or sudden noises. Referred to in its abbreviated form as PTSD, it became known as such in the 70s when adjustment problems to a civilian life of some Vietnam veterans were to be recognized.
“The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out!” That’s what this head attached to this exposed rib cage was always repeating to him in this same repetitious dream. It had been ages since being visited by the ghost of this army buddy “Daniel Gunther” and this particular nightmare had sort of faded away over time. However the accumulated stressors and lack of proper sleep during the last few weeks had provided the right conditions so to make it resurface.
It was always the same reverie. The Military Police would enter an autopsy room to identify the remains of this soldier. There they were, spread on top of this cold stainless steel table, left there after an attendant had tried to put the various body parts together so to make it look half human. Although totally mangled from the blast, he could recognize the face of the individual by that friendly smirk that “Dan” always seem to have on. He would confirm his identity and start walking away when the corpse would grab the policeman’s combat shirt with his right arm and start yelling, “The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out.” Scared shitless, the witness would try to get away but the arm would detach itself from Gunther’s body and it would be left dangling, the hand in a tight fisted grip, holding on to him.
Of course this was just a dream and of course then WO Roussel had only seen photos of this lifeless body as they were attachments to a police report but still to this day, the images of seeing the mutilated body of his “weight room” partner, haunted him. When he had come across it in his office back then in 1993, he had found it stuffed away in the back of a desk drawer. He had perused the said report but there weren’t too many details as to what had transpired. The investigating officer had done a crappy job at putting together a true picture of what had occurred during that fatal afternoon when Master Corporal Daniel Gunther was killed in his APC by an anti-tank rocket. Eventually, over the years, further details would come to light that would seem to indicate that the truth and nature of the incident had been somewhat covered up. Someone had taken on the job of running “tackle” so that it would not interfere with the agenda of certain politicians. I guess after the “Somalia” fiasco, some of them were afraid that the backlashes of a dead soldier in another unpopular war might have severe consequences back home. It was an election year in Canada and the Liberal Party did not have a strong grip on or many seats in Quebec. Subsequently, it was imperative that the proud reputation of the Royal 22nd Regiment be spared and protected as it represented the pride and joy of the Canadian Armed Forces in that French province.
On that particular evening on the 29th October, 2011, he was not suffering certain symptoms described in the previous paragraphs but had been swallowed up entirely by all of them. His evil side had almost taken complete control over his emotions and he would need to deal with this. If draconian measures needed to be applied, so be it, they would be used. He was dead tired from battling with the “Evil Wolf” and a show down was the order of the day. More than a few little incidents had been added up on the already huge pile and not only was he feeling the weight of it, he was collapsing under the “shit load”.
Amongst other things, the dogs had been pissed on by skunks and the nightly hunts and killings of these intruders was a definite stressor. You know that the guy is not in the right frame of mind, when after delivering a blast of “12 gauge” buckshots at the vermins, he puts the barrel of the shotgun to his nose so to take in the fumes and enjoy the intriguing smell of gun powder smoke. Two of his likeable mutts had taken off on an adventure, met up with a porcupine and tangled with it. While “Thunder” had come back to the barn, her face full of quills, her sister “Lightning” never did return and was up till now, presumed dead. The news of the tragic death of a Canadian soldier by the name of Master Corporal Byron GREFF would not help either. He was to become the 158th casualty that this country would encounter in Afghanistan. Like all the other “Boyz” that had died before him, those who had made the ultimate sacrifices had a real severe negative effect on our musher. It was close to his best friend’s one year anniversary as “Bruce” had died of cancer on the 30th October, 2010 and this was a hard pill that he had not yet accepted to swallow let alone digest it. Through the couple of weeks before Remembrance Day, the Government of the day was plugging their propaganda on every possible media sources, advocating that we should remember the great work that “Our Troops” are doing or had done. This was fine but his memories of his “war efforts” did not involve glory and ticker tape parades. Rather, his thoughts were drawn back to the atrocities of the Bosnia/Croatia conflict where the United Nations had totally failed in bringing stability to the country. What was to push him right close over the edge, was an incident where while his dogs and him were training on a public road in the forest, they were stopped at gun point by two bear hunters. It wasn’t bad enough that they wanted him to turn around, they had ended up playing “chicken”. Nobody was flinching and this till the musher made his move. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle with his right hand and without batting an eye, he told the man holding the other end, “You either shoot right now or get this fucken thing out of my face. I’m not in the mood to play chicken shit games. If you don’t move it out of my face, I’ll rip it out of your hands and shove it up your ass. Pray to God that it’s empty!” For some reason, they allowed him to go on his “merry” way. What these two “red necks” didn’t realize was that they had just lit another fuse under his ass and he had been served with a violent dose of adrenaline. However and unconsciously, their camouflaged garbs had brought him back to a time when him and his navigator, a young Kenyan Corporal by the name of Thomas OGETANKE had been barred from carrying on with their patrol by two Croatian Serb soldiers. He had strongly insisted that they be allowed to gain access as they represented the “UN” but he would soon lose this argument. It had kind of made an impression when one of the two tall sentries had raised his left arm and the turret of this khaki green T-55 tank that was parked behind him, started to slowly turn its gun 180 degrees only to rest its barrel on the hood of the white VW Golf. I don’t know but when you stare at this huge black round orifice sitting there maybe two feet in front of your windshield and you know that at the other end of that extended tube sits a “100 mm” shell, well you tend to have a renewed sense of co-operation and you back the hell out of there. Once they had returned to their garrison in Knin later that day, they had filed a formal complaint through the proper channels but never did get feedback from them. Instead, information started trickling in that ethnic cleansing was taking place in the small villages surrounding the region of the city of BIHAC. It started with reports of bodies floating downstream on the Una river and was to be later confirmed when “UN” patrols would be allowed entry to the region. There, they found bombed out and completely destroyed towns, emptied of its populations. A tattle tale that would indicate that some barbaric activity had occurred in the area would be the hundreds of light blue latex gloves contaminated with human blood that were found discarded all over the place. To paraphrase the “Situation” report, it indicated that a well prepared group of men had attended the area with a well engineered plan. In location, they had systematically annihilated the Muslim citizens of the towns. To this day, the identity of the “butchers” in these “Death Squads” is still unknown but it was suspected that they were mercenaries with narrow ties to white supremacy “Neo-Nazi” groups from Germany, Austria, Rumania and the United States of America. All this information is not new as it is a matter of public records. However, what has been hidden for all those twenty years, is the fact that some “United Nations” soldiers had had an active contribution in the carrying out of these massacres. It turns out that an investigation done by the United Nations Military Police had revealed that a number of high ranking officers of the Kenyan Contingent in Sector South, had orchestrated a well organized racket where they were involved in Black Market activities and the illegal sale of United Nations fuel to Serbian civilians and its military. The leaders in these criminal activities had misled their subordinates who obeyed them with obvious blind loyalty. Throughout the interviews, it had been determined that close to 500,000 liters had been stolen by these gentlemen thieves. And adding insult to injury, these officers had abused their positions of authority to trick their subordinates into assisting them with delivering illegal fuel and this with “UN lorries”. While the United States and three other European countries had managed to push through the UN Security Council, a stiff punitive resolution that would place an “Oil Embargo” on Serbia and its satellite states, some greedy entrepreneurial spirits wearing blue berets on their heads, were supplying some of the belligerent parties of the “Republic of Krajina” with petroleum products through the back door. Since the “Intelligence” on the Croatians side was to indicate that the other warring party had very limited quantities of this precious commodity, they had decided to take this opportunity to move the confrontation line in a more westerly direction. Unknown to them, more than four full divisions of Serbian military Forces, was there, topped with fuel and ready to welcome them. Both sides blamed the other for not respecting the “Cease Fire” and they waged war against each other, killing with extreme prejudice, any civilians found in their way.

To this day, the musher still had this bitter taste in his mouth about that piece of the puzzle. Ever since his tour of duty over there, the month of October had always brought back awful memories of his time spent in the “Balkans”. Where people wanted to remember the “good times”, he was ever trying to forget that chapter of his life. Not a single day would go by without him wondering if things might have been different if the sale of “Black Market” fuel would not have not taken place. He would continuously analyze in his mind the prospect of what might have happened, if the authorities might have had a better control of its delivery system. “What if the Serbians would have been left in a position where they did not have the fuel to run their “war machine”, could UNPROFOR have maybe prevented the massacres of the “BIHAC” region or the “MEDAK” pocket. Like the many other soldiers that had served on that particular mission, he would be left with a real deep sense of shame for something that he had never had any control over.

So waking up from that dreaded nightmare again drenched in cold sweat, he found himself disoriented, sitting in his favorite blue chair on the porch of the “Outpost”. You know that a person has reached the end of his rope when he’s sitting there, staring at a rusted old non-functional shotgun mounted on the wall and is questioning his self-worth. He definitely needed to find some answers real soon because contrary to the relic on the wall, he had brought with him his old “security blanket”. There it was, tucked away under his left armpit, snug and warm in its leather shoulder holster, that dependable “Colt 45” semi-automatic pistol. Yup, right there and then, he was dead tired of dealing with all this mental anguish and Yup, there it was on stand-by with one round up the chamber and another one in the clip.

During all this time, “Mosqua” was sitting there, his back in a corner, looking at the man with this concerned look on his face. In the better part of the last ten years, he had seen too often the ex-soldier battle the ghosts of his dreams only to wake up in this frenzied state. More than once had he been at the receiving end of a flying fist from the man, not because he was sleeping in bed with him but rather because the “lunatic” could not get away from his past.

“Hey Buddy? What do you think?” the musher asked his fateful companion, “Is it time to cross over to the other side of Rainbow Bridge?” The animal, recognizing the soft and now calm voice of the “Good Wolf”, started to wag its tail and headed in his direction. He put his head in his crotch and looked up at the man directly in the eyes with that look that said “I’ll back you all the way there, Buds.” That stare brought a smile to the man’s face but also plenty of tears to his eyes. The dog didn’t realize that the first round was destined for him. All he knew was that he was with his trusted friend and would tag along for the ride.

‘It totally amazes me that I could do this to him and that he would die just because I decided that he would.” the veteran reflected through the sobs while patting Mosqua’s head. “Isn’t that what the “Powers to Be” are doing to all these soldiers around the world? – Create an environment where they are manipulated into believing that dying for the cause is the ultimate sacrifice for your country? Yeah, there’s a lot of “pawns” out there that were suckered into supporting the “power hungry 1%ers”, that secretive hush-hush society that tells world wide Governments what chess pieces they should move. This group of the so called “Elites” does exist you know. Just google “Military Industrial Complex” and see what you find. You’ll see that the lines found here were not written here by the hand of a paranoid “headcase”. Instead, they were written by one who was burnt too many times by the system and has decided to turn his back on society as we know it. Whatever would happen out there was their problem, the man concluded. He was even too tired to even care anymore. Right now, he had but one priority on his list and that was to get rid of the “Evil Wolf” and this he would achieve once and for all.

As you would have it, there was nothing simple in this simple man’s life and if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. The stage was set. He had a roaring fire in the wood stove and the thermometer indicated that it was a balmy 42 degrees Celsius inside the cabin. After closing the door behind him, he walked to the center of the room where he undressed completely naked, making sure that his clothes were neatly folded in front of him. He sat there, facing West and in the “Samurai Warrior” tradition, he placed his weapon on top of pile of clothes and waited for the heat to work its magic. This part of the ceremony was a ritual that he was accustomed to and he knew that through the sweat he would get courage and strength.

“So why would you want to do this?” his mentor asked him. “Why would you want to give up at this stage of the game?”
“I’m really tired Leonard. I don’t know what to do anymore.” was all the “pupil” could muster as an answer.
“Did you forget the fundamentals, Gino?” this somewhat annoyed voice inside him, told him. “If so let me remind you a bit how this works. It’s like your dogs. Right now, they are dead tired simply because you’re pushing them way past their limits. In as such, you continue to ask of them and they continue to provide. Somewhere in there, their bodies don’t get a chance to properly recuperate. Therefore, they become irritable and that’s why they fight amongst each other. They do not want to co-operate and if you keep this up, they’ll just flop on the trail and say, “Hey we give up!” The only way that they’re going to function properly as a team again is if you allow them to rest up their bodies. Does that remind you of someone?” he emphasized.
The listener blushed…

“As for your overreacting to any little annoyance, did you forget the story about the sport of “Dog Fighting” in Korea?” he stressed.
All of a sudden, the musher was reminded as to what this old “Korean Vet” had once told him many years ago while sharing a coffee in his kitchen.

These dogs that were thrown into the ring where they would fight to the death, were conditioned to become that way. Like the humans, they were born innocent only to be fashioned by whatever means to become “killing machines”. Many methods were used and none of them had anything to do with tenderness. These animals were trained to be aggressive and at the end of the day, it became instinctive to attack the one in front of it as it was the basic way it was taught to survive. While the vanquished were destroyed and fed to other potential gladiators, the old “combat scarred” victors would be kept as living and breathing trophies so to be displayed by their money thirsty owners. Eventually, they would also be discarded and deemed obsolete and as a reward these “dogs of the arena” would be turned loose on an unsuspected population where they would be allowed to go out there and fend for themselves. Lonely and mistrusting, they would continue an existence of agony. It wasn’t their fault, Leonard Lanteigne had accentuated. That’s what they were trained for and they only saw humans as thing that could bring them harm. “Fear Bitters” they would be known as. Just like the soldier we were talking about at the beginning of this “blog”, they were only reacting to a threat not because it was an actual threat but simply because they were conditioned to react decisively to what was perceived as a threat.

Directing his question to his knowledgeable teacher, the man then asked, “Yeah I understand that but now, how do you deal with that dog or for the purpose, that soldier?”
“Well, how did you deal with “Rhum?” the old Malecite Native rebutted?
By now, his old trail partner was making quite the solid case, the suddenly very alert and attentive musher thought. And yes, the tall lanky red dog had come a long way since he had been adopted close to two years ago. In this instance, this sleddog had come from a world where a set of circumstances had made it that he didn’t know any better. Bottom line, he had never been socialized and could not interact with other animals. At the beginning, he was a wild and uncontrollable running machine and would attack whatever and whoever he had in his line of sight. Many of the “Mob” had been the recipients of his vicious attacks and he would only deal with the other dogs in one basic pattern. Encounter the perceived threat and bite at it so that it retreats. Gobble up what food that was put in front of him as if he had never been fed. Go back to its enclosure and guard the door by snapping at any other friendly dogs that just want to invite it outside so that he may discover this great new world out there.
The musher would have to conceive that “Rhum” had been a hard nut to crack. He could roll up his sleeves and produce several old now healed bite marks all over his arms to prove this fact. How many times after violent clashes had the musher said to the dog, “Eat this and enjoy your last meal because tomorrow, you’re being served a “lead pill”.

Destroying a dog, was one of these necessary evils that needed to be done by the true musher. Having a vicious dog on the team was something that could bring you trouble out there in the wilderness. The best example to illustrate this would be the following - You take off with a “10 dog” string and somewhere deep in the “bush”, this mean dog attacks his partner and it is a clash to the finish. First off, you end up with a bunch of dogs that really get excited and want to get into the “melée”. You have to get control over these ones first to then deal with the fighters. These bouts don’t need to be long to be serious and it doesn’t take much or too long to have one of the combatants injured, crippled or dead. When all is done and the fur has stopped flying, you might end up with two injured dogs that now can’t help pull the sled and left with only eight who now have the burden of having to carry the extra load. So for the betterment of the “pack”, it is sometimes better to permanently eliminate the source of the problem.

“Rhum” had come real close at least seven times in becoming maggot food. The last time, the musher had his head tied to the bottom of a tree, he had the barrel of the“22 gauge” stuck between his eyes, the safety was off and it was a matter of holding that deep breath and pulling the trigger. For some reason, the oxygenated air to the man’s brain had a calming effect and he thought to himself, “Hey, doesn’t he remind you of yourself when you were young, wild and crazy but with a good heart? If that old boss of yours way back then would have written you off, would you have turned out the way you did eventually?” Yeah, “Rhum” looking down at the barrel cross-eyed, sort of reminded the ex-soldier as to how turbulent his first years in the military had been. Back then, he had been given one last final chance by this crusty old Warrant Officer by the name of “Lloyd Church”. This rough and tough ex-boxer had seen the true potential in the “always in some sort of shit” young Private and had taken him under his wing. Through patience, compassion and love, he had turned this out of control wild young man into a very functional and loyal Military Policeman. The musher just then had been reminded of all the time he had invested in “Santa’s little Helper” (he does resemble Bart Simpson’s dog) and the mega strides he had made since his being adopted. “Rhum” still had a few flaws but through the same methods used by “Old Flat Nose”, he had managed to turn him around where he had became a hard-working loyal team member that would now actually go out there and socialize with his peers. After attributing that everybody is allowed a bad day, especially when you’re pushed to the “max” without allowing your body to recuperate, the dog’s life was spared once more and it had paid dividends. Stuck on the trail one night because one of his leader had pulled a shoulder stepping in a moose track, the “dogman” had taken a chance and put “Rhum” in front. There, he had accepted these responsibilities with utmost confidence. Seeing them, “JR” and him, matching each other stride for stride and in harmony, the musher was singing “Rudolph the red nosed reindeer” to the team and was giving priority to the words, “Rudolph with you’re your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh to night!” This experience would bring the point home that if you have a good heart and you are ready to help your fellowman, positive things will happen and you will surround yourself with values attributed to the “Good Wolf”.

“What about the “Evil Wolf?” the confused man asked the “Shaman”. “What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Well,” Leonard replied with this friendly smile, “he served you quite well in that previous life and if he hadn’t been within you, you might not have survived what you went through. He is an integral part of who you are and it’s a matter of knowing that if you feed him too much, he will have the strength to go out there and roam through the peaceful valley... Best let a sleeping Wolf, lie…”

By the time, he woke up, he was lying on the floor of the “Outpost” and the cold temperature in the building could only be matched by Mosqua’s cold nose. Here he was, this dark shape creeping along and discreetly sniffing the length of his master so to see if he was still alive.
“Good Morning there, Buddy!” the rested man said in reassurance. “What time is it?”
His tail wagging, the dog didn’t answer but by the way he crouched down to then snuggle in his friend’s side, you could tell that he was glad to see that the ex-military man was all right. Grabbing that adorable head in a choke hold, the musher gave him a kiss on top of the head to then say, “Well there “Big Guy”, what would you think if we were to get off this mountain and we’d head home for coffee?” The dog knew exactly what he was talking about and after straightening things around, to the truck they proceeded after closing the door. Reflecting as to what had transpired during the previous evening, the man said to himself, “I guess we’ve managed to weather another storm, Leonard. Thanks for being in my corner, there, old friend.”
The voice in his head immediately answered,
“Sometimes, what you're looking for is right there in front of your very own eyes. It's a matter of putting your feet up and reviewing the "Good Things" that happened during the previous year. One can "break trail" on his own but it is sure nice to share the burden with trusted friends...”

To be continued…

Peace on Earth to One an All and remember. Together we can make a difference! = -)

Gino

NATURE OF THE BEAST

2011-12-15T03:07:00.000-08:00

There is truth to the old saying that goes, “When it rains, it pours…” And the month of October 2011 would go down in records as to being the worst the musher had seen in a long time. Not only was the weather cold, miserable and gloomy, his mood matched the darkness of these days perfectly…

Starting with that ATV that rolled on top of him, it seemed that he hadn’t had enough “excitement” during those first fourteen days and the events would further unravel and stack themselves, one on top of each other. He would continue to be subjected to more adrenaline rushes that would make it that he wouldn’t be able to focus enough to walk that “path of red hot coals without burning his feet”.

So anyway, on the Tuesday morning of that third week, there had been a lot of yelling and ordering about by the man to get them loaded in the “dog camper”. It seemed that they just didn’t want to co-operate. Instead, they were playing chase and couldn’t understand as to why he was so abrupt and would not allow them to horse around in the dog yard.
“What’s his problem?” Orka asked the remainder of the cheerleading squad while they were eventually traveling to the “Baisley” trailhead. “Is it his time of the month?”
All the yearlings started giggling.
“I don’t know,” Thunder continued with that certain arrogance that only she had, “but doesn’t he realize that we’re the ones that are running this show and if we want to, we can make life real miserable for him.”
“Yeah, Yeah!” most of the girls seemed to say in agreement.

For them, completing “10 mile runs” were major accomplishments and this according to what they were telling themselves, they were “superstars”. This was of course a figment of their imagination because at this illustrious stage of their careers, some of them had maybe “150” miles under their belts while others had a lousy “75”. Nonetheless, they were getting bored of traveling to and back from the “Quebec Alps” and with all this “experience”, they had developed a confidence that surpassed what you might call a “cocky attitude”. They wanted more challenges and a change of scenery and they wanted it right now.
“According to Gidget, there’s a lot more trails out there to explore.” Kameo continued.
“Uncle Oumak, do you think you could take us out on a different route, this morning?” she went on. “We’d like to see what else is out there!”
“Well,” the old gray wolf like canine answered hesitantly, “one of the things you ladies must understand is that yes I do lead the team but the musher says where we go. That’s it, that’s all.”
“But it would be so nice to go and visit something else for a change! Oh please Uncle “Mak” you handsome devil you, can we, can we?” Lightning continued, pleading to the point of begging.
Oumak was a sly “old fox” and the type of dog that didn’t need much to have his ego stroked. He was one of the only two males on this all female team and he relished all this new found attention and flirting that he was getting from the eight bitches. He had always thought of himself as being the best available stud in the kennel and was not easily accepting the fact that he was no longer strutting his stuff with the “elites” on the racing team. In his opinion, the musher had made a huge mistake when he had demoted him to the “B” Team. He was not impressed and just maybe today was the right time to prove to him that he was not a “has been”.

What the poor old guy didn’t understand was that he could no longer keep up with the faster pace that was required to stay competitive. Although an excellent leader, he didn’t have between the ears that special quality that was needed to go the extra long distances. He was the type that would be all show and all go at the beginning but someone that wouldn’t keep anything in reserve to finish the job. However, to be fair to the individual, it wasn’t entirely all his fault. He was one of those fine examples of a dog that had been pushed way beyond his physical limits when he was just a yearling. Somewhere, during those tender and critical first two years, his previous owner had raced him way too hard and way too early. As a result, he had injured his right front wrist and the nagging pain to this articulation would flare up every time he’d run further than the “25 mile” mark. So why would a person waste rations on such a lame duck, some of you real mushers might ask? The answer to that was real simple, really. The dog had been a key component and had led the “Canadian Snowhounds” across many finish lines during the three previous years. What “JR” knew, he had taught most of it to him. Also, he had one of those very special and desirable attributes that all good lead dogs must have – He kept the team to the right side of the trail. And that folks was why he was still around and leading the “Girly Girl” team. Since the start of the training season, young “Nikita” had been paired up with him and he was teaching her all the intricacies of what was required to lead a long string of dogs with complete confidence. He had done a fine job as the young apprentice had gone from being very timid to being looked at as a strong contender for leading the “A” Team.

But that was neither here or there. Today, he was in one of his moods where he would not listen to the directions given and would take the team down the path that “he” would choose and this according to his agenda.
“So you ladies want to go exploring?” he snickered. “Well, I’ll tell you what. When the time comes, follow my lead.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” Nikita asked, not too sure why but knowing that this smelled like trouble.
“Oh mind your own business, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Speaking for all of us, I think it’s a splendid idea.” Thunder exclaimed.

The old Alpha dominant female, Vixen, who had been listening to all this had just about had enough with all this bickering so eventually piped up in frustration. Directing her comments to Orka but loud enough so that little “Peanut Head” would also get the message, she belted out,
“I hope that you and Thunder realize that it’s because of you two little sluts that we’re in this predicament. If you would have managed to keep your legs together maybe you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. And if you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant maybe you wouldn’t have needed to be operated on! Did you ever maybe think that it’s because the man is looking after your welfare that we’re going on these short strolls? Those were serious operations you had, you know? Did you ever think that maybe he’s not pushing the envelope because he wants you to heal properly. May I remind you that it’s only been five weeks since the “vet” opened you up? Give the man a break, will you!”
“Oh simmer down, you grouchy “Old Hag”, Thunder continued, edging her on from the safety of her box, “You’re just jealous because your “JR” is paying more attention to us than he is to you.” And with that comment, the teeny-boppers again started chuckling.
Vixen was just about to add more gas to the fire when her brother interjected.
“Hey Vixen,” the “Kid” told her also really annoyed, “save your breath. You know how it is. There is no sense in turning blue in the face trying to tell them how it’s done. They’re destined to find out the hard way…”
With that comment, “Vixy” swallowed her next words and just gave a low tone growl. After all, he was right. They knew it all and didn’t want to listen so why waste spit on them. For now, she would have to endure being humiliated as her and her brother had no choice in accompanying these “Air Heads”. The musher needed dogs with experience so to teach some of the “ropes” to the young ones and they had drawn the short straws. So instead of enjoying a peaceful quiet ride, they would have to endure this heckling.

It had taken more time than usual but he had finally managed to string up the ten dogs. He couldn’t understand why they were so full of piss and vinegar but suggested to himself that it probably had something to do with the new “meat diet” and the fact that they were getting in good shape. Oumak was putting on quite the show out there in front, jumping up and down and banging in his harness. Usually, when the musher would tell him to “sit and be a good boy”, he would calm down and not move but today he was just going crazy, raring to go. The young “shit disturbers” were mimicking him and cheering him on with their squeaky high pitch barks. During all this time, poor young Nikita was trying her best to hold the line tight because “Gino” had told her so. Trying her best, at 43 lbs, she was no match for the gray leader and he was pulling her by the neckline, tossing her around like a rag doll. This did not sit well with the “Boss” as having a calm team before starting out on a run was something that he considered quite useful. Not only did the dogs conserve energy, one stood a better chance of not being left behind in case they got loose. This was something that young dogs needed to learn but there was no way he would be able to get them to stand still on this occasion. So he decided to forget this part of the lesson, jumped on the training rig and pulled the quick release on the snub-line. Usually, his experienced team would have waited for the commands, “Ready” then “Uptrail” but the cheerleaders were off and running way before anything could be said.
“Look at them go!” he said almost amazed, seeing all those little “tight asses” galloping full out. “There is no way they can keep this speed up for any length of time.” He had been holding them back to a trotting speed for the better part of the last month so allowed them to have their moment of controlled chaos. “OK Girls, you want to go for it? Let’s see what you’ve got under the hood!” And with that, he whistled, eased off on the brakes and let them run freely.
“Finally,” the “Kid” said to his wheel partner “Vixen”, “we’re going to get to stretch our legs.” And with that they joined in and put the pedal to the metal.
The “Girly Girl” team was surpassing the musher’s expectation and he couldn’t understand where such “petite filles” were getting so much power. Surely they would slow down on that first incline two miles out but they didn’t. They just kept pulling and keeping the speed up. So he decided to see how far they would go before they ran out of steam. There was a lesson to be learnt in there somewhere and there was no way they could keep it up. Besides the run to the “Quebec Alps” was only 10 miles long.

When the team got to the “three mile” junction, it was critical that it went straight ahead. Not only did that left turn take you to a series of long and distant trails, a “RECCE” of the area needed to be done every autumn so to ensure that there were no obstacles obstructing the trail systems. So far, this hadn’t been done and as you would have it, Oumak had it in his thick skull that was where we would be headed that day.
“On By!” the dogman shouted to his two leaders, “On By!”
Young Nikita recognized this command and tried to lead the team in a forward direction but good old “Mak” would not listen and was trying to turn right.
Braking the motorless ATV to a complete stop, the musher yelled at him, “Non “Mak”, I said “On By!”
Him pulling hard to go right and Nikita putting extreme efforts trying to proceed in the correct direction, she was to lose this “tug-of-war” when the cheerleaders put their shoulders to the rope. Shout, brake, curse all you want, there was no stopping them now. They had managed to go where they wanted and were on their way to explore new frontiers.
“Well,” the musher said to himself, “I’ll turn at the trapper’s camp and just do a short “8 mile run.”
That’s what he thought but the team had other ideas. They climbed the next hill at break neck speed and instead of listening to the “Gee” command so to turn right and then loop around, they just whizzed on by the building. Across that narrow makeshift bridge they flew without even realizing that one of them could have caught a leg in a crack between the logs and might have broken it.
“Oh I didn’t like that.” he reflected while aiming and braking the rig across it till its four wheels were locked, “Those spaces between those logs can be mighty treacherous.”
By now, some of you might think that the dogs were out of control and I would almost have to agree with you. But what can you do? These things are known to occur especially with a young team that doesn’t understand what “Stay” means. When one ventures out with a light motorless ATV, two things are a “must”. First, the “four wheeler” must have not good but excellent brakes and it is important that you travel with a team that will respond to your commands. It is the only way that one should risk using such a contraption. On this day, the musher was being reminded of this. Holding on to dear life, he was just going along for the ride and was hoping that they would tire out eventually and this without incident.

They were coming up to a “Y” junction and it was imperative that the team turn left. The other direction offered a series of possible dangers, including a large beaver pond that these industrious animals would build across the road every year. Usually, the trapper and his son would dismantle the dam every late fall but the beavers would just consider this effort as more overtime challenges to keep the water levels high. The dogsledders of the area were aware of this and would avoid this particular stretch of trail till late in the winter when it was frozen solid and safe to cross.
“Niki, Mak, Haw, Haw Trail!” the “Boss” shouted.
Niki did want to go left and was trying to proceed in that direction but Oumak was dragging her to that “Gee” trail, a trail that he remembered so well from before. He guided the team past that sharp right hand corner and was headed towards potential disaster. Along the way, it was clear that nobody had been in this area lately as there were fallen trees at three different places. These didn’t really offer challenges to the team as the tree trunks were small and were something that they could simply plow through and jump over. As they tackled each obstacle, it was pleasant to see that the young girls were getting accustomed to wearing that harness on their back and were enjoying themselves.
“They’re actually working as a dog team.” the driver thought to himself, starting to relax but being led into a false sense of security. “They’re actually really showing real potential.” What was really happening is that they were catching their second breath and once they reached a certain descending part of the trail, it was as if they had passed the word around and here they were at “full speed ahead” again. The musher knew better than to let them run full blast downhill and slowed them to a comfortable speed that would minimize the possibility of shoulder injuries. Eventually coming around a long left bend and coming face to face with this monster of a water hazard, he was astonished by the dimensions of this natural wonder.
“Holly Shit, look at it!” he exclaimed out loud.
Yup, he was surprised to see the shear magnitude of this beaver pond. With all that exaggerated amount of rain the region had had over the last six months, the surface area was at least five times its normal size. Gazing up at the sky and laughing to himself, he wondered if they could see it from the International Space Station.
“Probably not,” he smiled, “but still…”
Needing to immediately immobilize them, he commanded his team. “Stay you guys, Stay!”
Both leaders did slow down to a crawl but because of the slippery icy grass, the ATV wouldn’t adhere properly to the surface and the “Girly Girls” kept pulling it closer and closer to the edge of the pond.
Almost in desperation, he called, “For fuck’s sakes, you girls, STAY!”
It was useless. They would just not listen and just wanted to go and play in the beautiful clear water.
Not being able to stop the team in order to turn them around, he was losing this battle. They kept creeping forward and by now, the front six dogs were in knee deep water and they were committed to fording the beaver pond. Getting himself mentally prepared to take a cold bath, the man didn’t say a thing and let the dogs test the water for themselves. The further they went, the deeper it got. Not even in the middle of it, the small yearlings soon found out that the water was way over their heads and this was not fun anymore. Oumak, not capable of walking on the bottom, started rearing himself on his hind legs and started trashing about not really knowing how to get out of this mess. He suddenly stopped right in the middle of the “lake” bunching the team all together with him to the point where dogs were stepping on top of dogs so to keep breathing. An immediate panic spread amongst the young females and all of a sudden, it was to be a desperate fight for survival. Add to that a tangled mess of necklines and tuglines and you had a serious situation where dogs would die.

There was not a moment to spare so the musher got off the rig to render assistance to the submerged animals. As soon as the ATV was released of its rider, with its huge balloon tires, it started to float. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. With water way past his waist, he pushed the buoyant rig backwards so to get the gangline tight. This done, he turned around and sure as hell, there she was, swimming. You see, she was used to deep water because back at the lodges, at their private beach, she would spend hours accompanying Mosqua when he’d swim in the river to fetch a stick. Here in her element,here she was, as cool as a cucumber, dog paddling. She wasn’t going anywhere because of the tangled gaggle behind her but she was staying on top, threading water.
“Nikita, Uptrail Girl, Uptrail!” he said after quickly managing to get some sort of straight extended line, “Uptrail!”
With her pulling, Oumak and the remainder of the team now facing in a general direction and the musher holding the ATV back, heads started bobbing up from the “Abyss”. Coughing and gasping for air, all of them were accounted for except for little “Thunder”. You could see her small white figure struggling with all her might, under water with the gangline somehow wrapped around her neck. Try and try again, she just couldn’t squirm her way out to reach the surface.

An immediate jolt of “Action Jackson” super juice spread right through the ex-military man and he rushed to the side of his rambunctious but loveable little “Peanut Head”. With both arms, he grabbed the gangline on both sides of the choking dog and pulled them together so to release some pressure around its neck. In one single same motion, he lifted the rope above water so that “Thunder” could get a chance to breathe. Gagging and spitting volumes of liquids from out of her mouth, it was time that she got oxygen to her brain. Looking at how the noose was fashioned, he figured that if he could make the loop bigger, she could get out. He pulled the two sides even closer together but she wasn’t getting the right idea. She needed to back out of it but all she wanted to do was go forward and head to shore. Thinking fast, he gambled and let go of the gangline. With his left hand, he grabbed the top of the loop and held it tight. With his right one, he pulled the dog by the tail backwards and released her from that strangle hold. Still in that overwhelming feeling of terror, she was trying desperately to climb on top of her sister’s head and in the process, was submerging her. The man, seeing that this provided more potential danger, reached under Thunder’s belly and moved her away so not to harm Lightning.
“Easy there, Girl! Easy!” he repeated this on more than one occasion. Recognizing his voice, suddenly she was relaxing in his hand with a look on her face that said, “Please, please don’t let me drown.”
“Don’t you worry about that, you “Peanut Head”, you. Everything is going to be all right.” With that he started following the forward momentum that the swimming team was providing. Looking at the front of the line, here was Nikita leading the parade and Oumak really happy that she was. This period of weightlessness made it that she was able to drag the stubborn old mule in the direction that she wanted as here the size of the dog didn’t necessarily matter.
“Good Girl, Nikita! he encouraged her, “Good Girl!”
Still cupping little “Peanut Head” in his hand, she had caught on that to get to the other side, she needed to swim and by “George”, there she was doing it, helping the other team members.
The musher, with his soaked and wet to the neck insulated overalls, was being a hindrance more than anything else. He couldn’t move fast enough through the water so allowed the team to swim the width of the pond on their own. He let them pull the ATV past him at which point he latched on to the rear axle with his right hand. Half gliding behind it and half “scissor kicking” with his legs, the entire gang managed to traverse more than two hundred feet before they again found solid ground under their paws. Glad that they had reached the shore, they stopped and “shook it off”. Getting up after crawling on his “four” for a while, the exhausted man reached to where the “snowhooks” were on the rig and planted them firmly into the mud.
“Stay, you Guys! Stay!”

For some strange reason, there was a renewed sense of collaboration. None of them hesitated to co-operate and he walked up the line towards the leaders, inspecting the “Troopies” from head to toe, making sure that nobody was hurt while readjusting some neck and tug lines. When he reached the front however, he was still engulfed with this warrior entity and everything it encompassed. He couldn’t help it. This persona would invade him every single time that he faced an imminent threat and this in whatever form it appeared. In the past in that military forum, this had proved to be an indispensable and welcomed asset as it had more than saved his bacon and this on numerous occasions. However, when these adrenaline filled episodes would enter and spread throughout his body, not only did he not perceive danger, he would become a liability to himself as he would try to eliminate the menace and this at all cost. This side of him was not accepted as a way of resolving things on “civvy street”. Therefore civilized society didn’t understand and were somewhat scared of these “robots” that military systems produced and let’s face it, there was cause for concern. They were hard to deal with as there were no switch to turn them on and off at will. The man was aware of this dark side of his personality so had chosen to basically retreat to the quietness of the backcountry. In this manner, he would stand a better chance at avoiding confrontational situations. So with some of the rage still in his heart, the initial thing he really felt like doing was to close his fist and drive it real hard in the side of Oumak’s head. However, the wiser side of him would prevail and he refrained from doing so.
“There was no sense in this,” the “Good” wolf said to his “Evil” twin, “as canines live the moment and he would probably not understand what was happening. After all, didn’t he just finish swimming across the "English Channel" to save the day?”
When the ex-soldier did reach him, the dog’s ears were flopped down, his tail was between its legs as if he was ready and expecting some sort of punishment. Looking down at him, the musher figured that his old trail partner had had enough for one day so gently patted him on the head. “Oumak, Oumak, Oumak! When will you ever learn?”
Sensing that things might be good between them, his old friend started moaning like only “Oumak” can and he started nibbling at the man’s hand in a sign of affection.
“It’s OK, Old Buddy! Shit happens! Now do you think that maybe we could go home without arguing as to who runs things in this town?” Eyeing all the wet dogs, there seemed to be a consensus that they all had had enough excitement for the day. Figuring that it was just about that time, the tired old serviceman went back and hoped on the ATV.
“All right, Boys and Girls, let’s go home!” he said calmly, “Ready? Uptrail!”

They moved out slowly and under control but the trip was not going to be too pleasant. The dogs were tired and their harnesses were becoming stiff from the cold and causing armpit rubs. Meanwhile, the musher was running besides the training buggy but regardless, he wasn’t generating enough heat to keep his clothes from hardening as hard as a rock.
Panting as he went along, he could hear once again the pounding of his heart just behind his eardrums. “Oh Great!” he reflected. “Just what I needed, another sleepless night.” He knew exactly what would transpire in the next couple of days but what could you do? It was the nature of the beast and something he had to live with…

To be continued…

THE "EAR" STORY

2011-11-24T15:29:00.000-08:00

It was the middle of November and the monsoon season was still going strong. The musher had seven pairs of boots lined up, drying by the wood stove and had gotten used to wearing mud impregnated pants. The way he saw things, there was no sense in washing his clothes every day as wherever they traveled, the ground was soaked beyond absorbing any more rain. So, here he was by a roaring fire in the stove in the “Bunkhouse”, trying to get the chill out of his arthritic riddled bones…

After putting the dogs through their paces for the last two months, it was time to shuffle the line-ups a bit. He would need to pick out the racing prospects, bump up the daily mileages way past the “20 mile” mark and push them beyond their comfort zones. At the beginning of this training season, he had grandiose plans of running the three major “100 milers” but after consulting the programs for those races, he came to realize that where in the past, these events were “10 dog” strings, the rules had been changed and the organizers would now allow a standardized “12 dog” team to participate. This to the musher made a lot of sense as it gave the participants a chance to better prepare for the East Coast’s main event, the CAN-AM 250, in Fort-Kent.

This was fine and dandy but it would also throw a curve ball down his way and into his own kennel. Out of the twenty-three dogs on hand, he did not have a dedicated and full compliment for such a racing team. At one end, he had at least five semi-retired “easy go lucky, let’s smell the roses and fart as we go along old-timers” and at the other end, he had all those small almost tiny “’tight ass cheerleaders”. While the old “Viagra” clan still had it in the back of their mind that they could mix it up with the best, the young “chicks” and of course “Vince” the giant, were a bunch of “green horns” that had no track record whatsoever. These two factors were something that he needed to seriously consider as these mid-distance events were no cake walks.

Going down the list of contenders, he started to realize that the picking might be slim to fill the roster needed for a “12” dog team. The last sixty days of training had not gone according to plans. They were way behind in accumulated mileage and with all the different events that happened during that period, the “Canadian Snowhounds” might be in what you might call the “Hurt Locker”. It wasn’t necessarily their fault but life had a way of putting forward certain challenges and October had provided him many of them. Sitting there, adding and subtracting names of dogs, he was scratching his head, wondering why he bothered with this madness. After complete analysis of the situation, he had come to a plausible conclusion. It had not been an “easy going” throughout the last month and the obstacles had been numerous. He had gone through “Hell Week” times five and if this wasn’t bad enough, “JR” aka “Don Juan” had managed to break out of his enclosure to then eat through the wooden grill at “Orka’s” sleeping quarters. Of course with this mission completed, they escaped and gallivanted throughout the entire night. Not only did the smooth talker have his ways with the young virgin, they eventually met up with a skunk who could not be convinced in having a threesome so they got sprayed “big time”. After spending a few hours washing the two love birds, it was decided that the “Great Houdini” would be allowed to sleep in the house. This was a last resource solution as he needed to be kept under immediate adult supervision. Let’s face it! “JR” had strong hormones and an “iron will” to match and the musher could not stop him from trying to get that “piece of tail”. In the past, all imaginable tricks of the trade had been tried but nothing would curb that wild will to breed. Keeping him in the house seemed to be the only solution but this was a figment of the man’s imagination. “JR” was only marking time and being cute while waiting for the occasion to get back to his harem. And as you would have it, it happened. Maybe two days later, he was no longer at the musher’s side and hearing all the commotion coming from the “Howl-A-Day Inn”, it was obvious that something was up. When the man got to the building, it was too late. The “Stud” had managed to climb a seven foot wall, crawl through a seven inch space up by the ceiling and copulate with another young bitch. Looking at “Thunder” with that crossed eyed look on her face, back to back and stuck there with her soother, there would not be much more that could be done other than phone the veterinarian and have the two bred females spayed. Not that he was being prejudice but he needed to be responsible and additional mouths to feed were not in the cards at this time (As a side note, when they were eventually operated on, not only would they miss out on the training but between the two of them, “Orka” and “Thunder” were carrying thirteen puppies…)

“Hell Week” had also brought other headaches. Since castrating a bunch of males that previous summer, there was a new chemistry in the barn. Where the aggressive males had now calmed down, the other more subdued dogs had figured they’d climb up the hierarchy ladder. “Leonard” who had been the most reserved one of the bunch was suddenly walking around with this “ridge back” of raised hair, strutting along and shoulder checking any contenders. For some reason, he started bullying young “Vince” and after a while, the “Friendly Giant” got tired of this and would take a stance. The fight, although short, was most serious and “Leonard” was soon to realize that with all that hard training, the baby fat that “Vince” once carried during his teens had now been replaced by bulging muscles. The giant was a powerhouse compared to him and poor “Leonard” would remember this episode for as long as he lived as he would now be sporting a real ugly reminder. In their encounter, “Vince” had managed to take a chomp on his opponent’s head. When all was done and over with, “Leonard” was in real pain and was missing half his right ear.

It’s amazing how certain incidents will cause certain undesired past events to re-surface and send a “PTSD head case” into a frenzy. Seeing that poor dog yelp in pain, shaking his head and splattering blood all over the place was to give this ex-soldier an unwanted blast of adrenaline that rushed instantly to his head. Unwillingly, he was transported back in time to an incident that had happened way back then in that previous life of his.

Although totally different in nature, the missing piece of ear had brought back forgotten souvenirs, memories that he had long ago forgotten about. It was a winter exercise in Wainwright, Alberta, called “Rapier Thrust” and the year was 1982. There he was, a pimple-faced Military Policeman employed with the 2nd Battalion of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, in the “Junior Ranks Club”, his heart pounding through his eardrums ready to battle a fellow soldier, the infamous “Billy Cogle”. He had no willingness to take on this man as these two individuals had previously clashed on numerous occasions and to say the least, “Billy” enjoyed inflicting pain as well as receiving it. The young MP had tried on several earlier occasions to remove the individual from a drinking establishment without violence but this had always ended up as being a useless exercise. “Billy” was the type of guy that found pleasure in resisting arrest and when he was in one of his drunken stupor, he always had an attitude where he would not go down without a fight. Many of these altercations had occurred and both parties had the now mended but broken bones to attest to this. The last time they had fought, the young Corporal had managed to get the upper hand and had literally pounded his fist at Cogle’s forehead for at least 25 times. This masochist would not fall down nor would he abandon. Here he was, bleeding like a pig, laughing it off and asking for more. Shaking his head almost in discouragement, the arresting officer stopped hitting the man as he could not comprehend as to why this man could not be knocked out. It was insane the beating he had put on him and here he was still standing. So out of pity, he decided that enough was enough and chose to use a different approach.
“Hey Billy,” he had told his tenacious opponent, “I don’t know about you but I think that I’ve had enough. What would you say if we’d call it a night?” For some reason, on that evening, that’s all that had been needed to finally settle the matter.

But that particular night at the Wainwright Junior Ranks Club, this was to be a different can of worms. The boys had just come out of the field after a hard sub-zero week of grunt work. They needed to vent and there was some heavy duty celebrating going on. Dancing on the tables, drinking beer out of “mukluks” and throwing empty cans at each other, it was a party and it was hardcore “Army” style. So that evening, when he received the call from the bartender, Roussel knew what was to be expected. These infantry types were known to throw a punch or two and the “Boyz” from 2 PPCLI could back the reputation of being the best of what the Canadian military system could muster. He had been posted with this unit as a replacement to another policeman who had been put in the hospital so many times that he couldn’t handle the job anymore and would puke every time he had to come on duty. That had been two years ago and during that period, the newcomer had been put through the “ringer” more than he cared to remember. Dealing with individuals with nicknames like, “Grizzly Adam”, “King Kong Kingshott”, “Crazy Man Andrews” and last but not least, “No Neck Rowe”, who by the way were all specimen that stood taller than six feet at an average of 240 lbs, he had had his shares of fights with them and this on more than a few occasions. He had won some but also had lost a few but at the end of the day, the troops had accepted him as one of their own and had some sort of respect for him. So when he walked into the “Bar”, hands in his pockets, the first thing he decided to do was to stay close to the door and take time to observe. All the “animals” were in the zoo and it was best to try and defuse the situation in an amiable way.
“Hey guys,” Andrews yelled over the noise, “Gino, the Meathead is here!”
“Hello Gino!” a bunch of them replied as they threw a volley of beer cans in his direction. “How the hell are you?”
There wasn’t much to answer to this other than “Fine” so that’s what he said. To better try and get control of things, the young MP whistled to get their attention and it somewhat worked.
“OK Guys! Party’s over! The Bar’s closed and it’s time to go to bed!”
He had almost convinced them that it was a good idea till “Billy” got up, grabbed a wooden chair and pitched it across at the bottles behind the bar. “Fuck that shit!” he said, “We’ll leave when we feel like it!”
The crowd regained momentum and you could feel the excited tension fill the air. It had been a while since these two gladiators had squared off and “Billy” felt like putting on a show.
“Ah come on Billy, I really don’t feel like scrapping tonight!” was all Roussel could blur out. “Be reasonable and I’ll take you to the shacks!”
He might have been swayed to do just that but his soldier friends were antagonizing him and chanting “Go Billy, Go! Go Billy, Go!” Like a Maestro, his arms in the air as if he was directing the orchestra, he demanded that they scream louder and they did. Figuring that the decibel level was high enough, standing by the bar, he ripped his combat shirt right off his own back. To the cheering crowd, he threw it behind the bar and invited his reluctant rival to come out and “Tango”.

There was no way out of this one and the young MP would have to accept the challenge or at least he would have to lead Cogle into believing that he would fight him.
“Oh Billy”, he mocked him, “Put your shirt back on! You smell and you’re going to find it mighty cold when I drag you outside by your feet!”
This seemed to stir the pot as insults started flying back in his direction.
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” What are the boys going to say when I’m wiping the floor with your unconscious frame?”
This did it. His fuse was lit and there was no turning back.
Putting his hand up, Roussel continued, “Hold on for a second there, Billy Boy! Let me take my parka off. You want this to be fair don’t you?” To this he agreed and allowed his “next meal” to peal that bulky piece of outer clothing.
“OK Billy, I think I’m ready now.” the enforcer of the law said. “Let’s get at her!”
With that he motioned the drunken fool to come forward. It had the desired effect and “Billy” was stunned and somewhat hesitant to make the first move. So the MP did. He walked towards him and invaded his space.
“One way or the other Billy, you’re leaving this place.” he spoke to him most seriously.
There was more hesitation but this was interrupted by some “yahoo” who yelled, “What’s it going to be Billy? Are you going to kiss him or what?”
That did it. He lunged forward and started to swing.
The dancing partner knew better than to take him on fist to fist, toe to toe so evaded his right hook, spun him around and from the back put a choke hold on him. The intention was to put him to sleep but the maneuver didn’t exactly work according to plans and instead of having a good tight noose on the individual’s throat, Billy Cogle had managed to bite into the MP’s left forearm. The more he tried to choke him, the more the soldier was biting hard into that arm muscle. He was in pain and told him so, “Billy, let go buddy! That fucking hurts!” He wouldn’t and at one point he started growling like a mad dog.
Talking through the pain, Roussel told him again, “Billy, for the last time, give it up!” There was no reasoning with the man. He just wouldn’t let go of that piece of flesh. So seeing that available right ear, right there, in front of his mouth, he decided to play the same game and went for it, bite for bite.
It didn’t take long for the soon to be arrestee, to start yelling in excruciating pain. He could really feel it and while trying to escape “Jaws”, he tried to pull his head away but this resulted in serious consequences. Roussel had a good bite on it and it ripped apart, leaving him with a piece of ear in his mouth. Still holding him in a now well re-adjusted choke hold, he could taste that copper flavored liquid. Knowing that it was blood, he decided to capitalize on the situation and rubbed his face in it so that it would be smeared all over his own face. It was all theatrics of course but when Cogle fell to his knees holding the right side of his head in agony, foaming red and white stuff at the mouth, the man pretended to be completely delirious. He spat the piece of ear on the bar where it bounced a few times, turned to the crowd and said, “Anybody else want a piece of me?”
For some reason, the place had gone totally silent and this time when he told them that the “Bar” was closed, they all co-operated and went home. As for poor “Billy”, he eventually got up and the role of the “Big Brother” would now have to be played. The “not so crazy after all” Corporal put his parka back on and took him to the hospital for some needed medical attention.
A few days later, there would be everlasting peace in the valley whenever Cpl Roussel was on duty. The rumor had spread around like wildfire within the unit lines that it wasn’t good to screw around with the baby “Watchdog” as he had rabies. As for “Billy”, as strange as it might sound, he became a real good friend, one that would always have his back and this for as long as the two individuals worked with the “Patricias”…

So by now, you would think that there would have been enough excitement but this “Leonard losing an ear” saga would only bring us to maybe the middle of October. There was to be a couple more “Adrenaline” filled moments but I would suggest that we’ll save those for later on! = - )

To be continued…

BAISLEY STARS?

2011-11-13T23:34:00.000-08:00

On that bright sunny early November morning, there wasn’t much noise coming out of the “Dog Camper”. They were coming back from a “20 mile” run and at this early stage of the season and this according to “Vixen”, the “Boss” had pushed the envelope a bit too much.
“What the hell was that all about?” she busted out loud, trying to relieve the cramps from her hindquarters. Having limited success and wondering if she was the only one that felt the burn in her legs, she asked her brother, “What about you, “Kid”, are you OK?”

As if he wasn’t there, the bruiser stayed silent in the confines of his box. Of course he was all right and why not? They had gone through these drills on more than one occasion throughout their running careers and on this particular run, he had enjoyed himself tremendously as they had discovered and traveled through new and most beautiful countryside.

Right now, however, that’s not what was on his mind. He just couldn’t understand what was going on. His training partner for the last month, young “Kameo”, had blown the doors right off him during this outing. He just couldn’t believe that such a small package could pack such a punch and for such a distance. Put simply, he was ashamed that he had been outdone by this featherweight.

He wasn’t the only one to be impressed. The musher had also taken notice of the performance of the three young dogs on the string. But and this was the most important part, he was relieved that the team had made it back to the truck safe and sound. Let’s be serious here. He had taken off with the oldest and youngest of the kennel and while the “Viagra” clan had covered such distances in previous seasons, the yearlings were not used to being on the trail for such a duration. It’s not that he had wanted to take them on such a long run and it had just happened because he didn’t have any choice in the matter. At a most critical intersection along the way and this in the name of progress (yeah they’re pushing a four lane highway through there), the trail had been invaded by a bunch of lumberjacks and their heavy equipment. Where normally, they would have needed the surface of a “Wal-Mart” parking lot to operate safely, these guys had managed to squeeze their machinery in a space that might allocate at best, twenty vehicles. To make matters worse, with the skidders, they had pulled hardwood tree lengths all alongside this road so to process through a “Slasher”. Now here was a “10 dog” team, stopped and facing this monster of a machine. Quite impressive with its rotating 60 inch sawblade while flexing its extendable arm and grapple, it was straddled across the roadway, digesting logs into “8 foot” lengths and spewing sawdust all over the place. This was fine and dandy but it was also obstructing the right of way to a public thoroughfare to any passer-by let alone the dog team. Checking the situation thoroughly, it was obvious that there would be no possibility of turning around and the only other alternative was to push on forward through the obstacle course.

He just had to look at the musher’s face to realize that right now was not a good time to argue as to who might be at fault. His equipment was scaring some of the dogs and the driver of the training rig was struggling to hold them in place.
“JR”, the ex-military man belted out louder than and burying the sound of the diesel engine, “stay and hold that fucking line!!!”

Without the slightest hesitation, the seasoned leader did what he was told. He trusted the man wholeheartedly so stood fast right there and then and kept her tight. While he was doing this, little “Summer”, scared shitless, was trying to wiggle her way out of her harness to get away from that huge metallic beast. “JR” turned his head, and with a sympathetic look that said it all to her, he communicated, “It’s OK, Girl! It’s OK!” She didn’t know what to make of the situation but seeing that everybody else around her was cool with this, she hesitantly settled down but with her tail way deep between her shaking legs.

Now having the team under control and pointing to the operator, the musher made a sign with his hand across his own throat. The man in the cab didn’t know if it meant “I’m going to slice your throat, you bastard!” or “Kill the engine!” However, the way the man was glaring at him, he knew he needed to do something quick so chose to first test out the least harmful option so stopped the machine. It took a while for the sawblade to finish spinning but it gave the musher time to plan an escape route. There was only one solution so he called it, “JR, Uptrail.”

It was going to be a tight squeeze but he had no choice. He would have to drive the team under the raised bed of the “Slasher”. It could be done but he would have to guide his lead dogs. The problem was not with his main leader but with his partner and apprentice. At two years old, “Nikita” had showed all the potential in the world to be a “Class One” leader. However, this was no ordinary situation and not something that you would see in a “Mushing 101” textbook. So, the driver called her name, got her attention and talked her through the process. “Easy Niki”, he said calmly, “Easy!” “Good Girl,” he said to her, satisfied with what he was seeing. Her and “JR” were actually leading the team out of that mess and were responding to the commands. “On by Guys! On by!” he continued. Still they were paying attention to his voice. Lying flat on the motorless ATV, the musher managed to hold on to the brakes while scrapping his back on the huge metal “H” beams under the “Slasher”. Finally clearing that obstacle, he stopped the team. “Good Job you guys!!!” he called out to his dogs, “Good Job!!!” Relieved that they had passed the first test with flying colors, he looked around him so to see what would be his best way out. On his right, the four lane highway - that was impossible to cross with a dog team. In front, five workers with chainsaws chopping away at trees and producing firewood – There was barely any room for them to work, never mind turning a gangline with ten dogs around. So, the logical place to go was up this hill on the left. It was, yes, the logical “out route” but with all that rain during October and the cold in November, this road was a sheer surface of ice and at a very steep incline. This, now the musher had figured out, was the reason why the loggers weren’t at their usual place. They couldn’t get up there. Yeah, OK but the dog team could not stay in the middle of that log yard all day so a snap decision needed to be made. “JR! Niki! Haw, Haw Trail!” Banging in their harnesses, they turned left and led the rest of the crew towards this next challenge. To see all the dogs with their ears flopped backwards and concentrating on not loosing their footing was an impressive sight. All the workers had stopped doing what they were doing and it was so quiet that you could hear the dogs’ nails scratching on the ice. “The guy’s crazy”, one of men said to his co-worker. “There is no way that they’re going to make it up there!”

The dogman was listening to this single conversation over the dead silence of the forest but was not worried about this too much. He had gotten off and was helping the dogs get up the mountain. While they were pulling, he was providing very limited pushing as it was real slippery and the stones protruding through the ice surface where he could secure a good footing were far in between. Nonetheless, they were making relatively good progress and for some off the wall reason, the man laboring and pushing on the handlebars was relishing this misery. The sharp and straight cliff on the left side and the deep ravine on the other reminded him of an expedition way back then where he had climbed a glacier on the north face of the “Shilthorn”, in Switzerland.
“The only difference,” he thought to himself almost laughing out loud, “was that over there, we were at above 2000 meters and we had cleats on our boots.” “Oh yeah,” he added now talking to himself, “you didn’t have ten dogs in tow.”

Now this constituted another serious problem. It was fine to climb to the top of “Mount Pimple” but there was no way in hell that he could come back down this way safely. Just sit down and imagine ten dogs slip sliding away downhill, in a mangled cluster, with an out of control “4 wheeler” strapped to their ass. Now envision, the log yard as a bowling alley and pins flying all over the place. Yeah, not too pretty of a picture, I would imagine. No, another way would have to be found so to get back to the truck in one piece. Within the span of 60 seconds, many scenarios were analyzed by the musher’s brain but none of them offered a viable solution. Then suddenly, he remembered a trail that he had surveyed a few years back that might have real potential. It would be taking the long way home but it would mean a less treacherous trek.
“What about the yearlings?” he asked himself. “Will they be capable of enduring the distance?”
“Now what about if you can’t find the right trail and you get lost? Are you ready to spend the day out there?”
So many questions and so many unknowns that needed to be dealt with. The turn-off was just around the corner and he had to make a choice soon. Then, unexpectedly this voice joined in this conversation within his mind.
“Trust the dogs.” his mentor Leonard Lanteigne whispered, “Trust the dogs.” It had been a while since the ghost of that old friend had come to visit and to acknowledge this, the dogman simply smiled to himself and said, “Hey Leonard, how’s it going?”

Coming back to the realities of this trip, he called it. “JR, Niki, Gee, Gee Trail.” Without missing a beat, they turned right at the “Y” junction and off they were gone, to explore uncharted territories. What had started as a disaster of a run was to soon turn into a most enjoyable journey. First, the dogs were working double time, excited at the prospect of discovering new smells. Down the next valley, they met up with two Bull Moose that had survived the hunting season, peacefully bobbing their heads under water and feeding on the plants at the bottom of a beaver pond. Up the next ridge and this to the musher’s great surprise, he met up with his old friends, the “Bald Eagle family, the three same birds that had been uprooted the year before when the industry had clear cut their nesting area across the river. Seeing them sailing about in the uplifting thermals maybe one hundred feet above the line of dogs, made of this reunion a real happy moment for this man. He had gone up and down the Madawaska River all throughout the previous summer in search of these birds of prey but they had been nowhere to be found. Along the way, he saw fit to get off the ATV and run so to help out with the carrying of the load. Huffing and puffing, trying to keep up with the pace was nearly impossible and this exercise was to truly suggest as to who was the weakest member of the team. “Conclusion,” he reflected, “it’s not one of the little girls in front.” Miles after miles, intersections after intersections, they pushed on. They were now deep in Quebec territory so to kill time and be in complete harmony with “Bill 101”, he started speaking to his dogs in French. “En avant, les pitous! En avant!” “Bon chiens, les copains! Bon chiens!” “Tout Droit, tout droit!” The dogs didn’t have a clue as to what he was saying but it seemed to amuse him, so they just zoned him out. All this enjoyment was soon to come to a closure as they made their way to where the Quebec side of the “four lane highway” construction site was at. “Yup,” the musher pondered, looking again at another huge clear cut patch with its millions of dollars of equipment, spread all over far and wide, “This would have been quite the training place if this project wasn’t here. But I guess that’s progress…” They eventually connected to the bicycle path and for the next seven kilometers, he let the dogs run at their own rhythm. The “old guard” was trotting along and amazingly, the yearlings didn’t seem to tire out. “Yeah, the little ones did pass the initial test.” he realized. “They actually completed their first “20 mile” outing and that for such a young bunch was quite the achievement. They had showed him that they could actually be contenders. Let’s face it – Any “couch potato” out there could run five and even ten miles at the time but it took guts, determination and a special will to go out there and do the longer distances. What is it that “Leonard” used to say? Oh yeah! “You will know that you have good distance dogs when you get back to the truck after twenty miles and they still have their “flags” up” and they’re winking at you with that third eye.”

Not only did they finish the run all happy but eventually on the way back to the lodges, they were playfully yapping at each other. Stopped and waiting to turn left because of oncoming traffic, the musher had to giggle to himself seeing the look on the faces of some of the people because of all the barking coming from the trailer. What they considered awful sounding noises, he simply loved it as it was music to his ears.

And in their own little “Dog Universe”, the young ones had cause for celebration as this to them, was a major accomplishment. “Vince” had instigated all this chanting only to be joined by “Summer”, “Kameo” and “Nikita”. Here they were all together now, singing at the top of their lungs, over and over,
“We are, we are! We are the Baisley Stars!”
Continuously, without stopping they went on repeating these lyrics. Suddenly, tired of hearing this quasi-nonsense, the “Kid” broke his long silence and piped out,
“Jeez,” he said almost in desperation, “and to top it all, now we’re stuck with a bunch of tight ass cheerleaders in the barn! What’s this world coming to?” With a smirk on his face and shaking his head, he curled into a tight ball and put his front paws over his ears to try and deafen the racket. It was somewhat working but he still could hear “Kameo” teasing him,
“Oh Uncle Kid! You’re a poor sport but we love you anyway…”
At this, he growled pretending to be upset but deep inside, he knew better. These puppies were managing to find a soft spot in his heart because according to this “Bruiser”, they had spunk…

To be continued…

THE BAISLEY MOB

2011-11-04T02:10:00.000-07:00

So, when we got back from that run, I was satisfied as to how things had transpired. It had only been a short flat three miler but the “snot noses” had finally grasped what was expected of them. They had kept their tug lines tight for most of the way and amazingly enough had found a zone of comfort and enjoyment in doing this stuff…

Although I was somewhat impressed by my young yearlings that morning, I was even more proud of the “Old Guard”. These old veterans had showed the new prospects how things were supposed to be done and that was something that could not be easily taught by a “human”. But still, this crew did look funny standing there at the truck waiting for their “treats”. I just could not stop wondering as to where I would go with all these “shrimps”. Except for “Big Boy Vince”, the new recruits looked kind of out of place as far as I was concerned. After all, these young girls tipping the scale at maybe 42 lbs were miniscule compared to the “Baisley Mob” who were mastodons at an average of 73 lbs. But it wasn’t their fault that they were so tiny and on the encouraging side, where they lacked in power and strength, they made up for in speed and enthusiasm.

There was most truth to that statement when you looked at “Kameo” that day. With her muddy white face, oddly paired with the biggest dog in the kennel, she had no fear whatsoever of the “Kid”. Normally, he would usually be the type to try and intimidate his running partner but this little playful black and white Siberian had won his heart. She would lick his face, drop down to roll on her “I’m so cute” side, bite his ankles and even jump on his back for a piggyback ride. To lose his temper with her did not solve anything and besides, the big bruiser kind of liked his new running partner. So for the last month, they had been challenging each other down the trail. Where he would pull hard, she would try to pull harder. Where he would run, she would try to outrun him. To see “Kameo” now sporting the new nickname of “Gino’s little Camaro” work so hard reminded me of when the “Kid” and “Vixen” came into this old musher’s life…

THE BAISLEY MOB

Way back then, six years ago, when I woke up that morning, I was really glad to see that the rain had finally stopped. For those last two days, you might say, I was getting a bit discouraged. One didn’t have to see it on the news to be able to determine that it had been quite the storm. The river in front of the cottages had swollen up and this for over a good two feet. Where did all this rain come from, I had wondered. It wasn’t normal for this time of the year. But then again, I realized while brushing my teeth that I always said the same thing as October brought on these heavy rainfalls every year and this without fail.

That morning, I walked to the mud room and started putting my boots on. My faithful companion, Mosqua, didn’t have to be told what was going on. He was there sitting still like a statue by the door, just sitting there waiting for the words to come out of my mouth. So I got up and said “Let’s go buddy, let’s go feed the kids. I barely had the chance to open the door and he was out. It never stopped to amaze me to see him run out that door. He was like a sprint racer coming out of the starting block. All out and in a straight line. So down the road we headed, out to the barn now baptized by my wife, as the “Howl-A-Day Inn”. Like all mornings, he was going to win this race as it usually took me a while to get the stiffness out of my arthritis riddled legs. Anyway, we couldn’t sneak up on the dogs and were met at the barn by a symphony of jumping and howling.

Mr. Tibbs, a white Siberian Seppala and veteran of the pack, was not the barking type. Rather he was the cool dude who sang his good morning greetings and this till you let him loose after scratching his belly. He had become a beautiful dog over the past year and had accustomed himself to his new surroundings. To see how he kept his kennel clean, it was like he could really appreciate the upgraded accommodations. Tibbs was a dog that had spent three hard years on the racing circuit, having under his belt over 4000 miles. He was hard core and only knew four things in life. He ate then did his business. He ran and then went to sleep. That’s it, that’s all. When I met up with him, that past January, I noticed immediately that this guy had the heart of a lion. Unfortunately, the way I saw things, he had been kept underfed on purpose and was feeling the blunt of it. I had commented to his then owner how beautiful I thought this dog was to which he had replied, “You want him, take the fucking thing! The way he performed today, he’s on his way to becoming coyote bait. The price is right, “free” complete with harness”. Since I had to decide there and then, I took a chance and plunged head first into this world of racing sleddogs. The gamble had paid off. With tender loving care and a good diet, the dog had healed properly and was showing me what a real racer was all about. At five years old, this guy really knew his stuff and worked extra hard every time we went out. I was glad to have him on board.

His neighbor Maggie, the black Malamute/Canadian Eskimo cross, was still young and rather over enthusiastic. It would take a few minutes for her to settle down. Experience had proven that one was better to wait before opening her pen as one could be easily knocked over by this over sized lap dog. It wasn’t her fault. By the age of six months, when I rescued her, I was to be her fourth master. She had started her life as a cute pet to a teacher that had brought her south from Iqaluit. From there, it had been down hill all the way. When I found her, she was spending her entire days in a crowded 4 x 8 enclosure, being dominated by an oversexed 125 pounds male Malamute. It had taken a lot of time and patience but now she seemed to have gotten used to the idea that this was to be her forever home. She still had a few bad habits but the loyalty that she showed towards me made up for these downfalls. So, I would have to brace myself, open the door and let her jump up on her hind legs. This was the ritual. She would put her front legs over my shoulders and now I would have to hug her, whispering in her right ear that she was my favorite. I don’t think she knew what was being said but anyway… it seemed to keep her happy.

Then came the turn for the twins, Vixen and the “Kid”, two Husky/German Shepard mixes that I had found in December of the previous year, in the middle of the boonies of eastern Quebec. In the past, I had driven through that area many of times and had seen the parents. The mother, a pure bred quiet black German Shepard and the father, a large black and white Husky had always made me take notice and wonder what the off springs would look like if these two gorgeous animals ever matched. To my astonished surprise, this had happened that fall and now mother had given birth in a shed struggling to keep her eleven pups fed. I talked to the discouraged owner, offered to take a couple of the puppies off her hands and she gladly accepted. Not being able to decide which one to pick, I told them that the first two little guys that were to come to me would be going home with me to New-Brunswick. It was like they knew a good thing when they saw one. Vixen crawled over her brothers and sisters to come towards me while the “Kid” just plowed through the bunch. After an exhausting 12 foot race, the choice had been made. These two little black and beige “tikes” would be adopted. Now here they were, 10 months old, full of piss and vinegar and almost outweighing my 70 pound Mosqua. Seeing Vixen’s enthusiastic smile was always a welcoming sight and confirmed why I woke up early every morning to feed these dogs. She was affectionate. Never overly exited but always there for you to scratch her underbelly, she was most lovable. What was nice about her was that she had learned early enough not to leave the immediate area and would never wander off. The “Kid”, well, he was in a league of his own. Over the summer, he had showed me what the definition of an “Alpha dominant” male was, always testing himself and his surroundings. He wasn’t scared of anything. He challenged Tibbs and took on Mosqua. Although these clashes had always been noisy and alarming, they never had been for real. The other two dogs seemed to realize that he was still a young punk of a puppy who needed to explore and express himself. Now, when he took on old Billy the goat, this was to be another story. For a period of time this summer, he would go into the goats coral and chase them around. This would always end up with him facing down the ram who would always challenge the “Kid”. Billy would rise on his back legs, shake his horn and charge at the dog. Meanwhile, the “Kid” would run circles around him, barking and trying to nib at the ram’s hind leg. Although this seemed to always end up as a stalemate, Billy did not see the “Kid” as an overly excited puppy but rather as a real and present danger. As for the “Kid”, he always seemed to end up coming out of the coral with a cocky attitude as if he had won some prize fight. We had gotten used to the annoying barking but always hoped that he would get over this bad habit. One day, however, there was to be the final showdown. While I was preparing their food, I heard the “Kid” again edging the goat on. You could tell that Billy was in prime form and was not impressed. Up on his hind legs, he took his attack position, aimed then rammed at the dog. This time, he struck hard and solid sending the dog hurling into the fence. The “Kid” had been stopped dead in his track and was trying to catch his breath. The ram was going to write the final chapter to this daily saga and rammed the dog again, again really connecting and pinning him to the fence. The way the whole fence line shook, I was sure that the “Kid” was dead. Knowing that he had delivered the ultimate blow, Billy backed off and went back to his daily business of eating grass. As for the “Kid”, it took him at least two minutes to recover from this well placed “knock-out” punch. Eventually, he managed to get up, shook the marbles out of his head and staggered out of the coral. He had just realized that you eventually always meet your match and that the thing with the horns was not to be reckoned with. This was just one of the many lessons of life he had learned over the summer. Now, he seemed to be very mature for his young age and had somewhat settled down. He would not run to you for affection but never missed an opportunity to greet people but this according to his own agenda. After raising them all this time, these two pups had grown up to be members of our family. Seeing them here and now made me realize one thing. They had provided us with numerous good moments over the summer and a lifestyle that was unbelievably gratifying. Anyway I opened their doors and out they came greeted by Maggie as they went out the barn door.

Last but not least, it was “JR’s” turn to come out. Mr. Tibb’s son who was a souvenir left behind by “Tibbs” when he departed the previous owner’s kennel. As I had been impressed by the father, the man had thought that I might be interested in the son. The genetics had potential and besides he was snow white like his father. When I first met up with the pup, it had been hard not to fall in love with him. Six weeks old, both ears standing straight up and ice blue eyes. Although the quiet one of the bunch, you could tell that “JR” was going to be special. Just don’t know what it was but he didn’t prove me wrong. He was now seven months old, the quiet reserved type who had been a pleasure to raise. His first time in harness with the pack the previous month had showed the potential in the little guy. Like a trooper, 25 feet in the training session, he was pulling on that tug line as if he had been doing it for years. So now here they were outside, the “mob”, all jumping at each other, I guess, glad to see each other and saying Good Morning. This was alright as it gave them time to relieve themselves while I prepared their meals. When the food was ready, I banged the feed cup against the bottom of a metal bowl and called out for them to come for breakfast. This to them was one of the highlights of their day. Wherever they were, they stopped doing whatever and made a mad dash to the barn. Although looking like total chaos to see them rush, it was impressive to see them all go to their own bowl and this without ever a miss. It was a good thing because Maggie did not and would not tolerate anybody feeding in her bowl. The water had been tested and the results had been instant and drastic. Although not dominant, Maggie was very territorial about her area and did not tolerate anybody invading her space, eating her food. That was now a respected protocol and everybody was eating out of their own bowl. Everybody, except “JR” - He still figured that if he went and inspected the other dogs bowls when they were finished, he might find some leftovers. I guess he never yet realized that like him, they were all hungry sleddogs that emptied their bowl like it was their last meal. Anyway, the mob had been fed and after giving them time to digest, we would be going on a training session...

Yeah, there they were then also “rookies” and here they are now of all things, teaching others.
= -)

To be continued…

STARTING OVER

2011-10-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

To say that they were lined up like good little soldiers would have been the joke of the day. Here they were, in front of me, on a string of ten dogs not even close to being ready to go out for a run. We had been trying to leave the trailhead for the better part of ten minutes but when you got “snot nose” beginners that don’t have a clue as to what to do well… let’s just say that things weren’t going according to plan.

While my main leader and cool dude, “JR” and his sidekick, “Nikita” were trying to hold the gangline straight and tight, I had four young rookies matched up side by side with members of the “Old Guard”. These now semi-retired dogs standing one behind the other on the left hand side had been through this hook-up routine on countless occasions and knew what the protocol was. It was simple. The boss wanted them to stand still and conserve energy till it was time to launch out. This wasn’t much to ask for but like everything else, it was something that had to be taught and eventually learnt. So for now, here we were dealing with a bunch of excited and playful yearlings doing anything but co-operate. They were jumping around, biting and teasing the neighbor and getting all tangled up. You know it’s going to be a long day when most of the team is facing north and you have two yard birds, straddled on top of another dog, harnesses over their heads, facing backwards and in a southerly direction.

One specific dog, “Orka”, my young sweetheart of a beige Siberian husky, had recently discovered the art of severing a neckline. It was a nasty habit and one that would have to be dealt with, “pronto”. It would be a delicate process as she was a good little puller and one did not want to break her spirit. So on the first outing, we tried the positive feedback approach but this met with negative results. You can’t really reward a dog for doing something bad. For some reason, as “Spock” would say, “It’s not logical”. On the second outing, the old “Tabasco” sauce in the mouth and on the string trick was used but that didn’t work either. She just licked her chops, looked up as to literally say, “Have you got more?” There was a third option contemplated and this was to put a muzzle on her and take it off somewhere down the trail but that was not a permanent solution. She had to learn and I would suggest, she would have to learn the hard way.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m right there in front of the line when it comes for being against cruelty to animals but one must also keep in mind that when you increase the numbers of dogs in the household past two individuals, the chemistry amongst them changes. All of a sudden, their primal instinct kicks in and it is a competition as to who will be the “Leader of the Pack”. If you want to keep a certain control over your dogs, you must not think that you are but must act as the “Alpha Dominant” and establish your authority. You have to be able to put to the side this “human/canine living in harmony” crap and think in their terms.

In their own little “dog world”, they live in a well disciplined structure with a complex hierarchy. This is necessary as it assures good order within the clan. Starting soon after birth, the bitch will snap at her puppy when this one is being a nuisance. The “Omega” individual is to allow everyone else to eat before him. If he decides to venture and visit someone else’s dish before it’s time, he will be punished for his lack of table manners. The females will only entertain being sniffed by the strongest males and will chase any other wimpy prospects away. If this last one doesn’t get the message, she will bite at him like there is no tomorrow. So to make short of these dynamics within the pack, they administer and associate pain with something that they should not do.

“Oh, Oh!” “Vixen” said to her partner for the day, “Summer”. “I think the musher is not too impressed.”
“Well what do expect,” “Maggie” replied. “Here we are ready to go and you have “Orka” tasting the “neckline.”

That particular morning, she had chewed through three of them in a matter of five minutes and the musher was way beyond not impressed. He was “pissed”. However, in the poor little girl’s defense, it wasn’t really her fault. She had previously been raised as a house pet and was taught to play “tug” with a nylon rope toy. So by now, you’re getting a clearer picture. She didn’t know the difference between the play toy and the gangline. All she knew was that thing in front of her had the same taste/texture and offered pulling resistance. So, being in a playful mood, as long as the musher was going to dangle that thing in front of her, she would grab it and pull. Of course, the neckline @ 1/4 inch thick was nothing to chew through when compared to the play toy which is basically an inch thick piece of rope. She did not understand the concept of leaving them alone so would have to be punished using a correction. In the sleddog environment, “Chewing necklines” is a serious flaw that can bring you heartaches on the trail. The situation might arise where you are left out there stranded because half your team has taken off on account that you have a dog that has decided to snack on the gangline. So as painful as it was to receive, as painful as it was to administer. Like I said, I don’t like correcting my dogs with negative methods but sometimes, you got to do what you got to do.

I grabbed the yearling by the nose and with one of the severed neckline in my hand, I whacked her with the snap across the bridge of her nose. This was not be a bone breaking exercise but one that would inflict enough pain for her to take notice that this was not a good experience. I again repeated the process then tapped her with the same brass item on the nose a few times, shaking her head vigorously and growling at her with a more than stern “No”. She understood that she had done a bad thing as I could easily tell this by the sad look she was giving me. I re-introduced a complete neckline to her and from her reaction, I knew I had gotten through. She shied away from it by turning her head sideways. I really felt bad about disciplining her especially when she looked up at me with her ears flopped back but it was one of those unfortunate things that needed to happen.

“Jeez!” Kameo piped up looking at the “Kid”, her partner that was towering over her, “What’s his problem?”
She wasn’t the only one to wonder about that, that morning as they were watching him have a “hissy fit”. The yearlings didn’t have a clue as to what he was saying but one thing was for sure, right now was a good time to start thinking about behaving. Walking down the line, the boss was pointing and screaming at them to sit. This was something they understood and this was something they would do. Right now was not a good time to further test the water.

“Vince,” his father, “Jacko” told him, “keep your mouth shut and don’t get involved. Save your energy and concentrate on your job. This “wheel position” is probably the hardest position on the team. You are asked to follow the faster dogs while making sure that you supply the extra effort to pull the load. On top of that, you must ensure that when you go around a corner, you guide the sled away from it so to make it around the bend. Otherwise, we end up being slapped in the face by branches.”

“Jacko” aka “the psycho” was a very colorful character. A tall and all white, broad shouldered Snowhound, he had these piercing ice blue eyes that gave the sensation that he could be dangerous but this was not the case. He was a strong silent type but with maybe a couple of serious behavior issues. While he was ever so cool with the ladies, he would never miss the occasion to let the other males in the pack know where he stood. He was not the type to start fights but he sure as hell had finished more than a few. Any other male that would walk around and even show the slightest sign of aggression, would fair game. He would explode into action and state his case. It was in his nature and the musher was aware of this. So to keep peace in the valley, he would shuffle things around so that everybody could be accommodated. So far, we’re painting a pretty bleak picture of the dog and some of us are probably wondering, “Why keep such a beast around?” Well, let’s just say that his great qualities outweigh his faults.
He is a hard worker that doesn’t know what the word “quit” means. He knows his job thoroughly and is one of the most loyal athletes, in the barn. In a bush context where he would be part of an actual “Wolf Pack”, he would be the one that protects the weaker members of the family while providing them with food. Out of all the dogs, he would be the one that would survive in the wild. He can hunt and this can be attested by the number of dead cats and skunks that he has brought to my feet over the last few years. He is a good teacher to the young ones as I have seen him show the puppies how to scavenge the river bank for dead fish and how to encircle a prey and kill it. With my own two eyes, I’ve seen the young ones chase a mallard duck off the pond in “Jacko’s” direction where he jumped six feet in the air to catch it in mid-flight. What was amazing about this incident was that he brought it back to the pups and allowed them to taste their trophy. He shows real parental qualities towards his off springs that he sired with “Alaska” and has for reasons only known to him, taken a special shine to “Vince”.

He had witnessed the fight between the “Kid” and his son that day. This had not impressed him and while waiting for the musher to sort things out, would provide “Vince” with the following advice. “When in harness, my son, work hard like there’s no tomorrow. This is where you’ll become strong. With a few muscles added to that frame of yours, eventually nobody will kick sand in your face.”

Vince had understood the message as stated by his father and the rest of the yearlings had caught on as to what the musher was saying. For the first time, there was a sense of command and control amongst the team.

The musher jumped on the ATV and like a quarterback calling a play, shouted “READY!!!”. The “Old Guard” knew what was coming and started to bang in their harnesses. Seeing this, the young ones joined in and started doing the same. This was always a tense moment as the dogs were digging in their heels in and actually moving the 350 lbs vehicle forward. Making sure one last time that there were no tangles, the musher called the next order of business. “Uptrail”, he said and like a speeding train leaving the station, they were off.

Seeing the inexperienced yearlings match the mature dogs stride for stride and actually pull, brought a sense of relief and a smile to the musher’s face. He still felt shitty about losing his temper towards the young dogs but to see them work told him that he had been forgiven. “I might be back in their good grace,” he said to himself but “Gino” you’re going to have be patient with these new prospects. Look at them. They’re doing this to please you and a bowl full of food at the end of the day. Remember how goofy the “Baisley Mob” was when they started… Yeah, they also had their moments, I guess… = -)

To be continued…

CANINE ETIQUETTES

2011-10-16T05:32:00.000-07:00

“Vince... Vince… Are you alright?” they kept harping at him but to no answer. “Is there anything that we can do?” This, they were finding quite unusual and his three sisters were a bit worried by his dead silence. They had been trying to get him to talk for the last few hours but to no avail…

Usually, he was the life of the party at night and would never shut up but on this particular evening, he was as quiet as a church mouse. They had witnessed it all earlier that afternoon as the dramatic experience had unfolded right in front of them. To see their brother being brutally attacked like that by this huge black dog had scared the daylight out of them. They were still too young to comprehend what had transpired but knew that their brother was wounded and had been served quite the lesson.

It was early in September and as you would have it, it was “Hell Week” times five at the “Howl-A-Day Inn”. It was one of those dreaded periods in the dog kennel where chaos would reign for a while. One of the young bitches by the name of “Nikita” had started her menstrual period and her being in “heat” caused a chain reaction that made it that the other four intact females would soon follow with their own cycles. Where one cycle would normally last twenty-one days, when you had five girls going through this back to back, it made the “Best Little Whore House in Texas” look like a convent. There was no real explanation to this peculiar natural phenomena but that’s just the way things happened in a “pack”. When one started, all the other females followed.

As you would have, the males in the barn would not only take notice of these “in season” bitches, they would become totally focused on them and would actually challenge one another as to see who would get a “go” at one of the willing females. These clashes between these “macho” mutts were for real and would be at times, extremely savage.

Unfortunately, that’s what had happened to Vince earlier that day. Although extremely big, he was just still an overgrown happy go-lucky puppy. A fourteen months old “goof ball”, he didn’t really know what was going on nor did he know where he stood in the hierarchy of the pack. Till now, he had always enjoyed his time spending the better part of the last year just playing with or being a general pest to the other dogs. Everybody tolerated his antics and simply attributed his behavior to his immaturity. That was all fine till he decided to shoulder check the “Kid” who was busy sniffing and savoring an area where one of the bitches had urinated. The big black bruiser saw this as a sign of aggression towards him and he would defend his “turf”. He instantly snapped into action and took on the young “buck”.

A prudent move by the inexperienced white dog would have been to back off but Vince had other ideas and decided to hold his grounds. Ending up standing on their hind legs, both determined opponents were holding each other in enveloping “Bear Hugs” while growling and biting each other in the facial area. This “Sumo” wrestling match was for a moment at a stalemate as both dogs weighed in the 70 – 72 lbs range. However, what was to tip the scale in the “Kid’s” favor was his experience and muscle mass. He had been the “Alpha” dominant male for the longest time not because he had beautiful brown eyes but rather because he had fought his way up to that position. He had had a taste at every other male in the barn and then some and had never lost a fight. His time in the trenches made it that “Vince” was not even close to being a serious contender on this day. The “Kid” toppled the puppy on its back and jumped at his throat burying his teeth through the skin in the neck area. In pain, “Vince” tried to get free but the more he wiggled, the more the white fur in the area turned red. The jaws of the “Alpha” dominant male were well embedded and he would not let go until either complete submission or eventual death.

“Kiddddd!!” he screamed from the top of his lungs. “Leave him!” Hearing that voice and knowing that if he didn’t obey, there would be more fur flying and it would be his, the winner released his opponent before the musher could reach the scene. He ran away to a safe distance in the bushes, satisfied that he had taught a lesson to this young punk. As for the disoriented victim, not only was he scared shitless, he didn’t have the slightest clue as to what had happened or as to why. However, he did recognize the man as a trusted friend so rushed over and sat at his feet.

“Holly Shit Vince!” he eventually spoke out after closely examining him. “He got you pretty good!”
“But don’t you worry. We’ll fix you up just as good as new with a bit of peroxide and Aloe Vera”. And on that note, Vince was escorted to the house where he was to be provided with medical care.

“As for you “Kid”, he said before leaving the area, “you’ve done enough damage for a lifetime! Next week, it’s off to the vet and off with the family jewels!”
The big Shepard-Husky mix didn’t have a clue as to what the “Boss” was talking about but two things were sure. He was some pissed-off so best be on our best behavior till the storm passed…

The next morning, when the musher came to feed the dogs and let them out, the young gladiator refused to come out of his pen. He had been administered a severe blow and didn’t know if it was safe to wander outside the perimeter of his stall.

Noticing his absence and wondering how the yearling had faired throughout the night, Granddad “Irving” went to check on him.

“Are you OK there, young Fella?” was his initial question. “Are you hurt bad?”
“I don’t think so.”, young Vince answered in a very sheepish way. “My neck hurts a bit and I have a hard time swallowing but I think I’m all right…”
"Let me check that.” the senior dog of the kennel said. And on that note, he examined him by sniffing the affected area.
“Ah,” he eventually concluded, “you’ll survive. I think the best thing for you right now is to get some fresh air.”
“Yeah but is it safe out there?” his grandson queried, hesitant and worried.
“Walk with me and the musher.” the old dog replied. “Nothing is going to happen if you stick close to him.”

Vince took a chance and followed his grandfather towards the “Puppy Trail”. Quite nervous at the beginning, the young dog soon came to realize that the musher had shuffled things around. He had re-organized them so to see who would go out and in what sequence. During “Hell Week”, this was a necessary evil. All the dogs had their own characters and had their place in the pecking order. While at the bottom of the ladder some were extremely passive, the more you climbed it, the more aggressive they became. At the best of times, all would tolerate each other but when you had this enticing combination of willing bitches mixed in with horny studs, one was just asking for trouble. One would end up with dog fights or even worse, unwanted pregnancies. Even though they were domesticated, these sleddogs interacted between themselves just like a pack of wolves. The males would fight amongst each others to show their superiority thus establishing the cardinal rule of “the strongest and fittest will survive”. These were the simple facts during this time of reproduction within a “pack” and one had to find the right combinations so to give a chance to all the dogs a chance to go outside and stretch their legs.

Vince checked things out while walking with “Old Man Irving” and once feeling at ease, started talking to him.
“You know, I could have kicked his butt there, yesterday”, he said with a renewed cocky attitude. “The reason I fell on my back was because I slipped.”

The old dog didn’t say anything as he knew that it was just the nervousness that was making him talk nonsense.

“Yeah,” his grandson continued, “next time, he might just be in for a surprise.” “And you know what Grandpa? One of these days, I might just run away and form my own gang.”

Irving rolled his eyes but still kept his mouth shut. He knew better. In his lifetime of nine years, he had lived in six different kennels before he was rescued and given a forever home here at Baisley Lodges. Life out there could be cruel for an “Omega” dog like himself. For some reason, everybody would want to use him as a “punching bag”. Both in the human and canine forms, he had been at the receiving end of many fights and beatings. If one was not to believe this, the numerous battle scares that his body now sported would attest to this. Till he met up with this man walking next to him, he had never known a peaceful existence. Consequently, it had taken him a long time to trust this human but when he decided to do so, life became quite agreeable. For his hard work and dedication, he was given two great meals a day and all the water that he could drink. As a bonus, he was treated to his own dry sleeping quarters, something that was quite unusual for sleddogs. The way he saw things, it was worth being the last rung in this particular ladder as this was a good place to live.

“Yeah,” his grandson continued, “I’d like to go out there and show everyone as to what kind of stuff, I’m made of.”

The wise old dog had been observing young Vince since he was brought into this world and although he couldn’t put his finger exactly on it, he knew that this yearling was special. Acting as his mentor, he had decided to take him under his wing and teach him amongst many other things, skills necessary to survive amongst the dog community. The golden rules were simple. Avoid confrontational situations and if you can’t, walk or even better, run away from the fight. This was an excellent way to avoid getting hurt but something that Vince had a hard time to comprehend let alone put into practice. Inside him stirred this ever looming burning sensation that dictated to him that he was destined for greatness. He didn’t know what to make of this but it was there. So Irving continued to be patient with his grandson and kept on preaching the principles of living peacefully within this particular family. Today’s lesson would be “Respect your elders”.

“Vince,” he started, “if you’re going to live any length of time in this pack, it is wise for you to determine, who’s who in the zoo. Some of the older crowd that occupies this piece of real estate are pretty well hard core and set in their ways. It is up to you to adapt yourself to their way of doing things and not the other way around. The “Old Timers” have put their time in and have worked real hard for the musher over the last seven years. That alone should warrant some of your admiration.”

“Wow” the attentive pupil replied, trying to imagine how far they had traveled during that period, “Are you part of that bunch?”

“Well Vince, I have been around for a while also but only have a limited share of this particular partnership. This bunch that belongs to this particular inner circle has a special status around here. The “Baisley Mob” was the beginning of this great adventure when one day…

To be continued…

A DECADE WITH FRIENDS

2011-10-05T03:16:00.001-07:00

You know you’re getting old when you go out there and “try” to complete a “two” mile run. Oh for sure, I still manage to plug along and struggle through it but let me tell you, it’s not easy. When one considers that he used to run triathlons, one almost tends to get discouraged when tackling this now considered “monstrous challenge”. Let’s face it, I’m not 25 anymore and as you get older, the body can’t necessarily put into action what the mind dictates.

This was most obvious the other morning when I started out for this morning jog accompanied by “Mosqua” and “Maggie”. We had been back at this particular routine for just about two months now and while the old girl was still enthused about these outings, for my faithful sidekick “Mosqua”, this was to be another story. At almost ten years old, he was no longer impressed by the scenery as he had run this mountain trail more than once in his lifetime. Throughout that decade, he had almost managed to sniff every blade of grass and cock his leg at the base of every single tree along the way. So this particular “loop” was not a mystery to him and he knew exactly where I would terminate my daily run. Therefore, instead of following me, he just went and parked it at the finish line where he would wait for me to return. I hadn’t noticed his absence, this till maybe half a mile down the trail. A bit worried that he wasn’t at his usual spot, by my side, I decided to turn around and go look for him. He wasn’t hard to find as there he was lying in the middle of the field, this big black mass of fur, soaking in the morning sun.

When I got to him, he didn’t really move. Of course, he did acknowledge my presence by slapping that huge tail of his on the dusty trail but that was about it. He was just satisfied to rest there with his head on his front paws pointing in the direction from where I would eventually come out. A bit concerned by this unusual behavior, I asked him, “Are you all right, Old Buddy?” He responded immediately, rolled on his side and started to wag his tail even faster. He had this sad look on his face that said it all… “Hey listen Boss, I can’t do this anymore. If you don’t mind I’ll just wait for you to come back. I’m really tired and this old body of mine just doesn’t want to co-operate.”

And yup, there it was - the reality of it all. Ten years of living with sleddogs had just flown by and one could not even imagine as to where the time had gone. It had simply vanished. Facing the unavoidable eventuality square in the face, this lump rose to my throat and my eyes got a bit glassy. In my old Shepard’s case, the end of this beautiful journey with my “Best Friend Forever” was coming to its end. “Mosqua” still had maybe a couple of good years left in him but who were we kidding. The days were gone where he would pull the sled or chase after me on the ATV. His will to please was still high on his priority list but now instead of retrieving “man size” sticks, he was satisfied walking around with a “toothpick” in his mouth. This bond that “Mosqua” and I had between us was unbelievable. We had shared a most memorable decade together and this through thick and thin. But now the prospect was clear and both of us would have to face the facts of it all. This was part of a dog’s life cycle and now he was probably going to spend most of his remaining time either farting on one of his favorite couches or wait for me in the truck while the younger dogs and I did our thing.

Getting a clear message from my old trusted friend, I patted him on the head, told him to stay and continued on my run. This sad moment I had just had with my “Mosqua” was to make me realize that there were more than a few in the barn that were also nearing retirement. Hell, come to think of it, I had three distinct groups in there. I had the “Viagra” crowd, the racing prospects and the upcoming but dreaded “snot nose” yearlings.

In this day and age where everybody is struggling to make ends meet, one might consider that an easy solution would be that when a dog has outlived its usefulness, it should be put down so to save on some of the expenses. And this avenue is a well traveled path by many mushers out there but not one that I care to entertain. Fortunately for my dogs, Fran and I consider them all members of our huge family first and then working sleddogs after that. When I look at specimens such as the “Kid” and “Vixen” get so excited when I touch a harness or drive by with the ATV, it’s hard to think of them as just “a dog”. Throughout the years, this old crowd has hauled my ass around for over 15,000 miles and for some reason, I feel compelled to owe this bunch of dogs some sort of loyalty. Me and these guys have had one great adventure throughout those years and I don’t think that writing about it truly draws a clear picture of the marvelous times we spent together.

That’s what I was thinking of while I was “huffing and puffing” during my “ultra-mini-marathon”. Then at one point, just as I anticipated, I got into the “zone” and forgot about my aches and pains. Instead, my mind wandered off to the days when this mushing madness started. All those crazy escapades that we had gone through, made me shake my head in disbelief but at the same time they made me smile out loud. If someone would have been out there to see me laugh to myself, he would have thought that I was “three bricks short of a load” but that’s OK… I knew that I was visiting precious periods of my life and to be pegged as an “outcast” was all right in my books. Those dogs had brought a most definite positive spin into my life and it all started with “The Baisley Mob”.

To be continued…

WATER - A PECIOUS RESOURCE

2011-07-12T03:43:00.000-07:00

When I was in Algeria more than few years ago, I had the pleasure of visiting and exploring the Sahara Desert. Throughout this fantastic voyage, we had the privilege of meeting “Tuareg” people and would eventually be invited to share a cup of tea with them. The Chief of this nomadic tribe was quite the entertainer but most importantly he would teach me a lesson that I would never forget for as long as I live.

In their dry hot world, “water” is considered the most important resource that man can have in his possession. Although they do consider it more precious than gold, they will never hesitate to share whatever limited quantity they have and this even with their sworn and worst enemy. “It is the rule of the desert,” our gracious host had commented, “that nobody should ever have to go thirsty.”

That’s what I was reminded of last Wednesday afternoon when I received that phone call.
The person at the end of the line was inquiring as to see if “Baisley Lodges” accommodated “motor homes”. I told the individual that although we were not a registered “RV campground”, if he was stuck, we could most likely find room for him. He replied that the problem was that they were really low on water and needed to fill up their tank so to carry on with their trip. “Not a problem,” I said, “We have lots of water and if you do drop in, we’ll fix you up. I then asked him if he knew where we were located to which he replied that he had us on “GPS” and would be on our doorstep in about half an hour.

I knew something was up when the “dog yard” started barking like banshees. Usually, they make no fuss if a car pulls in but I guess they were flabbergasted and impressed at the same time to see this huge monstrosity of a camper pull in front of the Bunkhouse. Out came this gentleman who with a friendly smile, extended his hand and introduced himself as “Harold”. We exchanged greetings at which point he explained that he was worried as to how he would exit the property as he was pulling a “pick-up” truck containing two scooters and two bicycles.. “Not a problem”, I told him, “this driveway is a large “U” shape road and you won’t have to back up your “train”. Still puzzled about how he was going to manage this, I told him to follow me and we walked down the road by the “Wood Shop” so that he could see what I was talking about.

Of course and this would be no surprise to anybody living out here, it started raining again and like usual it was a flash flood type of downpour. We took shelter under a car porch where my soon to become new friend was explaining to me that they were from Vancouver, but in the state of Washington. They had left the West Coast in December 2010 on a cross North-America tour and were now on the return trip towards back home.

As quick as it appeared, the rain eventually stopped. We unrolled his and my hose and started filling the water tank. This was going to take a while as the “Workhorse” was quite thirsty so I decided to show them the place and escorted Harold and his wife down the “Puppy Trail”. By her reaction when we walked by the barn, it was obvious that “Linda” was a “dog person” who enjoyed sleddogs. For some reasons, these people felt like old friends coming for a visit, so one thing led to another and next thing you know, they’re staying overnight and we’re sitting in the “Bunkhouse” with our feet up, polishing off a few bottles of wine. I eventually found out that they were not in a rush to go anywhere fast so I suggested that I take them on a day trip aboard my boat, the “River Wolf”. “What’s there to see?” Linda asked. “Well,” I explained, “the Madawaska River was an important thoroughfare in the early “1800s”. Part of the then baptized “Halifax Route”, it was used by British soldiers who would travel from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Quebec City, Quebec. It was part of a strategic river system that they used when going from the “Bay of Fundy”, up the St-John and Madawaska rivers and across Lake Temiscouata to end up portaging 50 miles to the then called “Wolf River” (Rivière-du-Loup). From there, they would continue their journey, via the St-Lawrence Seaway.

After explaining that on our trip we would have the occasion to visit old growth “White Pine” tree stands dating back as far as 18th century, Harold was kind of keen on this idea. Visiting the “Blockhouse” in Edmundston also appealed to this history buff. But what was to seal the deal was when I told them that if they wanted to, we could even stop in at the “Botanical Garden”. Linda, an avid gardener, jumped at this opportunity to extend her stay in this area for a day longer.

The next day was a perfect sunny day to go out on our expedition and everybody enjoyed what this beautiful river had to offer.

Meanwhile, in one of the cottages, I had been hearing somebody playing a guitar for the better part of that week. I’m no expert but whoever it was, the individual was superbly good. Anyway, by pure coincidence, Fran suggested that we end a perfect adventurous day by having a Barbecue at the “Gazebo”. While I was cooking nice thick juicy steaks on the open fire, this “cottage” individual and his wife joined us at that location where they started to talk to our guests from out “West”. The more I looked at the person, the more I seemed to recognize him. Of course, the guy on TV had a mustache but this man standing in my yard sure did look like him. On a gut feeling, I piped out and asked, “Hey did you happen to sport a mustache a few months back? Aren’t you that guy that studied classical guitar music for five years?” Somewhat embarrassed that he had been recognized, he blushed, smiled and said, “Yup, that’s me.” Little be known to us, we were in the presence of the great “Jazz & Blues” guitar player by the name of “John Boulay”. Down to earth and not one to consider himself more famous than anybody, John and his wife Lyne excused themselves and allowed us to have supper. They later returned and put on an impromptu concert for everybody. During a more than wonderful performance that lasted over an hour and a half, Lyne with her flute and John on his acoustic guitar played on to the enjoyment of the gathered crowd at the “Gazebo”.

The next morning, “John and Lyne” were to receive glorious reviews from everyone and this was to be most emphasized from our far away friend, Linda. Tears filling her eyes, she eventually managed to explain that out of her “4000 mile Trek” across the United States and Canada, she had not experienced anything as memorable as her stay at “Baisley Lodges”. She thanked everyone for making their time with us so fantastic and as she put it, “This was the highlight of our trip that we will remember it for the rest of our lives.”

Eventually, it was time for everybody to depart so each and every one said good-bye and went their separate ways. I watched them all leave, once again satisfied that I had again succeeded in making a stranger feel at home in this part of the country we affectionately call, the “Legendary Republic of Madawaska”. = -)

To Harold and Linda and of course “Trixie, the Jack Russell Terrier” with an attitude, have a safe trip back home and yes we do expect you and the grandchildren for Christmas in 2012 for their “Sleddog Adventure”. It will be nice to get together again for another chit-chat.

To John and Lyne, I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for what you did. Once again, your kind gesture proved that we’re quite the friendly and generous bunch out here. Hell, who goes out of his way to put on a free concert for complete strangers. My best guess would be, good folks from New-Brunswick.

Peace on Earth to One and All!!! And remember, together, we can make a difference.

Gino

By the way! Linda and I had a heated conversation as to how much water should cost in this part of the world. I did end up winning this argument and let them have it for free. However, unknown to me, I was to eventually find out that this “dope peddling grandma” (inside joke) had left a generous donation with Fran so to help out with the feeding of the “Canadian Snowhounds”. Oh well, just another day at “My Slice of Heaven”!!!

JUST BEING KIND, MIGHT WORK

2011-05-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

Well after the flood came the clean-up then after that came the raking of leaves. When you’ve got literally close to two tons of fallen leaves spread on the lawns of the property, let’s not kid ourselves, the novelty of raking them soon wears off. Add to that, the pouring rain and the heavy winds blowing them back where you just finished raking and guess what? One tends to get a bit pissed at all this and is just about ready to pack it in.

Oh I know, this could be construed as small piddly ass problems when you compare it to what’s happening in the rest of the world but I guess when you don’t see the sunshine for the better part of a whole month, not only does the sky seem gloomier but also your mood. My present continuous battle with the ever flying leaves is nothing when you compare it with the poor folks of the Montéregie region in Quebec. They have been walking in knee deep water for the last same month and are being subjected again to a huge rain storm. Those those poor folks living in the mid-western states of the USA aren't any better. They have been pounded day after day by devastating tornados. In both these situations, many good honest folks will be left with nothing much more than souvenirs of what life used to be. Yeah, when you do take time and look around you, you do tend to realize that your problems are small compared to others but the secret is, “You got to stop and think about what you should be thankful for.”

Anyway, I was livid at the beginning of the week. Nothing seemed to be going right. So to again re-energize, I decided to go to the “Outpost” and vegetate. The various pressures were mounting and it was time to do something about it before I blew a gasket. Usually, I go up there with “Mosqua” in tow but that day, I had the brilliant idea to bring three most deserving dogs with me. “JR”, “Jacko” and “Irving” had worked so hard throughout the winter that I thought that they could use a break from the kennel routine so decided to take the “Boyz” for a night on the town. Monday night went well and the dogs were treated to barbecued wieners till it was coming out of their ears. After a fantastic sleep and while the hounds were still curled up in the hay in the porch the next Tuesday, I was up early and enjoying a third pot of coffee and daydreaming. Suddenly, I was awoken back to reality by some alarming “bear like” growl that strongly suggested that there was imminent danger brewing. I jumped out of my chair, slung my coffee cup to the side and rushed to where the noise was coming from. It wasn’t no bear but the scene turned my stomach upside down and sent a rush of adrenaline through my system. Here were “Jacko” and “JR” on top of old man “Irving” pulling at each end, trying to rip him apart. This was no ordinary dominance fight. Rather, for some unknown reason, they were trying to actually kill him. There wasn’t much time to think so I reacted. Punching and kicking at the two younger dogs, I managed to get them to release my loyal friend but a lot of damage had been done. Scared shitless, the old timid dog didn’t stick around for another mauling. He took off through the woods and would disappear for two days…

If you recall, I was not having a good week and this was to sour my mood even more. On top of everything, now I had to worry about finding “Irving”. He was most definitely hurt and to see him in my mind, he was lying there somewhere in the bush, bleeding to death and this did not sit well with me. It set me in one of those moods where I visit the darkest side of my dark side. This is an area that I try real hard at repressing back because it’s ugly and it scares me. When I’m in that frame of mind, I go into survival mode and get “tunnel vision”. In this state, I don’t think straight and instead of dealing with situations rationally, I tend to go in “Combat Mode” which is something that can best be described as a “Kill or be killed” attitude. From the outside, I seem to be totally normal but inside, I’m not. I’m like a “Time Bomb” ready to explode and this anywhere and anytime. Although I would love not to have to deal with this syndrome called PTSD, it’s not my fault that I’m this way. Like the many others that served, I’m just the product of a most effective military system where they teach you the “Art of Warfare through a most efficient training program. Don’t get me wrong, in violent operational theaters, these are most valuable skills to have. However, what these military geniuses tend to forget is that once they’ve used you up till you have nothing else to give, you still have to eventually face the real world and function in it. They have no way of deprogramming you and their solution to the problem is to shove pills down your throat and hope that you stay comfortably numb and happy. There are not too many job opportunities that can use these unique skill sets unless you want to stay in the same line of work as a potential “strong arm” in some private security outfit. However, when you have visited the bottom of the toilet bowl of the human race and you’ve still got half a brain, eventually you tend to say to yourself, "Enough is enough." So you turn in your rifle in and go out there and see if you fit somewhere in what many perceive as the “free and civilized society”. A lot of us face a rude awakening and find it nearly impossible to adjust. Where we tend to believe that we went out there and served in the best interest of our people, this same population seems to take this freedom that they have, for granted. If this is not enough, these same individuals have got the balls to belittle these men and women in uniforms to the point of calling them welfare cases and a waste of tax payers money. These revelations can be shocking to the true professional soldier and a lot of times, this same person will retreat and look to find a comfortable zone in whatever form that assures his survival at the time. Some will resort to alcohol and or drugs to escape while others will seek some fulfillment using religion or some other spiritual venue.

I was one of those guys that was left to fend for himself and to tell you the truth, I was one “fucked up” specimen. Drugs, alcohol, religion, nothing seemed to point me in the right direction. Diagnosed with what they call “chronic depression” on top of the syndrome, the first ten years after retirement were a living hell. It didn’t matter whether I was awake or asleep, I just could not seem to part company with the ghosts of a previous military life. It took a while to adjust and deal with the whole ball of wax and I would suggest that I’ll never be cured of this syndrome. However, I have discovered that if I’m surrounded by love and compassion, this tends to help me get through the day. If I stay sober, this gives me the strength to stay stronger and deal with the day to day problems. And I guess, doing good deeds and helping a fellow man gives me that warm fuzzy feeling inside that makes me say that it’s good to be alive.

This was probably best illustrated, Wednesday morning when I started my day. Two things were to transpire that helped turn that awful sour mood into a “it’s going to be a great day, even though it’s raining” type of day. The first thing was a message via facebook, a request from Heidi, the widow of my best friend, Bruce Brown, asking if I’d do her this big favor. Strange as it might sound, Bruce had always thought our friendship to be more than special and she wanted that some of his ashes be spread on the property just because it was one of his favorite places in the world. This, as I explained to her was not only a possibility but it would be an honor to have his spirit live amongst whatever would feed off his energy. That in itself brightened my day. But if this was not enough, while I was walking some of the dogs, this pick-up pulls in front of the “Bunkhouse” and out comes this old friend of mine, an old crippled up “Lumberjack” that I hadn’t seen in over a year. Walking towards me with his cane, I noticed that he was more gimped up than usual and this was confirmed when with his bright but most courageous smile he said, “Sorry if I’m a bit late with delivering them but I almost died from two heart attacks last winter and I just got out of a wheelchair two months ago.” For a minute there, I was left scratching my head not knowing what he was talking about. That was till he opened the back hatch to the truck cab and exposed two “Adirondak” chairs. It turns out that I had sawed some cedar lumber for him the previous year and seeing that he was strapped for cash, I had told him to make me a couple of chairs as payment. I had totally forgotten about that deal but I guess he hadn’t. So when he was again able to walk and work in his shop last month, he took the time to build them. Of course, I was more than impressed that he had fabricated these two beauties for me but when we got talking, I realized that he was still hurting in the wallet department so asked how much he was selling them to his clients to which he told me. I thought that it might be time to do another good deed so I reached in my pocket and paid him the $200.00. He tried to refuse but I insisted. The money was not a big issue in my life and it made me feel good doing this as it was probably the best medicine that a guy like me could take at the moment.

Well folks, with all this mishmash of a text you’re probably wondering and saying to yourselves, “Where the hell is he going with this?” And that is probably a good question that deserves a good answer. To give you the correct time, I guess it all boils down to the news that I heard on TV this morning about that soldier they found drowned in a river in Edmonton, Alberta. Although they weren’t saying that he committed suicide, it is suspected that he might have and this was possibly attributed to this PTSD crap. He is not alone that has chosen that particular path and the number of soldiers that do take their own lives annually is beyond alarming. It is a most staggering figure and we have yet to have reached the high plateau of when and where it’s going to stop. Our soldiers are coming back in drone from far away places where they were tested beyond anything that most of us can comprehend. Although they can walk and talk most normally, there is not one of them that comes back unaffected. I get to speak with a lot of these young lads and their spouses and everybody is of the same opinion on two subjects. First, the person that has the syndrome is not the same as before when he left nor will he ever be the same again. Secondly, although the Government advocates helping our veterans afflicted with this condition, they tend to treat it as if it was a broken leg and seem to forget about them after awhile. I can only speak for myself but do believe that a few things must happen if one wants to help such a pour soul. Initially, the “patient” must be made aware that he has the syndrome. Once he recognizes this, he must be willing to accept this as a new way of looking at life and must adapt to his conditions. He must be given the proper education and tools so to be able to cope with the day to day irritants and stresses. And most importantly, he must be surrounded with love and support by family and friends. And that is usually the recipe that makes it that he has the courage to get up the next morning and face another day. Of course, in my case, running around the bush with a bunch of loyal sleddogs sure is an easy pill to swallow but this is not for everybody. But then again, a dog and it doesn’t matter what size it is, can lift anybody’s spirit up. Their unconditional love is something that can be a life changing experience.

To my American Friends, I say, “On this Memorial Day long weekend, it is yes important not to forget our fallen but it is also important to remember those who did survive and returned home with broken spirits. A lot of them are carrying with them excruciating pain and sometimes wonder who the lucky one is? I should know. - Every time I lower the flag for a deceased soldier at “CIMENT HILL”, I always conclude the ceremony with this private statement –

“Well at least your suffering is over, my friend”…

Peace on Earth, to one and all. And remember, together we can make a difference. = -)

Gino

P.S.

To the “Boyz” in theater, hang in there. According to your respective governments, you are all “Short Timers” just about now and that is a good thing.

As for “Irving”, I finally managed to find him. Although he is in real sad shape, I’m “Aloe Veraing” him and he should be good as new in a couple of weeks (I hope).

On the leaf battling front, we will prevail. One of my tenants is being shorted on his hours and is only working an average of 20 hours a week. So I made a deal with him that I would take money off his rent in exchange for some raking. Like I said in the past, “Adapt and Overcome.

Later folks!

LAST RUN OF THE SEASON

2011-04-13T02:33:00.000-07:00

I guess we could push our luck for a couple of more weeks but then again it’s like everything else when it comes to good things, this mushing season unfortunately must come to an end. To commemorate this event, me and my trusted “old timers” took off to the “Outpost” a few days ago. This, in itself was really not a big deal as we do this trip on a most regular basis… However for me, it was most important that this one be done as I needed some serious “downtime” so that I might spend some quality time alone and with the “pooches”, something that I had neglected to do during the racing season. Oh for sure, these guys had gotten their exercise on a regular basis but still it was not the same. Concentrating on one particular strategy, I had put old fateful companions like the “Kid” and “Vixen” to the side so to train better and faster dogs. This was achieved but at the end of the day, the CAN-AM would prove once again that there was still room for large powerful “lugers”, something that these two German Shepard/Husky mix, were. They are not the fastest dogs by any standards, that’s for sure but when you need to pull a 300 lbs load up a hill, you know you can depend on these two loyal animals to get the job done. So you can only imagine how I felt throughout the winter when I would bring out the racing team and leave those two behind. All excited and enthusiastic, thinking that they were going training, their happiness would soon turn to disappointment when I would walk away, leaving them in the barn with an expression on their face that seemed to be saying, “Hey what’s the big deal here? Don’t we rate anymore?” Yeah, I can be weird a bit when it comes to stuff like that. I tend to get these guilt trips and somehow I feel the need to make good on my downfalls - So the special trip for special dogs.

As I had been feeling “run down” for the longest while, the overnighter would also serve another purpose. I usually go up there when the need arises to do my own bastardized version of what the Malecite First Nations would call a “Sweat Lodge” ceremony. In theory, one partakes in such a ritual so to take time to meditate. Apparently, if one shows true integrity, he is allowed to visit the “spiritual world”. If successful, he is given the strength to challenge and fight his inner demons. Should he manage to vanquish them, it is said that these “evil spirits” will leave his body and soul to be lost for ever in the “afterlife”. That’s what they believe and somewhere in there, some of it makes sense to me because everybody at one point or another needs to sit down and really think things out. Interesting enough, there is another major side effect to a good “sweat” and this is the cleansing of undesirable toxins from the body as it is a known fact that bacteria and viruses cannot survive at temperatures much higher than 98.6 degrees. And finally, the rise in temperature will also stimulate the endocrine glands. This supposedly facilitates the release of adrenaline thus inducing a clear sense of euphoria that puts an individual in a comfortable state of relaxation and alertness. Whatever the case may be, I enjoy sitting in the middle of the floor after cranking that woodstove up to a balmy 43 degree Celsius and shutting the cabin door tight to keep the heat in. When one does enter the “zone”, it sure makes for an interesting “mind over matter” experience, one that leaves you refreshed with your batteries recharged.

Anyway the next morning, when I woke up and this after perspiring gallons, I had a completely different outlook on life in general. I had managed to sort out during that “journey” what was and what was not important to me. The several annoyances that had been nipping at my heels, the ones that had me crawl back into that “box” of mine, I would eradicate from my life and just ignore them. No, I would concentrate on devoting my energy on the positive things of what the last winter had brought me. Oh for sure, this past racing season was a total disaster but this was not what I’d consider a major setback as it did not really reflect the core of my mushing passion and was not the main reason I got into sledding. So after sleeping for more than eleven hours, when I walked outside for some much needed fresh air, it looked to me like I had turned the page to a bright new chapter in this old soldier’s arsenal of stories. To compliment all of this, I was to be treated to a whole bunch of small but precious moments. To start off, I would be privileged enough to catch that first glimpse of that beautiful sunrise while being greeted by eight doggie faces grinning from ear to ear. This alone, confirmed that the “trail” that I had chosen way back then was the right one for me. I truly do enjoy the innocent atmosphere associated with the total trust and bond that me and these dogs have. There is nothing more satisfying than to sit on the porch savoring a good cup of strong coffee and watch them run wild and crazy all over that mountain top. Their frolicking antics remind me of what a pack of wolves might act like when undisturbed by the hand of man. An added bonus to all this would be that when they’re all out of sight in the woods and you whistle at them for breakfast, they all rush back out of nowhere, dashing towards you, only to stop at their own designated spot and bowl. In the scheme of things, in a world where wars and disasters seem to be the norm, some might think that this is really no big deal. But then again when was the last time many of you could appreciate a moment of solitude in complete harmony with nature. If you do afford yourself the time to think about it, you might just be surprised as to where the answer lies. In this same world where everything is interconnected and must have immediate gratifications, wouldn’t it be great to be able to tune out the ever looming depressing drudgeries that the Medias shove down our throats on a daily basis. Well, let me tell you! I have that option and do consider myself very lucky to be in a position where such a lifestyle is available to me. And that I guess in my books, makes it all worth while to be spending so much time with a bunch of sleddogs. Those were the conclusive findings after spending more than a few hours, sweating it out.

After closing the door and securing the latch to the “Outpost”, I took a minute to think about the many people that had walked out of this “haven” throughout the last year, also feeling revitalized and ready to face another day. Surprisingly enough, there was more than a couple and that was a good thing. Getting ready to head out and while dressing the dogs, I was to have another one of those “moments” that made me smile. My old Indian friend, “Leonard” had once told me that all of us have our own paths to follow. Some of us are destined to drive huge corporations while others were put on this Earth so to give a fellow man a push in the right direction. However, at the end of the day, even the greediest of millionaires had to go to the local grocery store and buy the same bread that all of us eat. “The difference between us and them” he would add, “is that we don’t mind sharing.” And that in a nutshell, said it all. Like my mentor who helped me through those real dark years, I would “carry it forward” and would continue sharing this “backwoods” philosophy with whoever cared to listen. True enough, not everybody would grasp the true essence behind the messages but those who would embrace the simple principles, would see fit to apply some of them to their own personal lives and that to me was worth sticking around for.

On that note, with the sun beaming down on us, the dogs and I left our hilltop hideaway. When we came to that fork in the road where we are supposed to turn “Haw” and climb the “steps”, I stopped the team and asked my leaders “JR” and “Skout” as to which trail we should take? There is no doubt in my mind that they knew what I was talking about and without hesitation they showed me. “What the hell,” I said to all of them, “it’s the last run of the season. Let’s take the long way home.” Happy to oblige, they took off heading towards the “Back Door” thus stretching the season just that smidge of a bit longer. “Yeah” I said to myself while eventually traveling down the Grand Tour, “they’re not the fastest dogs out there but I’m sure glad that they’ve allowed me to be part of their lives.” “Thanks Guys,” I concluded, “thanks for being in my corner. Now if only those yearlings back home would be so cooperative, we’d have one hell of a season next year.” Without even noticing, I had just committed to another racing season - But that Folks would be a totally different story altogether. = -)

Peace on Earth to One and All. And Remember. Together, we can make a difference.

Gino

THE TRIUMPH OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT EXPEDITION

2011-03-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

THE “TRIUMPH OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT” EXPEDITION

When she looked up at me from her cozy but confined space in the basket, that wonderful cheery smile that she always sports had been replaced by a look of total despair. Those gorgeous but now sad brown eyes were gazing up at me as if to say, “I’m sorry Boss but I just couldn’t go any further.” “That’s OK Gidget,” I told her while patting that cute little white head that was sticking out of the sled bag, “you did your best.”

To say that she had done her best did not nearly qualify the efforts that my little “midget” had put out to be there that day. Just like the other eight “Canadian Snowhounds” that had launched down that starting chute that morning, she had earned the right to mix it up with what the entire Eastern Seashore had to offer. Let’s not kid ourselves, we had chosen to cross swords with the very best and the CAN-AM International Sled Dog Races was where it was at. The fact that we were now at 37 miles into this event and traveling down this 60 mile trail at an average of 3.8 MPH in near snowstorm conditions, strongly suggested that the competition aspect of this race had ended for us. Mother Nature had opted to remind us that she would always have the last word and the tons of white stuff that was dropping from the sky was a true testimony to the fact that she commanded respect. What had started off as an enjoyable trek through the Allagash backwoods was soon to turn into a test of skills and a battle for survival. Not to sound like an alarmist or nothing but when the “weak signal” on your GPS sounds off, this tends to get one’s attention. Now, when you determine that the source of the problem is that the cloud cover is too thick for reception, then you best start thinking about a plan “B”. That was why “Gidget” was hitching a ride in the sled. I had recently read a post “2011 Yukon Quest” journal entry written by Sebastian Schnuelle and had thought that his bagging of dogs to keep them fresh and enthused, was a great strategy. Besides, physically she could no longer contribute to the needed pulling. She stood at 19 inches at the shoulders and we were plowing through 8 inches of fresh thick snow covering a less than packed slushy trail. Now down to six dogs pulling and me running behind to lighten the load, we were crawling at a snail’s pace towards the finish line when near disaster struck.

Around the 42 mile mark, the entire team quit. In this instance, it was not just stopping for me to remove the accumulated ice and snow around their eye sockets. Rather, it was like they were sending me a message that said that they had had enough of this nonsense. When “Sky” and “Jacko” started to dig their own personal snow caves, I knew that it was going to be a long day. When both of them curled up in a ball to take shelter from the elements, I knew then that the sled dog’s survival instinct was kicking in. As for “Rhum”, this was a different story all together. Where the other team members had learned to trot and save some for the duration, my red dog was ignorant to this concept. He was the type of pup that would put it all out and this till he could no longer. In these miserable conditions, he had finally met his “Waterloo”. Here he was, lying down on his side in the snow bank, panting and shivering at the same time. The panting, I knew could be attributed to overexertion but the uncontrollable shaking was what got my attention. Although it looked like an epileptic fit, I knew better and gambled that it was a case of hypothermia. It had to be. The dog had very short fur and he had exhausted all his energy trying his best. While his body had overheated, he had been drenched by a mixture of pouring rain then snow.

After walking down the gangline and telling the other dogs to “park it” as we’d be here for a while, I rushed over and tended to his needs. I wasn’t too sure about the diagnosis but treated him for it anyway. I removed him from the string, lifted him in my arms and walked back where I sat on the sled. I unzipped my jacket, pulled him close to me and provided him with much needed body heat. This was the least I could do for him. After all, I was the one that had gotten us in this mess.

The only one still standing and raring to go, my main leader “JR” turned his head around as if to say, “Now what?” “What are we supposed to do way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Now that, my dear friend is a good question” I answered, actually speaking to him. “Let me review my notes and I’ll get back to you. For now, we’re going to have to rest a little bit and then we’ll see.”

Looking at their almost snow covered silhouettes and seeing the sad shape that my team was in, for the first time in my mushing career, I was having serious doubts in my capabilities. How could I have let this happen? Surely, it couldn’t be the training. We had done everything right. We had over 1500 miles under our belt for this season and could go out there and average 9.8 MPH on a 30 mile run. The distance was neither a factor as we had put in similar 60 mile practice runs throughout the winter. Mind you that “Corona” virus that they had caught, sixteen days prior to the race, might have had something to do with this ill performance. It had left them somewhat weak and this had to be considered. So if that was the case, why did I not there and then, sway towards caution, swallow my pride and stay at home? I could have done that, I guess, but nooo… I was too stubborn and needed to prove to the world that we were on top of our game. During that first leg of this event, when passing the 23 mile mark and when I had to stop and snack the dogs because they were already slacking off their tug lines, wasn’t this another sign? Now here again, I’m sure that this would have been a good time to reconsider our options. Surely, this would have been the right time to take that decision and scratch. This is so true, especially when my favorite leader “Oumak” started limping to the point where I had to bag him to then drop him off at the checkpoint. Wasn’t this again another clear indication that we should maybe reconsider our position and drop out of the race? Yeah but would have been the challenge in that. The team had worked so hard to make it here that there was no way that I felt right about denying them the privilege of crossing that finish line. Was that the real reason or was it again because I was still too much entrenched with the competitive and “dark side” of racing? Had I forgotten as to why I was doing this sport? Regardless as to where the real answer lied, after weighing all the pertinent factors, when we left that checkpoint and headed out towards the town of Fort Kent in that white-out, I had complete trust in the competence of my remaining seven dogs. It would be a long wet miserable haul but I knew that we were up to the challenge and besides that’s what sleddog racing was all about – Going out there and testing yourself against the powers of nature.

In theory, all this makes for excellent ingredients to a good adventure novel. However, the reality of it all is that when you’re soaked to the bones and you’re literally stranded way out there in the wilderness, one tends to question the reasoning as to why one wanted to continue with this crazy if not mad excursion. As prepared as one might think he is, one really feels small when he looks around and there is nothing out there other than a “wall of snow ” and total quietness. Oh well, I consoled myself, “Mother Nature” had invited a whole bunch of mushers to tango and we had accepted the date. While I was sitting there, waiting to present her with my “dance card”, I would have plenty of time to reassess what was important to me.

Those faithful dogs that were resting in front of me were kind of special. Let’s face it, out of the eight that started this journey that morning, six of them were actual rescues/rejects. Each of these animals had been discarded by their previous owners for whatever reason and had landed on my doorsteps. Although they all had flaws, each one of them brought me a ray of sunshine every morning when I walked in that barn. Over time, they had learned to trust me wholeheartedly and that in my books made it that they were lifelong companions that deserved my respect.

Back at the lodges, although it was quite the simple life, I was happy with the status quo. I had a great wife and a few good friends and you know what? Sharing a moment on the trail or a good conversation over a strong cup of coffee at the “Bunkhouse” was now more my speed and something that I cherished immensely. This evil side of me where I allowed myself to be invaded by that “winning at all cost” attitude was not only ugly but also not the way I had chosen to live when I embarked on this mushing passion a few years ago. Sitting there, watching “Rhum” sound asleep in my arms, pounded that point in my head, loud and clear. Although the weather was awful, I was savoring the moment as this downtime experience was wonderful. It had been a long time since I had the chance to re-acquaint myself with that special feeling that I call “Inner Peace”. That was the bottom line and that in itself, made it worthwhile to have gone through the gauntlet.

I don’t know how long I had been at that location but when the individual from the “Search and Rescue” team showed up on his snowmobile, I had come up with a plan. “Gidget” was now back with her friends and bouncing around, teasing and bugging her teammates. Now rested, they had responded by shaking the snow off their back and were now tugging at the gangline. They allowed me to snack them and although they all ate, most of them would not hydrate. This was to be a push comes to shove moment so I had to take drastic measures for their own good. I straddled the stubborn dogs, shoved their heads backwards and poured bottled water down their throat. Choke, cough, spit it out, it did not matter. Somehow, they would get that much need water. I then opened my sled bag, pulled out my spare and dry wool sweater and made room to eventually bag a still very tired “Rhum”.

“Are you all right? Do you need assistance?” were the words that came out of this person’s mouth when he stopped his machine. “People are getting worried.”
I examined my “rescuer” from head to toe, noticed by his jacket that he was a “Vietnam Veteran” and said in term that he would understand, “We have assessed the situation and have come up with an exit strategy.”
That concerned look changed and this was replaced with an acknowledging smile. “Are you Ex-Army, by any chance?”
“Yeah,” I winked back at him, “something like that. Just radio ahead and advise them that everything is under control but to tell my wife that we’re going to be late for supper. She’ll know what it means.”
Looking at this figure that he could only compare to the “Abominable
Snowman”, he did not pursue the matter. “Be careful out there.” he finished, “And Good Luck.”
“Thanks!” I replied and on that note, I whistled and we “uptrailed”.

The remainder of the trip was still not a cake walk but the team had found their “second wind” and we were again clipping right along. We eventually got to the last “Search and Rescue” station where these individuals suggested that I could stay there if I wanted as they would call for someone to pick me up. It was dark then so they could not necessarily see the displeasure that my face was expressing by that statement. So just to make it perfectly clear, I emphasized the message. “Tell your Command Center that yes we are low on fuel but that we are not declaring an emergency. I repeat, we are not declaring an emergency.”

What these “SAR” people did not know, was that “Rhum” had been wiggling to get out of the bag for a while now and he was ready to go back in the line-up. I re-introduced him to his swing position next to “Gidget”, squeezed his loving head and told him, “It’s been along time coming. Make us proud, Buddy. Take us home.”
It was as if he knew what I was talking about and away he went, putting his shoulder into it. The rest of the team responded positively and welcomed that extra forward momentum.

Tired but most satisfied of the achievement, we eventually crossed the Finish Line with a time that would earn us the not so coveted and somewhat dreaded “Red Lantern”. This did not matter to me nor did I give a “rat’s ass” as to what other mushers would think or say. I was instead like a most proud father that had taken his children to the other side of the extreme, on a most amazing journey. Not only did my adopted kids prove to one and all that they were super athletes, the experience would serve as a reminder to me, myself and I that when I chose to venture in the direction that I did, I had made the right decision. Simply put, of all the crazy escapades this musher had lived through, this one would be archived as the “Triumph of the Human Spirit” expedition. ; -)

Peace on Earth to One and All and remember –
Together, we can make a difference.

Gino

CHRISTMAS SECRETS

2010-12-26T12:31:00.000-08:00

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"Dear Santa",

If you read the fine print of our contract, it clearly says that snow must be available for me to help with the delivery of your gifts. If you've got the connections, "Make it happen". The sleds are parked and we're dying out here. ...

Your Baisley Elf

Gino

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Dear Gino,

Nice to hear from you even though it’s only when you need something, HO! HO! HO! Just had to get that out of the way, HO! HO! HO! (Tongue in cheek). You know how it is up here at the “North Pole”. It’s busy, busy, busy, especially during these hard economic times. I’ve had to shuffle things around and restructure some of the operations and as you are well aware of, it’s not easy trying to make ends meet while working on a “shoestring” budget. But have no fear. We’ve been trying hard to make the “Christmas Miracles” happen. The elves, bless their souls, do understand that there is no money to go around and are doing all the work “pro bono” till this recession fades away. I really don’t know how we’re going to manage to get all those gifts to all those deserving children of the world but we’ll figure something out…

Anyway, I can see that you’ve still got some pull with Mrs. Claus. She found that very special letter you sent me and has told me that amongst those millions of letters I’ve received, this one I should pay real special attention to or I’d be eating “Christmas Dinner” in the barn with the reindeers.

So what’s the story on this very special little girl called “Lizzie”? How come I can’t find any letter from her, on record? Did she write to me? Did she have the right address? What’s the scoop here? Oddly enough, I find it kind of weird that I can’t seem to locate the child’s “Wish List”.

Please advise soonest as time is of the essence. Christmas is in 24 days.

Sincerely Yours,

Santa Claus

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“Dear Santa”,

One part of your questions is quite easy to answer, really. It’s because there is no snow and we can’t drive the dog sled up to the “Outpost” and drop “Lizzie’s letter in that very magical “North Pole” secret mailbox, found at that location. As to why this little girl is so special, well that’s a completely different story. However, if you bear with me, I’ll try to further substantiate as to why she deserves your special attention.

It all began when…

“THE CHRISTMAS SECRETS – THE INITIAL OFFER”

The story begins when last year in July 2009, two “suits” representing a major hotel chain showed up at my front door to “relax”. Unknown to us, their primary mission was to do some study so to establish where and if our “Mama and Papa” operation could fit in their humongous corporate structure.

So after being bombarded with hundreds if not thousands of questions, after a week, they asked to talk to us about a possible business proposal. I agreed to this and being my usual self, I set up the meeting at the “Bunkhouse”.

You have to understand that these two gentlemen were really too formal and really didn’t fit well in the more than relaxed atmosphere of “Baisley Lodges”. The fact that it was the middle of summer and they had walked around the property all that time without even unloosening those ties, had not stricken an amiable chord with me. Rather, I had pegged them as just a couple of “pencil pushing starched collar stiff shirts”. Regardless, I would give them the benefit of the doubt and would take the time to listen to what they would have to say.

So here we were, me sitting there with my feet up, wearing my old favorite but greasy bib overalls, discussing the potential sale of our establishment with these two “Men in Black”. Although they were being more than careful to be respectful, I could feel that I didn’t exactly meet up to their “Ivory League Standards”. But that was OK by me because anybody who shakes my hand only to later rub his against his pant leg after, does not exactly make points with me and doe not inspire me with much confidence. Therefore there it was, their first slider and first “Strike Ball”. Now, anybody that would rather sit on straight wooden chair instead of a comfortable couch because he’s afraid of soiling his suit with dog hair, this I have no qualms with. However, having the gull to say that it’s nice outside and that “Mosqua” might be better out there, well, let’s just say that you’ve most definitely managed get a “Strike Two” on that pitch. So when they eventually decided to put the $450,000.00 offer on the table, this was the perfect opportunity to let them know what kind of fast ball I could deliver.

“Gentlemen”, I told them most firmly, “Tell whoever your bosses are that we will not even entertain the idea of selling the property at that ridiculous price. When you do decide to come back with a more serious offer then maybe we’ll think about it. But for now, I think that we’ve wasted enough time and energy on this matter and it’s not going to happen.” Swing and a miss! There it was, “Strike Three” and they were out.

On that note, I got up, walked to the door where I ended the conversation with what was to be more than a suggestion and said, “I know that you’ll be leaving real soon so I’ll let you “Gents” go back to your cabin and pack. I’ll send Fran over to settle your bill. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other things to do”.

I didn’t really have much going on that day but I wanted to get rid of these two “Fuller Brush” salesmen so accompanied by my trusted companion “Mosqua”, I jumped in my “Dog Buggy” and took off for the woods, destination unknown but who cared. I had managed to make such a dramatic exit that I was sure that I would never hear from those people again but guess what? This was not to be the end of that story…

According to a certain native legend of the Tutchone Nation in southern Yukon, when you plant a tree over the grave of a lost one, the spirit of that soul will be transformed only to rise and continue living through its limbs and branches…..

“CHRISTMAS SECRETS” – SOME SOUL SEARCHING

It was late May 2010 and that’s what I was thinking about while I was leaning over my spade shovel after digging a hole and putting “Sox” in his final resting place. Harness and all, everything that he needed to make that trip to the other side had been buried with him. Planting a “White Pine” over his grave was more than the right thing to do for this loyal sleddog friend of mine. Not only would it indicate where his remains would be but every day when I’d look into that field, I would be able to visualize him living through that tree. Now, don’t think that I’m smart enough to have thought this one out on my own. Rather, the credit belongs to my old mushing mentor, a Malecite Indian by the name of Leonard Lanteigne. Amongst the many other things he had taught me, this respectful practice was one of them and it made a lot of sense to me. Let’s be realistic. The decomposing carcass would produce minerals in the ground where the root system would eventually absorb them and provide nutrition that would help that seedling grow big and tall. It sort of fit right up there with one of Einstein’s theories where he says, “Matter doesn’t disappear. It simply transforms itself only to continue to be matter in another form”.

Anyway, the job was done and here he was with his other canine companions, resting peacefully with characters of the likes of “Flash”, “Spike”, “Vince” and “Mr Tibbs”. Over the years, this had become a traditional way of doing things when it came to the eventuality of having to “part company” with an old retired sleddog and I was getting quite the collection of maturing pine trees to prove it. But in this instance, it wasn’t the same thing. Young “Sox” had been put to sleep after being diagnosed with “Hip Dysplasia”. That was the official verdict but deep inside me I had my doubts and was wondering if his condition might have been attributed to my own stupidity. I had put the dogs through quite the regimented training schedule during the previous winter, trying to better my standings on the race circuit but had relatively had no success at it. Not only had we ended up at back of the “pack”, here I was doing what I hated the most, saying “Goodbye to a dearly departed friend”. Add in the mix the fact that this recession was killing us out here and we were having a hard time making ends meet, let alone feed a bunch of sleddogs, and you know what? I was regretting not taking that six figure job offered to me last year. On the bright side of things though, I really cared about these dogs as they were one of the reasons I’d get up in the morning. They had opened up a whole new perspective about life for me and that for this “old soldier” was a good thing. I had met some real good people through the sport but mostly I really enjoyed the simple pleasures of being out there in the woods. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, sharing a sandwich, it didn’t matter. These guys were part of my life and I had to come up with a viable solution that would afford me with a way to keep them.

“Are you alright?” was the question that came out of her mouth when she came from behind only to surprise me back to reality. By this time, I think I was done sobbing and besides, it was time to suck it up and carry on with the day, so I nodded in the affirmative.

“Guess what?” Fran said, “Those guys from Maverick Capital Management Group just phoned again. They’d like you to call them back. Are you going to?” she added.

So the “Men in Black” had taken some time to reconsider their offer during the winter and might be willing to re-open negotiations and maybe even sweeten the pot a bit. “Now wasn’t this an interesting development,” I thought to myself. “This might just be that “something always comes up” moment that I was waiting for. However, right now, this did not fit with the agenda that I had planned for the day so just told her, “Those guys can wait. I’ve got to go to the “Outpost” and pick up Samuel. His bus is scheduled to leave 01:15 pm and I wouldn’t want him to miss it.”

While driving up there, I could not stop worrying about that young soldier that I had brought out there three weeks before. He was saying that he was feeling better but I knew for a fact that he wasn’t even close to being OK. To send him off in the real world in his present unstable condition was a gamble, to say the least. But I had done all I could and now it was up to him to go back to Montreal and seek some professional medical help. This young “Afghanistan Veteran” was a total wreck both physically and mentally and it would take an extremely long time for some of the deep wounds to heal. I was most definitely glad to have met him as he was a most interesting individual to talk to and the stories of his contributions to the “War Efforts” were at the same time, amazing and alarming. He would eventually allow me to share some of his escapades with us less knowledgeable folks but that in itself was to be a totally different story…

CHRISTMAS SECRETS – THE NEW VETERANS”

I met up with a lawyer friend of mine last fall, a friend that I hadn’t seen for over 35 years. “So what have you been up to all those years?” she inquired. “Well,” I replied, “after spending 21 years in the military, I retired and moved to the Baisley. “As for what I do now, well I don’t think you’d understand. Let’s just say that, the pay sucks but the work is very gratifying…

Anyway, to continue the story… It was nice and sunny on one of the last days of April 2010, when I drove on the property after picking up supplies at “Canadian Tire”. My old mother, who had been raking leaves along the main driveway, dropped what she was doing and came to see me. “Listen Gino,” she pointed out, “there’s a stranger sitting on the bench at “Ciment Hill”. He’s been there all afternoon and I’m not too sure but I think he’s been crying all this time.”

On my way to see this person, I was at the same time, curious and intrigued. Normally when people would visit the monument, they would park near the “Bunkhouse”. But on this day, oddly enough no vehicle could be seen but as my mother had indicated, there was in deed a person sitting there under that old pine tree. Lost in his own little world, he was staring at the ground, this till “Mosqua” walked up to him with a stick in his mouth, wanting to play “fetch”. Startled to see this big black dog of a beast standing there, he straightened out and got into what you might call a “defensive position”.

“I hope you’re not afraid of dogs.” I jokingly yelled at him, just to break the ice. “You’re shit out of luck if you are. There’s seventeen of them in that barn behind you staring down your back.” “No, not usually. But this guy is impressive.” he went on, pointing at my German Shepard. “That my friend, would be Mosqua.” I replied. “He’s the Ambassador of the property. Throw that stick and he’ll be your buddy for life.” Meanwhile, the dog had put it in front of and was eying him till the young man took a chance and picked the piece of wood. He threw it. Mosqua went and retrieved it and it was case closed. They were instant friends.

“So this is that monument, Eh?” he asked. “It’s not what I expected.”
“What do you mean? I inquired.
“For some reason, I thought I’d be looking at a big mountain. You know that Canada has lost 142 soldiers in that stupid war.” he commented in a more than bitter tone. Thinking that maybe he had offended me, he then got up, walked over to touch it only to further add, “Oh well, at least somebody is doing something for us.”

And this is how me and “Samuel” began a long discussion about his war experiences. Here he was, a 23 year old ex-infantryman who had done two tours in Afghanistan in a short five year career. During those two stints, he had been blown up twice by IEDs and had lost four good friends. Where he had signed up under the pretence that he was going out there to build schools and help the people, this was not the reality of the mission. The Canadian soldiers were supporting the Americans and the way they were doing things on the ground, did not necessarily fit the description of what the United Nations Mandate prescribed. Of course, NATO was at war against these “Rag Heads” but there were limits as to where one might draw the line. The nature and details of what happened over there, I do not feel comfortable with sharing the gruesome details of the incidents as they are after all, his stories. Nonetheless, I will have to say that I do tend to believe that he’s being truthful as his accounts do match what has been told to me on several other occasions. However, I do have something to say about how the system is treating our young men and women returning from that “Hell Hole”. Speaking strictly from the point of view of Valcartier, it would appear that they’re putting these young soldiers through the “Sausage Machine” and that no real debriefing takes place. As far as the soldiers are concerned, they see the entire process as a joke where if you can breathe and chew gum at the same time, then your medical file is rubber stamped as “fit for duty”. Yeah right! Let’s take Samuel’s case as an example. He’s one of these guys that apparently has seven confirmed kills under his belt. Out of those, one incident keeps revisiting him almost every night. It’s the one where he drops a supposedly “bad guy” only to see his young son later run out of the house to his father where, while not understanding what’s going on, he shakes him, trying to wake the dead man up. This had a lasting effect on this soldier so to numb his brain and try to forget, while in theater, he starts smoking hashish to eventually graduate to opium. He returns to Canada, changes his drug habit to cocaine. He tries to get medical help but is discouraged by his superiors. He tries to commit suicide and only then is he paid attention to. He’s placed in a psychiatric ward downtown Quebec where he’s pumped with pills. When he gets out of there, he finds out that his contract will not be renewed and he’s turfed out on “Civie Street”, a pill popping “coke head” with nightmares. No one tells him how to deal with the fact that he has sanctioned a whole bunch of people. You just don’t talk about it and live with that. That’s just how it is. So with a whole bunch of money in his pockets, he deals with the problem the way he sees fit and continues “frying” his brain till he doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. Homeless and penniless, he wanders around not really knowing if he’s half dazed or half stoned. He has one more stop to make before doing his great final exit and visits “Ciment Hill” to say goodbye to his friends…

“So where do you go from here?” I asked after listening to him for hours and pitying the pour soul. There was no response...
“How about you sticking around for a while.” I continued. “My wife makes a mean lasagna and you’re in luck. She’s made some today. How about if you just go in that cottage, take a shower, put a change of clothes on and join us for supper.”
“This is it.” he said embarrassed while stroking his dirty shirt with the back of his hands. “What you see is what you get.” If this was to be his lame excuse for him not to wash, I wasn’t buying. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll lend you some of mine. Now get in there and wash.. You fucken stink.”

He almost looked human after bathing and eating a good meal but this was not to be the end of his “adventure”. While having dinner conversation, he had made reference a few times to the fact that he wanted to “give his sinuses a break” but just couldn’t seem to be able to stay away from the stuff. I told him that I had a log cabin in the backwoods and a whole bunch of firewood to split. If he wanted a place to sober up and think things out, I’d take him there and he could stay as long as he wanted. “When you’re done stacking the wood,” I said trying to convince him, “we’ll both know that it’s time for you to go.” He knew that he wasn’t scheduled to punch a clock anywhere in a near future so accepted my proposal. We jumped in that “Dog Buggy” of mine but instead of taking him up the regular “10 minute” summer drive, I took the long way there, driving through a bunch of zigzaggy dog trails. I was going to make sure that he was disoriented and thought that the place was in the middle of nowhere. This was to be further insurance, just in case he decided at one point to stray and go downtown to get a “fix”.

I checked on him on a regular basis and as it turns out he had gone “cold turkey” for all this time and was over the worst part of his “bent over shakes”. He had come a long way in the last three weeks but his “living hell” was still ahead. So when I got to the “Outpost” that day, here was “Samuel” sitting on a log that he had omitted to split so to use as a seat. He looked well rested and the smile he was wearing, suggested that he might be ready to go back and face some of the challenges of dealing with amongst other things, the realities of “Civie Street”. Through connections, I made arrangements for him to be evaluated by professional medical personnel and aimed him towards Montreal.

When we parted company at the Bus station, his parting words were, “Thanks for everything. I’ll pay you back for the ticket.”

“Listen Sam,” I told him, “Don’t worry about that. It’s on the house. I just want you to remember one thing. Someday, it’ll be your turn to do your part and when that time comes, I just hope that you’ll be man enough to press the button and send the elevator back upstairs.”

We hugged “Army” style and parted company. He was on his way to “La Belle Province” and I was headed back to Baisley. I had decided to go ahead and make that particular phone call but that in itself is a different story all together…

CHRISTMAS SECRETS – DECISIONS, DECISIONS”

In one man’s existence, one will always be faced with the prospect of making hard decisions. Taking the easy way out or swimming against the current, whatever choice one makes, one must live with the consequences and this for the rest of his life.

Leonard Lanteigne

Anyway, to continue with the story… By June 2010, Fran and I were faced with alarming realities attributed with this so-called “It doesn’t affect Canada Recession”. The sawmill was nowhere close to generating any significant revenues and the first page of the “2010 Reservation Book” for Baisley Lodges was almost a blank sheet of paper. This was not good and the future looked not only bleak but also extremely discouraging. Because of the “Domino Effect”, businesses all around us had been and were continuing to fail. The more “Out of Business” signs we saw, the more people retreated to their own little corner, just to “sit on the fence” and wait for this storm to blow through. While all this was going on, our infamous leaders of this illustrious New-Brunswick Provincial Government kept jacking up the property taxes and letting NB Power increase their utility rates continuously. Where five years ago, us “commoners” used to have maybe 6 % of our total revenues to maybe buy a new pair of “underwear”, now here we were with no income to talk about and dipping deeply in the “Credit Line” just to keep the boat afloat. So when I made that phone call that day, I was glad to hear the more than positive news – They had received my message “Loud and Clear” and had reconsidered their position. At my convenience, they wanted to set up an “above board” meeting where they wished for us to listen to their proposal. Now this was to me, the way to do things - None of this “cloak and dagger” sneaky stuff, just a good old fashioned “all cards on the table straight talk”.

Arrangements were made and I somewhat regretted setting the appointment so far in the future. It was obvious that they were still very interested in purchasing the property and now it was just a matter of agreeing on a figure. I had in my mind a most definite number of $900,000.00 and was adamant that I would not let it go for one penny less. So while waiting, Fran and I started discussing as to what we’d do if we got our price. Moving to BC sounded like an excellent plan, I suggested. She agreed but with reservations. “How are we supposed to move out there with “20 some dogs???” No problem, I had that covered. We would buy one of those top of the line “Dodge One Ton” truck with the big turbo charged “Cummings” diesel. I would order a matching colored “16” foot closed in trailer, specially made to haul the dogs and all the gear. I had all the answers but every time I came up with a reason as to why we should sell, she would come up with a counter argument as to why we shouldn’t. “Listen Fran,” I eventually said, “I’ve always wanted to move out West and run the “Yukon Quest”. Here’s that perfect opportunity to not only make that dream come true but we’ll be done with this nightmare of a province. “Whatever!” she rebutted, tired of arguing. “I just hope that if this deal goes through, you don’t realize later on that you made the wrong decision.”

How could I regret my move? Since the beginning when we started this project twenty years ago, every time I’d pound some nails to put up another building, I’d always say to myself, “It’s just another investment for the future.” Here they were, after all these years, these “suits” interested in taking over the “headaches”. If they were serious, I was more than willing to sit down and discuss their proposal. I had made two bad decisions in the span of one year and this time it would be different.

To better my chances, I had set up the meeting for the 05 Jul 2010, simply because we had a full house for the “Canada Day” long weekend and Fran’s geraniums were in full bloom and decorated the entire property. To make even more of a good impression, I upgraded my wardrobe to a new plaid shirt and jeans. So when we sat down on the porch that afternoon, the stage had been set and I was ready to listen.

After a bunch of jibber-jabber and small talk, a newcomer to the negotiating table took over the meeting. This older gentleman and a sweet talker of a man, got down to the “brass tacks”.
“So Mr Roussel, we understand that this property means a lot to you and your wife. We can see that both of you have poured your hearts and souls so to make it what it is today. So we’ve come up with a proposal that might benefit both parties. First of all, if you agree, we would like for you folks to stay around for five years as managers. This would give us the opportunity to learn the nitty-gritty of the operations. However, at anytime, should you wish to leave, we’d accept that decision and would not hold you to the five year deal. He went on and on as to what they do with the property - expand here, put more cottages there and so on and so on. He was boring me with too many details and as far as I was concerned as long as they gave us our price, they could do whatever they wanted with it. And then he said something that didn’t sit right. He pointed to the “experimental forest” where by the way all those “white pines” are planted and said. Over here, I see clearing all this bush so that we can see the “Bunkhouse” properly. You know that once we’ve done some renovations on the building, it’s going to need to be exposed to the public.

“Listen, Mr Harisson,” I eventually interrupted, “All that is nice but what kind of money are we talking about?” There was a pause and when he did blurb the figure out, it simply floored me. “Can you say that again? I asked not too sure that I had heard correctly. “Yes Mr. Roussel, the corporation is will to offer you, $1,200,000.00 for Baisley Lodges.”

The better part of me just wanted to say, “Where do I sign?” But that little thing that he had said about clearing the “white pines” just didn’t strike my fancy. But then again, that “native custom” was only something that meant something to me. Let’s face it, the dogs buried there would never know the difference but still...

So we concluded the meeting with the understanding that we’d get back to them after reflecting about all of this. Fran and I needed to discuss this amongst ourselves before making any sort of decision. There were to be many factors to consider and we needed time to weigh in all our options. But that in itself was to be a totally different story…

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When the Stock Market crashed in 2001, it sort of took care of our nest eggs. I was forced to do odd jobs and one of them was as a “river guide”. One day I had this billionaire sitting in the bow. After two days of discussing anything from politics to private family matters, he eventually turned around and said “Look around you and just remember one thing. The richest man in this canoe is not sitting in the front…

So to continue with this story… As far as I was concerned, “we had won the lottery” and were “set for life.” But I had noticed that this might not have been the case for Fran. Every time I tried to discuss the subject with her, she was always evasive with her answers and quick to change topics. I was getting impatient with her as I needed her input if we were going to go through with this deal. However, she was in her summer routine, doing things that she enjoyed. From working in her greenhouse to filling her bird feeders, she was constantly on the move. One day, I was renovating the bathroom in one of the cottages and was walking back and forth to the “Workshop”. While setting my table saw to the right measurement, I was hearing some clanging in the attic of the shop. Paying attention to what it could be, here was my wife talking to “Tieger”, the latest of a long string of stray cats that had wandered on the property. From what I could gather, they were having quite the conversation. While she was complimenting as to how he looked good since he was eating properly, the feline was meowing and purring. I didn’t disturb them during their “happy place” moment but that interaction between the two of them made me realize one thing. My needs were not the only ones that I would need to consider. Fran had called this place “Home” for the last fifteen years and if she hadn’t been in my corner, who knows where we’d be today. I started splitting that board while thinking to myself, “You’ve got quite the job ahead of you. You better come up with better arguments.”

When you’re in the cottage rental business, you meet a whole bunch of different sort of people. Some are nice while some well, let’s just say that there’s room for improvement. The nice people outweigh the “nasties” and usually we weed out these “glass half empty” types of individuals. If you can’t appreciate looking at a squirrel running from tree to tree then maybe this is not the place for you. The one classic example of that was when these “Big Wigs” from Edmundston rolled in last summer, looking at spending some time at the “Baisley Resort”. They pulled in at the “Bunkhouse” looking for information. I was busy hammering nails in there and I guess from the sawdust, I looked like the hired help. “Dressed to kill, complete with the high heels, this over perfumed “Madame” took over the conversation. “Are the owners here?” she inquired, looking at me from head to toe as if I was diseased. Wondering where this might be going and willing to play her silly game, I commented, “I think that Mrs Roussel is gone to town. Is there anything I can do to help.” She didn’t say anything but it was obvious from her stare that I did not belong in her league. “No that’s OK.” she replied with some misplaced sophistication, “We’ll just have a look around.” While they were walking, Mosqua and I were tagging along and listening in on their chit-chat. “Well Harold, it’s nice but look at all those dogs over there. I don’t think we could relax with all that barking.” On and on, she just kept harping about what was wrong with the place. “Too many mosquitoes”, “Watch it, there’s dog crap over here.” “Why don’t they stain their buildings? I don’t like all those gray boards.” While I was keeping that commercial smile on, “Mosqua” was shoving his “stick carrying cold nose” up her skirt. She kept pushing him away but he was persistent. He wanted to play “fetch”. “Well Harold,” she eventually added, now satisfied that it was good enough to spend a week, “We can stay here but you’re going to have to talk to the people about this annoying dog. If we’re going to rent a place, he’s going to have to be chained up somehow. “OK”, I thought to myself, “enough time wasted on this Bimbo!” “Excuse me Lady!” I said loudly while adjusting my tool belt to get their attention. “It turns out that I also happen to be one of the owners. I’ve been listening to your whining all this time and really don’t think that this place is for you. May I suggest that you take your “made in china” plastic stilettos and go downtown and rent a cheap motel room. That would probably be more your speed.” Her jaw dropped and I walked away.

Here was a fine example and further substantiation as to why I wanted to get out of the business. But as you would have it, this woman turned out to be the exception to the rule and for some reason, that “no money to spare” season turned out to be our busiest summer on record. Like a miracle, the phone started ringing off the wall during those months. Old friends that we had met over the years, were coming back and new clients who would eventually become friends were showing up.

You know that times are tough for everybody when you book a cottage for four people and fourteen show up. Oh yeah! When four vehicles pull in at one cottage and tents start popping all over the yard, then you know that the circus is in town. It wasn’t really the circus. Rather, it was just a Montreal family that came to a wedding. The mother who had made the reservations apologized and told Fran that all these “extras” were not scheduled to come but at last minute, they had decided to. She was willing to pay more for the inconveniences and asked how much? Fran didn’t really know how much it was worth so just answered that she’d talk to her husband and would get back to her. When she did ask me, I didn’t really know what the price of a “36 sq/ft patch of lawn” was worth so just said, “Let’s wait and see how the weekend goes then we’ll decide then.” That Saturday, really early in the morning, I met the grandfather of the clan. He was at the barn talking to the dogs and they were responding as if they had known him forever. I take notice of these little details because when dogs trust a human immediately like that, then it’s usually a sign that this person is good people. We were talking about this and that and I was to find out that most of the young adults in the “circus” had never left the city of Montreal never mind the province of Quebec. For them to ride in a canoe, swim in the river and just sit by a campfire was a real big deal. That afternoon, looking at them do “back flips” and playing in the river made me realize that what we take for granted out here in the “boonies” can be something beautiful for someone else to discover. So with the wedding done and over with, their weekend had been a success. When it came to tally up the bill, we just told them “Don’t worry about the extras, they’re on the house.” Now why would you do something like that to perfect strangers? Well it’s simple, I guess. They looked like they could use a break so why not give it to them. If they left here with a warm fuzzy feeling, wasn’t that a good thing?

We like doing those “warm fuzzy feeling” things and I guess once in a while one of them will come and reach real deep inside of you and touch your soul. This was to happen when this Congolese family showed up for their first real Canadian vacation. Refugees from a war torn country, they could really appreciate the freedom that our great country can offer. You see, they had been persecuted back in Congo and had left, afraid of losing their lives. Although it calls itself a “Democratic Republic”, the country was and is still controlled by “war lords” who have no respect whatsoever for human lives. These so called “private armies” are extremely dangerous and completely out of control. For entertainment, they’ll go and terrorize the villages where they “gang rape” the women. When they catch some of the boys, if they’re old enough, they are kidnapped and held for ransom. If it is paid, he is sometime returned to his family. If this is not to happen then he is drugged and beaten into submission till he becomes a “boy soldier” for them. If this is not bad enough and probably the most gruesome thing that happens in this infernal region, is that they will actually steal babies, skin them and sell them as a monkey substitute to be served as a delicacy called “bush meat”. Ouff, that’s hard to digest…

Anyway, this father and mother and their three boys had chosen Baisley Lodges as their destination for their first true vacation. I had asked them about their plans, wondering where they might go exploring. They didn’t have any big agenda, as a matter of fact, this was it for them. Baisley Lodges was to be the highlight of their trip. I thought it was unusual a bit but thought that if they were looking to relax, this might be what the doctor had ordered. But then I was wondering about the teenage boys. Surely, they wanted to do something more than vegetate. So I decided to create for them a “mini adventure”. Armed with a plan, I walked to the “Gazebo” where they were sitting. While relaxing, they were eating peanuts in the shell but contrary to us where they’re roasted, these were boiled in the shell, then left to cool to be eaten as a snack. Curious as to what they tasted like, I asked for couple. They were more than delicious and the next thing you know, I was sitting at the table stuffing these peanuts in like it was going out of style. One thing led to another and there I was sharing one of my favorite meal, beans. In the true sense of African hospitality, I had been invited to share a meal with them. They weren’t your traditional Canadian baked beans but served with white rice, they were exquisite to the taste buds.

As it was probably one of the warmest days on record and everybody was sweating bullets, I offered the boys a trip up river in my motorized canoe. “The River Wolf aka The African Queen” would be used and we’d go and see if we couldn’t locate some of those bald eagles that live up there. I had told them to put on their bathing suits as we would stop at the “imaginary island” for a swim.

We did all this and much more and I must say that there was to be a touching moment during that trip. This was when me and the father were watching the three boys dare each other to plunge in that cold icy water. They were playing, giggling and pushing each other around. You could say that they were just boys being boys. At one point though, the father reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Gino” he went on to say, “Thank You for this wonderful day. This is the first time in four years that I’ve seen my oldest son smile.” There was a long pause and he didn’t really have to elaborate as to what he was talking about. I could visualize some of the things that this family might have been through as I had lived in my previous life similar experiences in another unstable and violent African country.

At this point, you can now start seeing that I might have doubts about selling “My slice of Heaven” and you are more than correct with that assumption. However, the deal breaker was to happen later on and that’s when this sweet little “Angel” appeared to me out of nowhere. But if you’ve been following these writings since the beginning, you most likely have figured out by now that this is to be a totally different story all together…

You shouldn’t judge the biker you meet on the highway because he’s wearing “colors” on his back. Maybe if you would have read the “rockers” properly, you might have realized that they were not “outlaws”. Most of those guys wearing that “patch” have probably seen more action in a month than you’ll ever see in your whole career… With his head down, the young RCMP constable just went back to his patrol car and left.

CHRISTMAS SECRETS – THE MEETING

So to continue with this story… When it started more than a few years ago, it was just four old “Army” buddies getting together at Baisley Lodges for a few laughs and a good meal. During that first reunion, one of my friends, by the name of “Yves Beausoleil” thought that “Ciment Hill” was an honorable way of remembering our fallen comrades of the Afghanistan conflict. So after supper that evening, in a drunken stupor, he raised his glass and vouched to return every year and pay respect to the “Boyz”.

True to his word, he did come back and one thing led to another and this to the point where it was to become a kind of annual tradition. Where just a few had been the norm back then, the number of “bikers” had kept growing every year. The word had spread like wildfire and now old soldiers from all over the Maritimes, Quebec and Ontario were showing up for this special gathering.

So this summer, when the “VETERANS UN/NATO CANADA” group decided to come to town, you could hear that there were more than a dozen bikes traveling in a pack. The thunderous roar echoing through the valley while they moved down the highway in that precise military disciplined convoy was not only impressive but a sure tattle tale sign that there would be some serious partying going on over the weekend. Contrary to what one might see on TV, these were not your average “Party Animals” and there was to be no furniture breaking, tire burning, barroom brawling going on. Instead, it was just a large get-together where old and new friends enjoyed each others company, using the occasion to talk about the “good old days”. From the Korean War all the way down to the Afghanistan mission, all the operational theaters where Canada had deployed troops over the last 60 years, all seemed to be well represented. Although their experiences differed, amazingly these veterans all had one thing in common. They had done their time protecting the vested interest of this country and had earned the right to be respected for their efforts. This was sometimes something difficult to obtain from a “civilian” as they just didn’t understand the chemistry and bonds that are created between two persons when tested under most extreme conditions. Simply put, you had to have been there to appreciate the comradeship that could develop amongst these so-called retired and not retarded “outcasts”.

The weekend was moving right along when Fran told me that it was important that I phone a friend in Quebec City. I did contact “J-C”, only to find out that he hadn’t been able to make it to the reunion as he was helping a current serving member of the Armed Forces get through a most serious family crisis. He needed my help and was wondering if I might be willing to take care of two beloved “Siberian Husky” puppies that this individual owned. Presently, there was no room in his life for the two dogs and the only other viable option at the time was euthanasia. I didn’t really have any space for the pair of them but then again I didn’t really see it as being fair to have them put down for something that they had nothing to do with. “Besides”, I smiled to myself, “aren’t you supposedly the guy that rescues sleddogs?” So I told my more than tenacious Quebec counterpart to bring them down whenever they could. Thinking that this might be transpiring in the next week or so, wasn’t I surprised to see that black SUV pull in the yard three hours later with the two “Princesses” in the back. I met up with their owner and after reassuring him that they would be well looked after, we took “Kameo” and “Orka” to the barn where they were introduced to the “Mob”. While the males had these big “Colgate” smiles on and were putting on quite the show to impress the newcomers, most of the females were showing their teeth and growling at them so to let them know that they were invading their “turf”.

“This is a beautiful set-up you’ve got here.” Lizzie’s father later said. “Would you mind terribly if I’d bring my daughter up here next week to see where her dogs will be living? I’m sure she’d feel well reassured knowing that they now have found a new home.” That request sounded more than reasonable to me, so told him, “Sure, come on down!”

A week passed and on that next rainy Friday, this little skinny fury of a person, maybe 3 feet 2 inches tall, planted her feet solid into the ground, invaded Baisley and was ready for action. I didn’t know what her father had told her but it was obvious that she was a tiny girl looking for big adventure. Sporting a yellow rubber raincoat and matching “purple pok-a-dot” rubber boots, she was carrying an oversized backpack filled with all sorts of scientific “goodies” that would help her during her “Bug Catching” expeditions. When she was walking around, this and I mean this humongous square backpack was hitting her in the back of her legs and making this butterfly catcher net that was sticking out of it, bounce back and forth as if it was working on its own. Her dad had warned me about this little firecracker and when she was passed her shyness, it didn’t take her long to pepper me with observations and questions.

It totally amazed me that through the eyes of a four year old, this place that I call home, could be so magical. In her fantasy world, everything had special powers and there was a purpose behind everything. For example, she was living in “Snow White’s” Cottage and “CIMENT HILL” with its huge pillars, was the Prince’s Castle. It had to be that, she tried convincing her daddy as she had spotted the two lawn ornaments in the field by the greenhouse and recognized them as being “Happy” and “Bashful”, two of the seven dwarfs of that particular Fairy Tale.

I don’t collect them but people tend to think that I do, so throughout the years, I’ve amassed a whole bunch of “Wal-Mart” garden gnomes that I’ve placed in strategic locations all over the seven acre property. They don’t say much but I always thought of them as being cute little happy go lucky men thus do enjoy having them hiding in the bush where they stand in silence and “spy” on people. I made the big mistake of telling her that they existed. Well, let me tell you! Her eyes popped right open and in seconds she had made a command decision. “Let’s go Daddy! Let’s go! We’ve got to go and find where they live.” “But Elizabeth,” her father replied, “We’re not even unpacked yet.” “That can wait,” she ordered, “Right now, we need to find those elves.” There was no turning back. The mission was on its way. Her pulling her father by the hand and me covering the rear, we were being led down this pathway to the “great unknown” by this cute but bossy little pint size “General”. I didn’t know where we were headed with all this but I was more than intrigued to find out. I hadn’t realized it yet but I had just met up with my “Angel”. She had landed in my life and would help me find my way. But that Folks was to be a completely different story all together…

So if Santa Claus lives in the “North Pole”, who are all those guys we see in the Shopping Malls?” “Well Lizzie,” I answered, “They’re what you might call apprentices. You know that even Santa will retire at one point and on that day, the one of those guys that has done the best job will be asked to replace “Old Saint Nick”….

CHRISTMAS SECRETS – THE CHESS GAME

So to continue with this story… To best describe this tiny action packed explorer would be to say that she was a combination of “Harry Potter” and “Nancy Drew”, all rolled into a pocket size version of “Bill Nye, the Science Guy. One side of her totally believed in magic while her other side saw things with more of a somewhat “need to know how this works” analytic scientific approach. From turning rocks over to collect earthworms and put them under the magnifying glass to observing how the mother duck takes care of her hatchlings, everything seemed to fascinate her. Even at that tender age, you could tell that this young girl had the potential of being a world class biologist just by the ways she approached every single project.

This was more than evident one day when she tangled with that ever elusive “blue frog” in the pond. She knew it was a rare specimen and wanted to observe it more closely. However, every time she got into close range, the amphibian would just spring ahead and dive underwater. She studied her subject and came to the conclusion that although it swam away, it always came back to the same spot after. So armed with her trusty high tech “Butterfly Catching Net”, she took a position, standing in the water. It was deeper than she anticipated so it filled those more than fashionable “purple pok-a-dot” yellow rubber boots. Standing in knee deep water, she didn’t care. She had assessed that if this was what it would take to catch it then so be it. She was going to do what she had to do. So there she was, like a half bent over statue with her net maybe one foot over the surface, motionless and waiting for the frog to reappear. I really thought that after standing there in that position for more than half an hour she’d give up the hunt, but “Noooo”, not my little angel of a detective. She had the patience and would wait him out. It took a long while for it to come back and trust his “environment” but when he did, he had fallen into Lizzie’s trap. With the speed of a striking cobra, she flicked that net and scooped “Mr. Frog” right up. “I did it!!!” she exclaimed while sloshing about in the pond and making her way to the shore. “Now let’s see why he’s blue.” After putting him in a jar half filled with water, she spent more than a couple of hours examining the animal. On her own, she eventually came to the conclusion that it had to do with how the “angle” of the sun reflected on its skin. Satisfied with her findings, she came back, kneeled down and released the frog to where he had come from. “Good-Bye “Kermit”, she apologized, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about but saw this as a perfect opportunity to escape and he did. It was “Plop” and he was gone.

During all this time, I was getting right into this entrancing adventure across the property and had decided to get really involved. To fill in some of the blanks of this alert and inquisitive mind, where no scientific explanations could be found, I replaced them with things from the wonderful world of magic. Where one day she had picked up a yellow and black caterpillar and put it in a bird house, waiting for it to transform itself into the flying insect, I had placed these “Dollarama” plastic “sticky butterflies” on the windshield of her father’s car for her to discover when she woke up the next morning. This went on and on and while this intricate “Chess Game” was being played and this against a most fearsome and worthy opponent, after almost a week, we were still searching for that very last and very elusive elf. Not only had she managed to find eleven of them, as an added bonus, she had located “Mr. Red Pine”, “Grandfather White Pine” and “Senior Citizen Silver Maple Tree”. It astonished me that of all the people that had walked the grounds that this little girl was the only one to take notice of all the “make believe” characters living here – all of them except for that one single individual. I have to admit, I was a bit bewildered by this also as I just could not figure out where he might have disappeared to. Of course he was just a plastic lawn ornament but still… As it turns out, nobody would have been able to find him as good old “JR” had stolen him and was hiding him in his dog house amongst his thirty or so other prized treasures.

So that afternoon, while there was a lull in the action in that everlasting “search for the missing elf”, she was lying there in the middle of the field and letting the puppies crawl all over her. Of course, she was more than fond of her two huskies, “Kameo” and “Orka” but when you have four all white “six week old puppies” in the barn, guess who might just happen to be the star attractions of the show. You’re correct, it was the most recent additions to the “Canadian Snowhound” family, “Summer”, “Thunder”, “Lightning” and “Vince” (and all this time you thought I was going to say “Storm”). While they were jumping and growling at her, she was giggling her head off. All this made it that it gave this entire scene a total sense of serenity. It wasn’t surreal. It was actually happening. Here was this innocent child playing an innocent game with, shall we say, innocent puppies. Not bothered by outside distractions, this moment was just one of those peaceful “make you feel good” instances. I was enjoying every minute of it when suddenly she popped up with another question.

“Why do you have so many dogs?” she asked. Not wanting to have to go through the whole rigmarole of “it’s because I race them in the winter and so on”, I thought I’d just avoid that by saying, “It’s because sometimes Santa Claus needs help delivering his gifts at Christmas and sometimes he’ll call on me and the dogs to help out.”

Her face changed and with this angry look, she barked out at me, “You’re lying. That’s not true because Santa doesn’t exist!!!” Taken a bit by surprise by her reaction, I decided to ease into the touchy area. “What do you mean? I asked. “Well last year,” she added while taking a deep breath, “I wrote him a letter and all I asked for, was to have my Daddy and Mommy move in back together. It didn’t happen and now I still live in two houses. If he was real, we would be living together, now!”

She had quite the strong argument, that little one and her strategic move sort of stuck me in the corner, almost “Checkmate”. There was not really any strategy that I could do to counter the attack and besides it was not up to me to explain the details of the divorce of her parents. However, when it came to the “Jolly Old Guy” in the red suit, now this was one topic that I could and would tackle. The reputation of the “Big Guy” was in jeopardy and it needed to be defended. “Time to call in the Artillery” I thought to myself. “And I mean, the Big Guns.” But as you would have it, this was to be a totally different story altogether…

“Did you put the letter in one of his Magical Mail Box?” I asked. “Did you have the right address?

Did you write:
Santa Claus @ North Pole, HOH OHO on the envelope?

CHRISTMAS SECRETS – THE SPIRIT DOGS

There were to be no answers. I tried three times to discuss Santa Claus with Lizzie but she wasn’t responding. Instead, she turned towards the puppies and asked, “Why are they all white with blue eyes?” I knew then that I had stumbled onto something she didn’t like talking about so thought that it would be best to change subject. “Lizzie,” I told her it’s because they have very special powers. In the Yukon, the Southern Tutchone native people call them the “spirit dogs”. This aboriginal First Nation is very spiritual when it comes to the respect of the land and the animals they share it with. They believe that a person and everything created all possess special powers and that it is up to that individual to search for and find the true path to eternal life. As for the “Spirit Dogs”, the legend has it that during the Klondike Gold Rush, a man called F.J. Fitzgerald worked for the North West Mounted Police as the Inspector who ran the Champagne police post. Although he had the reputation of being hard and tough, he was also known to be more than a fair and honest person. During his stay in southern Yukon, he had helped the “Wolf Clan” and was very well respected by them. Dressed in his “Red Serge” and from his actions, they truly believed that he was the “Chosen One”. He was the one that would show them the way out of those hard times of famine after the caribou herds had dwindled and were almost non existent. In fact and this is a matter of public records, what had happened was that in the late 1800s, the “white man” had invaded the area and over hunted its food supply. Also, they would trade furs for goods with the “Indians” and like everywhere else across Canada - they suckered them into exchanging their valuable commodities for cheap booze. The unsuspected natives brought the “spirit water” back to their villages and drank it. The rot gut liquor was more than they could handle and brought all sort of havoc in the community. For the very first time in their existence, these natives were faced with the sickness of alcoholism. It got so extreme that the warriors would rather sit around and drink all day. They refused to go hunting and would argue and fight amongst each other. Chaos ran through the village and one day the Clan Mothers showed up on the front steps of the North West Mounted Police post and filed an official first complaint of murder. RCMP archives revealed that Fitzgerald had indeed investigated and resolved the crime. However, what had struck him the hardest was how the negative impact of the “westernized culture” had affected the “locals”. Seeing what the problem was, he took it upon himself to establish barriers that would protect and offer them better chances at survival. Wildlife conservation laws and a formal ban on the sale of alcohol to aboriginal people were two measures introduced for the first time in the territory. Soon after these were enforced, the “evil spirits” were chased out of the village and once again a sense of peace and harmony returned to settle over the “Wolf Clan”. To Fitzgerald it was a matter of logical common sense. However for the people of the village, they viewed him as a “Demi-God” and to thank him, offered him a gift of two beautiful white dogs. Chosen by the medicine man, “Storm” and “Crystal” were supposed to have magical powers and would guide the Mountie’s dog team and offer him protection and guidance. In 1903, because of a border dispute between Canada and the United States over the boundary of the Alaskan territory, the Canadian government felt the need to better define its northern frontiers, thus ordered the North West Mounted Police to proceed further up north and report on American whalers that were establishing themselves on Canada’s Arctic coast. One day, in the winter of 1910-11, the Inspector and four other constables went on a dog patrol to investigate a report of illegal sale of liquor to natives by the whalers. Although the official version related that the patrol perished on the trail, the rumor had it that they were ambushed by these Americans who disposed of their bodies at sea during their return trip south. The legend has it that Fitzgerald’s sleddogs eventually found their way home and returned to the valley as ghosts where they roamed the lands, in search of a new keeper. To encounter a “Spirit Dog” means that they see the spiritual powers of that person and want to guide him towards the reception of a special gift. If one is to be chosen by the creator to receive such an enormous gift and he does accept these lifelong responsibilities, he must use them to bring good fortune amongst his people.”

“My old friend, “Leonard Lanteigne” had found and rescued one of these last “Spirit Dogs” when he lived in the Yukon in the 1990s.” I continued. “This dog’s name was “Vince”. He was a strong and loyal dog and when Leonard gave him to me, he brought me good luck and happiness. That little puppy you’re holding right now is the direct descendant and fourth generation of these magical animals. To honor his great-grandfather, I named that little guy just like his granddad and he’s also called “Vince”. If someday you really need to have a wish granted and really truly believe in their secret powers then you can ask them.

“So if that’s the case,” she said after analyzing and coming up with a conclusion, “that would make you the new Keeper of the “Spirit Dogs.” “Oh Vince,” she carried on while hugging the puppy, “You’re such a lucky boy to be living here.” I didn’t answer and just smiled but inside me, I was thinking, “You know Lizzie, I never saw it that way before.”

Like everything else, all good things must eventually come to an end and the next day, it was time for Lizzie to go back home. She didn’t want to leave and was making a fuss about it. She was coming up with all sorts of reasons as to why they should extend their vacation but her daddy needed to get back and go to work. Seeing that she was getting nowhere using these tactics, she changed and started talking about Santa Claus again. “You know,” she started, “Maybe I didn’t have the correct address when I sent him that letter last year.” “Well maybe you didn’t.” I added. “But Lizzie, you’ve got to remember that Santa can only do so much when it comes to little children’s “Wish List”. That’s why, sometimes he calls on people like me to help him out.” What do you mean?” she asked, using her “Super Sleuth” investigative techniques. I looked at her father who had that “Here we go again” look on his face and winked at him. If I was to win this spectacular “Chess Match”, now was the time to make that final strategic move. “If you promise to listen to your dad, I’ll tell you three more Christmas Secrets.” “I promise.” she answered while raising her left hand and putting the right one over her heart. “I swear to listen to him”.

On that note, we headed to the “Workshop”. I had been commissioned to fabricate a “Santa’s Chair” many years ago by Wal-Mart and halfway through the build they had changed their mind and wanted it done for half the negotiated price. This had not gone well with me so had told them to pound salt. This thing had been sitting there in the corner all this time unfinished but would be useful for this occasion. “You see Lizzie, I’m making a new chair for Santa.” “Oh!!” she fascinated, “It’s going to be beautiful.” “Now if you follow me, I’ll show you something else.” I told her while escorting her up the stairs into the attic. “Now what do you think this might be?” I questioned and pointing at the red antique. “Look Daddy,” she exclaimed all excited, “It’s really real!! It’s Santa’s sleigh.” “Now do you believe? Do you believe that Santa does exist?” I continued. “Oh Yes!” she nodded all excited, “Oh for sure! I’m positive that he does exist!”

I was on a roll so I thought to myself, “Why stop now?” “Remember all those elves you found hiding all over the place?” I kept on going, “Well at the beginning of December of every year, they magically come back to life, jump in the sleigh and go back to work, making toys at the North Pole.” For the first time in six days, she was silent and she didn’t have anything to add. She was just in total amazement about her wonderful discovery.

We were headed back to the car when she started running towards the barn. “I’ve got to go and say good-bye to the dogs!” she said, rushing over there. We followed her there and when we got there, here she was in the pen with the puppies. Kneeling down as if to say a prayer and with her eyes closed, she was holding “Vince” in her arms. “Vince,” she requested, “I wish that I could come here and live with all my friends.” The moment was poignant and I had this huge lump in my throat. Barely managing to get the words out, I said, “Listen Lizzie, that’s quite the tall order you’re asking for. Maybe you should ask to come and visit again instead of living here. Your mother lives in Quebec and she’d miss you, you know.” “Oh yeah,” she replied, “I forgot about her.”

She was finally going to get in the car but wanted to say a proper good-bye before leaving. Opening up her arms and reaching forward for me to pick her up, she moved towards me. I lifted her up and while she wrapped the tiny arms around my head, I gave her a bear hug. I guess she didn’t exactly know what to say so just whispered in my ear, “I love you, Uncle Gino.” For some reason those simple words meant the world to me right there, right now. That block of ice that I’ve had deep in my stomach for all those years just seemed to melt away and evaporate. It was like a miracle and that thing I called a stone of a heart, started beating again and that good person woke up and started living again. Words could not be spoken…

You would think that by now, this story would have come to a conclusion but that’s where you’re wrong. It turns out that the military had different plans for her father and this would be a real sad note in their lives. But this folks was to be a totally different story all together…
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In my time, they used say, “If the Army would have wanted you to have a wife and family, they would have issued them to you at the Quarter Master’s Store.” I’d always roll my eyes in disbelief when a crusty old “Sergeant Major” would come up with that argument to resolve someone’s personal family matter…

So to continue with the story… There had been a lesson in there somewhere for me and when I did have to fill those boots at one point in my career, I had always considered that the welfare of the men would come first. This was a “no brainer” to me. A soldier serving somewhere in a far way land had enough on his mind without having to worry about a family crisis back home. So when the somewhat discouraged father (who we’ll simply call “Andy”), “E-Mailed” me at the beginning of December with the news, I was appalled. I just couldn’t believe that in this day and age, in what they profess to be the modern day military of the “21st Century”, this stupid stigmatic statement was still being used. “Andy” had tried reasoning with them, telling them that he had a “four year old” and had the joint custody of the child but apparently that was to be none of their concern. They needed him to train American and Allied soldiers at a military base at an undisclosed location and he would have to go. His time in Afghanistan and his special skills made it that he would be a precious asset to the program therefore he best accept the decision and start packing for the unaccompanied “two year” posting.

If you recall, back in July, “Andy” had dropped his two “Siberian Huskies” off at my place as a result of a most serious personal crisis. He had showed some interest in the sport of dog sledding so had been coming here at the lodges on a very regular basis to learn some of the dog driving skills. However, the real reasons this “Musher-In-Training” was coming here was because things were not right in his head and he needed to get away from it all. I could recognize that “Dead Man Walking/Ranger Rick” stare. I had seen it too many times, that same look worn by so many combat harden veterans. The guy was in trouble and needed a shoulder to lean on so I took the time to provide it and really listen to him. He was involved in a most complex situation and retiring with 23 years in was an option but financially it wasn’t a feasible one. Many hours would be spent discussing what was happening in his “fried brain” and as far as I was concerned, his best course of action was to seek medical assistance and be counseled by a psychologist. I could relate to this proud individual as I had been in the same “head space” for close to ten years after my retirement. The “living in this awful half dazed, half dreaming” state was certainly an indication that he might have it. The complete state of depression and the sleepless nights because you’re afraid of the “nightmares” surely further substantiated that he was dealing with a problem. But the fact that he had attempted to take his own life and was still having suicidal thoughts, well let’s just say that normal people just don’t think that way… I was no professional but one thing was for sure. What he was describing not only resembled my symptoms but were definitely amplified “warning signs” that were associated with the syndromes of either “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” or its close cousin, “Operational Stress Injury”.

I could only suggest that this might be the problem. But being that proud career minded infantryman, that elite soldier with a chest full of medals and a mind set that says that “Failure is not an option”, well I guess he wasn’t ready to accept that he had reached his ‘breaking point”. He would be taking the transfer even if this meant being away from his cherished “Elizabeth” for all this time. For sure, he would get a chance to come and visit once in a while but it wouldn’t be the same as having her every second week. Too shy to ask, he was hinting at me through loads of correspondence that he might want to come and spend a very special Christmas at “Baisley Lodges”. Playing with my emotions, he was saying things like other than his daughter, he didn’t have anybody else to call family and that I was the closest thing that he had as a “Big Brother”. Viewed from my side, I sort of felt the same way. The guy had grown on me and I had kind of adopted him. I could see that he wanted to spend some quality time with “Lizzie”, time that she would remember but most importantly time that would make her not forget her beloved “Daddy”. The decision wasn’t hard to take and I guess it took me less than half a second to come up with a plan. So I wrote him back and said, “Dear Little Brother, Tell Lizzie to write to Santa Claus and to pack her bags because you’re taking her to the Baisley so to deliver that special letter in that magical “Mail Box”. The short response was soon to come and it said “Both Father and Daughter gladly accept the invitation and are excited to come. We’ll be there on the 18 December, 2010.”

So you see “Santa”, this little girl is not only special to me but also means the world to her father. I know for a fact that if she wasn’t part of his life, he wouldn’t be here today. Right now and this is according to him, things seem to be looking up for “Andy” and I guess that’s a good thing. I’ve got lots of magic prepared for when “Lizzie” shows up and some of the highlights would include the delivery of that special letter, the chopping down of her Christmas Tree, the “Tree Decorating” party on the evening of the 23 Dec 10 and of course, my sister’s traditional family Christmas Dinner. It’s a busy agenda but thanks to special people in my life like Fran and my loving family who volunteered to help out, “Uncle Gino” will be able to make things happen for this little Angel of mine, called “Elizabeth”.

Now if you could only get your act together and send us some “Real Snow”, we’d really appreciate it. Like I said at the beginning, “We’re dying out here.”

Sincerely Yours,

Gino Roussel
Keeper of the “Spirit Dogs”

P.S. To you and all the friends of Baisley Lodges, may all of you have a very “Merry Christmas!” Peace on Earth to One and All and remember, Together we can make a difference.

THE END… or is it, now? = -)

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Dear Gino,

From what I can gather, “Lizzie” is having a great time and is now a true believer in Santa Claus. As for you, let me just say that you almost made it to the “Top Ten” List.
Your hard work and devotion towards your fellow man is dully noted. As for your Christmas wish, “Trust the dogs” and believe in the “Power of the Sled”.

Best Regards,

Mrs. Sandra Claus

So to continue with this story… When “Lizzie” drove in on the evening of the 18 December 2010, she was met by a full array of Christmas Lights that adorned the “Bunkhouse”. They were saying to her, “Welcome Elizabeth, welcome back to your “Magical Place”. Yeah, I know. In a time of recessive times where every penny pinching option must be used to save money, this was a luxury but like I said before, she was going to have an unforgettable Christmas. After spending her first evening writing her “Wish List”, the next day, the letter was delivered to that very “Special” mailbox at the “Outpost”. At that location, she found a “North Pole” beacon, a light that she would bring back to her cottage so to guide Santa as to where she lived. To confirm that he had received her letter, Santa had a “Treasure Chest” full of goodies delivered to her front steps. To this beautiful ornate metal box was attached a hand-written letter that gave “Lizzie” instructions as to how she would find her special Christmas Tree. A snowmobile expedition was launched the very next day so to go to the “Enchanted Forest” and find that particular tree. When she did eventually come across it, she knew that it was hers as the “Snow Goddess” had left a huge red bow and an angel with her name written on it, hanging in its branches. The “9 foot” tree was brought back, allowed to thaw and was set up in the “Pub”. On Thursday evening, a bunch of fairies disguised as humans landed in the Baisley. With them they brought a whole bunch of decorations and lights to fill the tree and the room with a most wonderful Christmas atmosphere. On Christmas Eve, we gathered at the “Christmas Room” where we exchanged gifts and watched an overly excited child unwrap her numerous presents. At one point, I checked the clock on the wall and noticed that it was time. Yes, it was time for me to go once again on that special Christmas Eve mission. Discreetly and this without anybody noticing, I disappeared…

“Sorry Rhum, but tonight you’re staying behind. I know you’ve come a long way and put in a lot of work just to show us that you belong but tonight is special and reserved for the “old timers” of the outfit.” That’s what I had told my red dog just before leaving the barn. Still, it didn’t sit well with him and he kept mouthing off when we were driving away. “Oh well” I smiled to myself, “he’ll get over it.

At the Baisley “Trailhead”, the “eight” dogs hitched and the sled filled with hay and meat, we took off to the comfort of the peace and quiet of that dark moonlit night. Like many Christmas Eves before, me and the “Baisley Mob” would be traveling to the “Outpost” but instead of doing it at breakneck speed and in training mode, this special nightly incursive mission would be dedicated at visiting some of the creatures of the “Animal Kingdom”. Our first stop would be to drop the two bales of hay to the deer herd located along the “Madawaska” river. I had been wondering last summer as to why I had found my “Eagle” family moved to a completely different area only to later find out that it was because the forest industry had invaded their hunting grounds and had clear cut a huge portion of the “Old Growth” pines, trees that had been standing there for over 250 years. The decision had been a very “Hot Potato” of a subject and at the end of the day, a contractor with well connected political ties, was allowed to proceed in this buffer zone and ravage the landscape. Here was a situation where the greed of four powerful individuals would supercede the will of the masses. Here was a situation where we continued subsidizing and supporting the million dollar debts of one well connected individual and would ignore the plea of the “little guy”. Unfortunately, for these foresters, the people that they wanted to squash like meaningless little bugs were not your average “tree huggers”. Rather they had taken on environmentalists who had radical views of how the protection of “those that could not speak in their own defense” should be done. This herd of white tail deers had been managed by them for the last twenty years and they had had much success at it. The population had increased over that period and could actually survive a yearly harvest and this without worrying about the over hunting of the animal. The “lumberjacks” had been warned, the Quebec Government had been approached but I guess nobody would take these “country bumpkins” seriously. The people that held the power would not entertain any compromise and would continue to forge ahead with their plans. After putting in a road with a bulldozer, the contractors brought in two pieces of equipment, valued at more than $1,500,000.00. The plan was to run this expensive machinery 24 hours a day, six days a week. These were most serious tree processing monsters and they estimated that they could be done with the job in clearing 1000 acres in approximately ten weeks. This is what they had figured. However, when a stray bullet went through the windshield of the “Multi-functional” processor in the middle of the night, the operator got frightened. When his partner in the “Transporter” radioed him to report the same thing, both individuals parked the equipment, got in their pick-up and took off, scared shitless. The next morning when the foreman came to the sight, he found out that the two machines had been vandalized. While the “Transporter” had all its hydraulic hoses cut, the charred skeleton of the “Multi-functional” was standing there still smoldering. The message was loud and clear. It would not harm another tree ever again. The war over that controversial area immediately came to a sudden stop after this incident and the deer herd would be allowed to continue living in this “protected area”.

So when we got there, here were all these shiny red eyes staring at us. They were used to seeing humans so were not alarmed by our presence. I called the dogs to stay and they did. There wasn’t much snow for a “snow hook” to grab thus the reason for selecting my trusty crew and companions. They would listen and would probably not move till asked to do otherwise. They all cooperated except for my big bruiser. He was intrigued by the sight of over 200 animals and was growling. “Kid,” I growled back at him, “Park it!” Those were to be the determining words that would make it that this part of the mission would go without a hitch. The hay was unloaded and the animals started grazing within seconds. With only my headlamp shining on them, I just stood there amongst them, astonished at the sight. The steam coming out of their nostrils made it for a scene that was somewhat spooky and peaceful at the same time. For me, I was of the second camp and was at peace with myself. I knew that no harm would come to me while I shared this instance with these beautiful creatures. But like all good things, this moment would have to come to a conclusion. We had other stops to make so I went back to the sled, got on the runners and “uptrailed”.

There is a section of trail out there that we share with a pack of coyotes. We encounter them on a regular basis and as far as I can determine, they mean us no harm. Instead, I think that their behavior is one where they want to see who is encroaching on their “turf”.
Like wolves, they are very shy canines and are very territorial. They would never attack a stronger dog team and will never put themselves in a confrontational situation. Rather, they’ll just run alongside with us at a safe distance in the tree line, observing our activities as we move along. As for the Alpha dominant female, this one particular huge gray bitch, now this is a different story. Over the years, she has befriended and trusts us enough to come out in the open and show us her new litter of puppies. I don’t know why but every late fall season, she does this ritual. While I enjoy seeing her run in the adjacent open field parallel to the dog team, I get a real kick at her young pups chasing her.

I’m a strong believer that one should not interfere with the feeding habits of the wildlife, however, for some reason I get this “feel good” feeling in doing this annual Christmas custom of dropping these bags of meat in a couple of spots. As unpredictable as they think they might be, they are very predictable in where they will appear. Add to that the fact that the dogs can smell them out immediately and it doesn’t take much time for them to be spotted. “What’s up Vixen?” I asked my big wheeldog. “Are they out there?” There wasn’t a noise coming from any of the dogs. They were fully alert, all gazing in one direction. I called for them to “stay” and quietly, they all came to a stop. I shined my headlamp in that same direction and there they were, seven coyotes gazing at us from what they thought was a discreet hiding place in the bushes. What the poor things were not aware of, was that the light shining at them, made it that you could distinguish them perfectly by the blue glow that was emitting from their eyes. You could actually see when one of them was blinking. We didn’t make any fuss about them and I just dropped that second bag of meat right on the side of the trail. We immediately took off and within seconds, they were fighting amongst each other, establishing the picking order by which they would get to the meal.

The four hour trip ended at the “Outpost” and I guess I wasn’t sad to see it end. Entertaining Lizzie for a day can be quite the challenge. Entertaining Lizzie for a whole week, is simply more than a guy like myself can handle. It’s absolutely exhausting. I fed the dogs and while they were feasting, I made a roaring fire in the woodstove. I returned to the “Mob” and unhooked them so that they could roam around for a while before we’d call it a night. I went back inside and pulled the Brandy bottle out. Toasting those who never made it back, I took one single long draw. Feeling the poison makes its way through my system, I put the flask away and flopped down in my “Grandfather’s chair”. I wanted to gather the dogs together so pulled out my harmonica out and started playing. Within minutes all the “Canadian Snowhounds” were assembled in the log cabin and were howling away, accompanying me through a series of Christmas Carols. The concert came to an eventual end and everybody, the dogs curled up on the floor and me quite comfortable in the old chair, fell asleep.

“Hey, do you plan on sleeping the entire Christmas Eve evening away or are you going to come and help.” I opened my eyes and here was my old friend and mentor, Leonard Lanteigne, standing in front of me, dressed in his famous red “Canada Goose” parka. “Come on,” he belted out the order while walking out the door, “You take the northern route and I’ll take the southern one.” I didn’t really understand what was going on but followed him outside. Was I ever surprised to see not one but two sleds parked out there, ready to move. While my faithful team was waiting for me, my old sleddog friends, the ones that I had had the honor to share the trail with throughout those many years, were all there. Vince Senior, Mr. Tibbs, Sox, Flash, Spike, Duchess, Taffy and Blitz, all were on stand-by, happy to see me and waiting to escort Leonard during his heavenly voyage. I was going to ask Leonard what was going on, when he turned around, pointed at me and said “You’ve done a good job at learning the ways of the elders. Now, trust the Dogs”, Gino and believe in the Power of the Sled.”

It is said that for those who believe, that last minute of that last hour on Christmas Eve, will last for an eternity if one needs it to last that long. This is for sure one of the best kept Christmas Secret and is how Santa and his apprentices manage to deliver all those gifts to all those wonderful children of the world.

“3-1, this is 3-1 Alpha, nothing heard, out.”
This was the last sentence, the radio operator said in frustration before throwing the “mike” at the wall. He had just about enough and had given up on trying to reach his Platoon Commander, who had retreated to the safety of the confines of the Forward Operation Base for an unscheduled “O” Group. “Did you get a hold of him?” the other young soldier inquired. “No!” was the immediate answer. The young RadOp, couldn’t come up with more words than that. His best friend, Cpl Steve Martin had just been killed not even seven days before and right now he would have given anything to be back home safe with his loved ones. Feeling all alone in this world and gazing at the stars, he saw this meteor streak through and light up the sky. “Did you see that?” he asked his partner. “Did you see that weird light? It was as if a whole bunch of dogs were pulling a sled through the sky.”
“Yeah, I saw that.” The other one said, now convinced that he wasn’t hallucinating. “Did you see the guy driving that dog team? Did you hear what he said?”
“No,” the young radioman replied.
“I’m not sure but I think that he was telling us that as dim as it might shine, there is still light at the end of this tunnel and for what’s it’s worth, there’s a crazy old fool somewhere in northern New-Brunswick that is extremely proud of the effort that we’re putting out here.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. He took a deep breath and somewhere in that sentence that his friend had just spoken, he would find the courage to “Soldier On.”

THE END

To the Men and Women serving in uniform all across the world - Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! May someone, someday, realize that killing one another is and will never be the solution…

EIGHT YEARS LATER

2010-05-29T03:42:00.000-07:00

Lieutenant BOYCES Justin
Sapper MARSHALL Steven
Lieutenant NUTTALL Andrew
Sergeant TAYLOR Kirk
Sergeant MIOK George
Corporal MCCORMACK Zachery
Private CHIDLEY Garrett
Sergeant FAUGHT John
Corporal BAKER Joshua
Corporal FITZPATRICK Darren
Private TODD Tyler
Petty Office 2nd Class BLAKE Craig
Private MCKAY Kevin
Colonel PARKER Geoff
Trooper RUDD Larry

Those are the names of the courageous Canadian soldiers that will honored during the pouring of the fifteen cement bags that will be added to “CIMENT HILL” during the “Memorial” weekend of 28 – 31 May 29, 2010.
Let us not forget their valiant devotion.

I’ve recycled an article that I wrote two years ago. Other than the number of casualties which then stood at 85, we are now at a staggering figure of 145, nothing drastic at the “Hill” has changed and it depicts the project pretty well.

Please do join me in lighting that “Candle in a Jar”. The troops need to know that they are not alone and that there is light at the end of that tunnel.

Peace on Earth to one and all and remember. Collectively, we can make a difference.

Gino

THE JAR HEAD CEREMONY

Well it had been a huge argument with myself for the better part of all last week and to tell you the truth, I didn’t know if I should do it or not. Let’s face it, the upside down flag would make a statement but was it the one I wanted to make. After all, I was ex-military and was kind of proud to see the red maple leaf sit there on top of “Ciment Hill”, fluttering away. Over the last month, a lot of work had gone into preparing my monument dedicated to the fallen soldiers of Afghanistan and like one “Tim Horton’s” patron had commented, “You got to see this. Gino’s the only guy that I know that does landscaping with a front end loader.” Actually, it’s not a loader but rather a “Pettitbone lumber yard fork lift. Whatever you want to call it, it did the job. Let’s face it, if you’re going to move 30 some tons of cement slabs, you need to have something that can do the heavy lifting. Besides, those red and white geraniums are a bitch to plant.

This whole affair began when Yves Beausoleil and a bunch of middle aged “want to be bikers” decided that they would come down and officially open “Ciment Hill”. I agreed to this proposal as what the hell, it sounded like a good occasion to throw a party for a few good friends. However, I felt that the “Hill” needed some sprucing up so we decided to attend to it.

The plan had been hatched last winter when walking across the road from my place through a landfill site, I came across a cement slab that reminded me of one that I had seen in Bosnia. Not considering that it looked like a large tombstone, what had struck me about the one in Medak, was that with all the bombing and shelling, they had resolved nothing and it seemed that the only thing they had managed to accomplish was to totally destroy a bunch of cement buildings. Anyway, every time I drove by that desolate location, I always thought that the “stone” might still have some usefulness and that somebody should write something on it, something really profound that would remind the local people as to how stupid war could be.

So now here I was in early in May, driving my Pettitbone, going on a mission to the landfill site. My particular cement slab would be eventually bulldozed over and buried if I didn’t retrieve it so it needed to be brought back as I had found some usefulness for it. When I got there, I was surprised to see that there was a guy on a bulldozer at that location and that there was to be a bidding war over the “tombstone slab”. After listening to him for a while, I realized that if I was to claim ownership to it, I would have to state a good argument. After explaining that I wanted to use it to create the monument, not only did this guy agree to give me my slab but he volunteered to dig all of them out for me and put them to the side. I was really happy about this prospect and was even happier to see that at least one other individual in this area, supported the troops.

As it turns out, one thing led to another and basically I was again the talk of the local “Tim Horton’s”. Whether out of curiosity or support, a whole bunch of folks started visiting the “Hill.” It was kind of interesting to hear the comments some of them made. They went from “This is quite the noble cause” right to “Afghanistan? What’s going on there?” Also, some of them came bearing gifts. One brought an old rusty “WW I” helmet, while another brought an old pair of combat boots. However, the one that took the cake was this old guy in his mid 80’s. He opened his trunk and offered me and get this, a “WW II” 250 lbs bomb. I was kind of taken aback a bit till he reassured me that it was just the casing. “It might be empty” I replied “but it sure makes a statement.”

Then two weeks ago, I was visited by someone and this made me realize that I might be onto something with this project. If we recall, on 07 Jun 08, Capt J. Snyder was to become the 85th Canadian casualty of the Afghanistan conflict. As per SOP at Baisley Lodges, early the next morning, I proceeded to the “Hill” to lower the flag at half mast. While walking towards the place, I noticed that a “Land Cruiser” was parked in front of the “Bunkhouse.” When he saw me coming, the driver got out of the vehicle and headed towards me. I recognized the person as one of the only two Muslims that I know in the region. Omar (fictitious name) is an Iraqi immigrant that exiled himself to Canada during the early 80’s. Although we know each other somewhat, we are not great acquaintances and to see him there that early in the morning felt a bit strange. Very polite and respectful, he approached me and extended his hand, giving me the traditional Muslim greeting. “Well Good Morning to you too, Omar” I told him, genuinely glad to see him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, this early in the morning?” I asked. “Well Gino”, he replied sort of looking sheepishly at the ground, “from what I was made to understand, you pour a bag of concrete every time a Canadian soldier dies and if that is the case and of course with your permission, it would be a great honor for me to give you one this morning as a sign of respect for SNYDER. To say that I was shocked would be the understatement of the day. I just didn’t know what to say. I just couldn’t find the right words to express what I was feeling. I guess when he saw the lump in my throat and the tears fill up my eyes, he knew that there was nothing that needed to be said. He simply extended his arms and gave me a huge hug. “You know my friend,” he said in broken English, “one day this war will end and the world will realize that there were no winners, just a whole bunch of losers.” “Yeah, I know,” I managed to reply “but when will we learn?” Not being in the mood to start discussing politics, I cut the conversation short by adding, “Omar, where’s that cement? Not only would I get real pleasure accepting it, it would be a great honor for me if you poured it.” Without hesitation, he accepted and went back to his jeep to get the bag. After it was emptied, I told him it was now time to lower the flag. While doing so, I heard a heel clicking bang of a sound. I turned around only to see this ex-military man, standing there at attention, giving a salute for a fallen fellow soldier. While tying the rope back on the post, I couldn’t stop thinking as to how in this neck of the woods, we really didn’t care as to what religion one belonged to. It was just good enough to simply get along. That morning had an impact on me, an impact that I would remember for the rest of my life.

So here’s the scoop. I for one do “Support the Troops.” Not only do I support them, I struggle through each and every day, living their emotions and worrying about them every hour of that 24 hours. After six years of this so called “War against Terrorism”, can we honestly say that we’ve made any real progress? After all this time, shouldn’t we be thinking that maybe a stalemate might be the only possible outcome to this conflict? Do we have a concrete plan or have we even started thinking about an exit strategy? Here locally, “Ciment Hill” seems to serve as a reminder to the local population that Canada is at war. It helps them realize that a lot of its sons and daughters have and are sacrificing their lives so that we may have the pleasure of living in complete freedom. This is where it gets twisted a bit. Instead of focusing some necessary energy towards maybe looking at a possible solution for peace, we seem to be satisfied just watching “the parade go by”. We enjoy complaining about things like the price of gas but we still drive alone down to the local “Tim” so that we can get that needed cup of coffee. I could go on ranting about how spoiled we are as a nation but will leave that topic alone. Nonetheless, if I was to ask for the names of five fallen soldiers, could any of you give them to me without “surfing” the net. Honestly, I think that it might be quite the challenge for most of us ex-military types. So now let’s translate that to our civilian counterparts and you know what, “Most of them don’t even know that there’s a “Fucken Parade” going on. However if I was to ask you the name ex-Minister Bernier’s girlfriend, everybody would raise their hand with the answer. Kind of sarcastic, don’t you think?

Anyway, we are officially opening “Ciment Hill” to the public on the 29th of June 08 and everybody is welcomed to drop in. As part of the evening celebrations, we will be proceeding with the “Jar Head” ceremony. For the occasion, a sticker with the name of each and every fallen comrades, will be applied to 85 jars containing candles. At 2300 hrs (local) these candles will be lit as a memento to those who died serving their country. Now, I know that you all can’t build a 30 ton monument in your backyards but that the price of a candle in a jar can be feasible. So, I would like to invite all of you to join me in lighting your own jar that evening. If one of you does it, then this time spent canvassing for peace was not in vain. Who knows, maybe you’ll even get the chance to speak a message of peace to a friend of a friend. Who knows, maybe that collectively, we might be on to something. Now, if someone was to put “Jar Heads” on the overpasses of the “Highway of Heroes”… Just make sure that they are properly secured. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a broken windshield.

So for now, I’ll wish everyone of you a Happy Canada Day. Please do stay safe.

Gino

P.S. As for the upside down flag, I might just do it on the 1st of July 08.
I just love looking at people’s faces when I parade my flag around on the river with my “long canoe”. They’ve been wondering who this “Wack Job” is for years. Now, I wouldn’t want to disappoint my audience, would I ?

THE CAN-AM CONTROVERSIES

2010-05-02T08:10:00.000-07:00

“So what the fuck are we doing here, Sir?” was Moses’ question to me, while we were standing there on that balcony, watching and listening to the “fireworks” two valleys away. “Why aren’t we as the United Nations doing anything to stop the slaughter?”
“That my young man, is not something that I can answer. It’s out of our control.” I said totally discouraged and also trying to make sense of that eerie reddish glow in the dark that we were looking at. “Right now, there’s not much else we can do other than sit back and observe.”
“Bull Shit!!!” he exploded as he threw and shattered the almost empty brandy bottle that we had been sharing, against the concrete wall. “It’s fucking Bull Shit!”
Afraid that in his drunken stupor, he might be well on his way to getting himself into trouble, I yelled at him, “Moses, get back here! Get back here and that’s an order!”
I guess the tone of my voice sent the message to this young Kenyan Military Policeman that he wasn’t dealing with Gino his buddy but rather with Warrant Officer Roussel, the boss.
“Moses, I’m warning you, get back here!” I said emphasizing that I meant business, “Get back here, now!” Reluctantly, he obeyed but when he turned around, that mad look behind those even whiter eyeballs of his, said it all. The alcohol was working its evil magic and the rage was boiling over.

You couldn’t blame him for that type of reaction. For where us Canadians were on our fourth month of a six month tour, the Kenyan contingent was on its eight month of a twelve month tour. Where our country provided us with vacation time, the Kenyans were not allowed to go back home and this for an extended period of over a year. For young soldiers like Moses who missed their families back in continental Africa, this “sitting on your hands and do nothing” attitude was hard to accept and there wasn’t much that I could say to console him. To say that these poor souls had been put through the “meat grinder” was the understatement of the week. During their tour of duty, they had been involved in trying to contain the massacres and had witnessed first hand, the atrocities of “Medak Pocket”. Later, after all was said and done, they had been called upon to help clean up the streets littered with bodies. To make matters worse, because of their skin color and the context of the conflict, they had been deliberately preyed upon by both warring parties, the Serbs and the Croats. While some would advocate that the artillery shells that were lobbed on their positions, were dropped accidentally and it was because “They were at the wrong place at the wrong time”, later research would reveal otherwise. For the purpose of being blunt, they had been racially discriminated. Somebody eventually needed to brag about their exploits and it is now public knowledge (www.stormfront.org/forum/t448017-7/) that amongst the other specialist groups, “Skin Heads and Neo-Nazi types coming from Germany and Austria were used as specialty squads. These mercenaries were hired by the Croatian Government for the purpose of ethnic cleansing.

However, on that fateful evening of 05 Feb 94, nobody in Sector South HQ, in the town of “Knin”, could determine what was going on in “Drnis”, a small village, some 24 kms south of our position. Although the battle had been raging for a few days now, nobody knew what exactly was happening. On the one hand, the intelligence reports provided by the Russians, indicated that Croatian units were killing innocent refugees while on the other one, it was said that it was associated with a pocket of resistance of the Serbian kind. It was a big unknown as to what was transpiring and everybody was being held at bay, not allowed to proceed and observe the activities. Here we were, the mighty UNPROFOR being held hostage and not allowed to intervene. As a professional soldier, you do what you’re told and follow orders. But as an individual person with certain values and morals, knowing that something drastically wrong is happening right under your nose and you’re doing nothing about it, is a most bitter pill to swallow.

No, I couldn’t blame young Moses for being in that state of frenzy. Hell I felt the same way. Though it is true that there wasn’t much we could do about the “Big Picture”, I knew one thing for sure. Here stood before me a young man who needed some sort of fatherly love thus chose a more tender approach to comfort him. Opening my arms wide, I said,
“Come here, son!”
I guess that’s all the invitation he needed to hear. He rushed to me where huge hugs were exchanged. There we were two grown men embracing each other in ones arms, balling their eyes out. From the ever growing wet spot in the shoulder area of my combat shirt, I knew that it had been a long time coming and that my young friend had plenty to ventilate. The tears just kept on pouring and pouring. After what was thought to be an eternity, he finally pushed me away. He brushed off his uniform, put his blue beret on “straight”, then said almost embarrassed, “Sorry Sir”.
“Don’t worry about it Moses,” I replied, “we all have our breaking points and in your case, you’re one tough cookie…”

Two weeks had gone by when the same young man and myself were on our way, delivering supplies to the UNMP Split detachment. At his request, we had brought our interpreter, Peter along with us. Like me, he wanted to know what had happened in his home town of Drnis. Besides, he knew exactly how to get there so I didn’t mind him tagging along. The slight detour was a bit out of our way and in “no man’s” land but I needed to see with my own eyes what had transpired there.

We had seen devastation all throughout the “Republic of Krajina” but this particular region felt even creepier. It was as if you were being watched by ghostly figures lurking in dark corners. If you let your mind wander, you could almost hear them screaming in pain. The screaming part might have been a figment of my imagination but the stench of rotting flesh was more than real. It filled the air. That was the first thing that hit you when we entered the village. The second thing we noticed was that most of the buildings had been destroyed. Where once stood somebody’s home, now lay a bunch of burnt roof timbers, collapsed within four cement walls. Obviously, fire had been the weapon of choice of the belligerents as it seemed that everywhere you looked there were scorch marks. Also weird was the fact that every house that had been torched had been marked with this large cross like symbol painted with a spray can. What was even stranger, were the series of letters and numbers surrounding the emblem. The best we could make of this then was that it was associated with some sort of method to identify who had gone through and done the “house clearing”. Even spookier, was the fact that in 2005, the same cross symbol would again appear and get this, in New-Orleans, after Hurricane Katrina. Somebody was painting the exact emblem on the flooded houses after they were evacuated. Was there a connection between the two events or was it a coincidence? Who knows? The only thing for sure was that these so called Croatian “ghost fighters” were a most barbaric and sadistic bunch who were “freelancing” throughout the war zone. The tactics used were part of a well orchestrated system, something that would resemble the methods employed by “white supremacists” to clear the “ghettos” of Johannesburg, South Africa, during the Apartheid years. Were these “ghost fighters” in Ex-Yugoslavia part of an experiment that had gone wrong? One would hope to think so. Nobody in their right mind would hire such a group, knowing that they would go on a rampage, killing innocent civilians indiscriminately and this with extreme prejudice. But the evidence was here before us. The town was empty of its citizens and nothing had been spared. You name it. Houses, vehicles, bicycles and even animals, everything had been torched. Dealing with this and being so close and personal to such an incident was hard to stomach and made me almost giving up on the human race.
“How can this type of shit happen in this day and age and this in civilized Europe?” I questioned myself, “It’s mind boggling! It’s impossible!”
No it wasn’t impossible as we were standing there right smack in the middle of it. Boy, could man be evil when he wanted to.

Stopped in front of this one particular residence, there was dead silence in the jeep that afternoon and the mood was very somber. The two UN soldiers felt guilty for not doing anything while the interpreter was shedding some not so discreet tears.
“Are you all right, Peter?” I asked the Yugoslavian man. He didn’t answer and just kept on looking out the window and shaking his head in the negative way. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His house was gone, his village had been demolished and his entire family was missing.
“Drive!” he eventually said, pointing me towards the exit of town, “Drive!”
I could sense that this was not a request but an order that he was giving me. Whatever it was, he had my vote. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

We had reached the outskirt of town when he tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Stop, stop right here.” He had guided us to a cemetery where by pure hazard some folks were burying their dead. He got out of the vehicle, slammed its door and walked to the sight where six old ladies and an even older white bearded Orthodox priest were praying after digging some graves to bury five female bodies only draped in blankets. I wanted to get a closer look but was stopped from doing so when I was intercepted by Peter and one of the elderly ladies who were walking towards me.
“I’m sorry Gino,” the interpreter said, “You better stay at the vehicle. You’re not welcomed here.”
He was holding on to the old lady’s arm who was glaring at me with such hate in her eyes that I can’t even start describing it. She shouted “UN” then spat on the ground. The message was short but loud and clear. They did not want us there and best we cooperate. I turned around, walking back to the “Land Cruiser” when I noticed a young boy, maybe ten years old, sitting on the curbside and talking to Moses who was sitting next to him. There was a definite language barrier but for some reason he was smiling at what the young soldier was telling him. I let them have their moment because I was enjoying seeing that paternal side of Moses. He had quite the way of breaking the ice with the child, making funny clown faces and sticking his tongue out at him. Whatever they were saying to each other, it was working. The kid started laughing wholeheartedly and for just that instance, he had forgotten where he was. Yeah, now I had a better understanding of some of the sacrifices these Kenyans were making by being here. If this was the way he acted around his own children back in Nairobi, then he needed to feel the presence of a child and its affection to compliment his daily life. I guess that’s what made him happy.
“Oh Sir,” Moses said, “What do you think is going to happen to him?” he continued. “Do you think he’s all alone?” I couldn’t answer that but Peter did when he eventually returned. It turns out that one of the bodies was the one of his dead mother. As for his father, nobody knew where he was. So for now he would live with his grandmother, the spitting contest “champion”. There was more to this story but Peter would not share that part with us.
“Sir,” Moses paused…
“Yeah, I know Moses,” I replied knowing quite well what he was referring to, “Give him some.”
Without any hesitation whatsoever, he grabbed the child by the hand and directed him to the back of the vehicle where he opened the hatchback door. He showed the food to him and made it understood that he could have anything he wanted. The first thing the hungry boy chose was a ten pound brick of cheese. This was stuffed in the school bag he was carrying on his back. Then it was the turn of the “Twinkies” to disappear. This box was also shoved in the same backpack. We were running out of room in there so we decided to put other stuff in a now empty box. This was also filled with other goodies. As it turns out, once we were finished, there wasn’t much left for the supply run so we decided to give all the food away and just come back home. As far as the war efforts were concerned, we hadn’t accomplished much that day but to see that smile on that child’s face when we left was worth a million bucks. When later Moses broke the silence and said “Thank You, Sir!” I knew that just like me, he had enjoyed doing the “good thing” and was sharing that same warm “Good Samaritan” feeling. At least now, he might be able to go home satisfied that during his UN tour, however small it was, his contribution had made a significant difference in someone else’s life. As for Peter, well that was a totally different story. He had become and would remain even more silent and remote. Later, I tried talking to him about it but the only response I got from him was, “Well, the difference between you and me is that you get to leave this hell hole eventually. I, on the other hand must live here for the rest of my life and deal with the hatred.” If you recall, his name was earlier mentioned in the blog entry called “The Lucky Man” and I guess there isn’t much more that can be said other than,
“Rest in Peace, my friend.”

By now, you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this story and to tell you the truth, the question is a most valid one. Well, it all stems from the fact that I had the occasion to correspond with the St-Pamphile “Hero” and all I’ll say about it was that it was an interesting and heated exchange. Some valid points were retained by either sides but for me, to be called a liar diplomatically or straight out, is something that I will take offence to. Whether he learns something from that testimonial or he continues “blackballing” me, this is totally irrelevant to me. The way I see things, if the word gets out that I won’t stand any longer for the mistreatment of sleddogs then I do believe that certain people will feel uncomfortable around me. If my presence in a parking lot somewhere or on the trail makes it that an animal avoids a “beating” then my “hanging around” the circuit will have served a purpose. To those that might think that I’m a “push over”, don’t kid yourselves, I am most serious and not one to be intimidated easily.

The reason I brought to light the “Bosnian” incident was to answer St-Pamphile’s question, “Who the hell do you think you are?” Well to put in simple terms, I am a person who vowed way back then to never again stand around while certain injustices were being done. The events that unfolded in front of me during that ill-fated tour would mark me for the rest of my life and I would decide there and then to take up the cause of protecting the weak and innocent. In today’s society, we see it too many times and this on a very regular daily basis. People will turn their backs on a situation because they don’t want to get involved and/or because it doesn’t affect them directly. Sorry but that just doesn’t cut the pickle with me.

Where how this all translates to the sport of sleddog racing, well this is quite simple actually. Correct me if I’m wrong but collectively, we’ve all seen stuff out there but for some reason or another, we choose to close our eyes and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s fine and dandy but at the end of the day, what have we accomplished. Nothing that makes you feel good, I assure you. So, time goes by and we let things deteriorate and this to the point where the “guys with the white hats” are having real issues with those wearing the “black hats”. I was going to let it ride but when I read what was being said on “Sled Dog Central” and the “Village des Mushers” about the big “food controversy” in Fort-Kent this year, I decided that enough was enough and that the “dark side” of the sport should be visited if not exposed.

To start off, we’ll use the “CAN-AM International Sled Dog Races” and “L’Odyssée Appalachienne” as benchmarks to debate some of the controversies.

First, let’s examine the rules and regulations governing the two events. Both, Fort-Kent and St-Pamphile are quite concise when it comes to what is expected of the mushers. As a matter of fact, the French version of the rules of the “Odyssée” is almost a carbon copy of the “CAN-AM” rules. I guess someone said to himself, “Why re-invent the wheel? The Americans have got an excellent product, let’s try to match their “standards ”.

Now this is where it gets a bit interesting. Where the CAN-AM enforces the rules and expects the “sledders” to abide by them, their Quebec counterparts are a bit more sheepish and would rather cater to the whims of just about every musher. The first thing that comes to mind is the big “Bootie” debate at the briefing in St-Pamphile. Some of the audience was arguing about the regulations governing such items. I couldn’t really catch the reasoning behind all this till I eventually inquired about it. A friend of mine who’s been around the Quebec Circuit for more than a couple of weeks, confided in me and said, “Well it’s like this. This sport is getting to the point where it’s getting so competitive that some of these guys will go to extremes so not to carry extra weight. They figured that each booty, weighs approximately “one ounce” and if an eight dog team leaves the chute all wearing them, then the weight of the “32 ounces / 2 pounds” can be distributed and carried evenly by the animals. Eventually, these guys will stop along the trail and just take them off and throw them away. I was a bit skeptic about this information even after seeing a whole bunch of these booties out there in the Quebec woods but when I saw a musher do it right in front of me in the Allagash mountains, I was disgusted.

Add to that some of the other things they throw away along the trail, items like empty “pop” bottles, chip bags and yes even frozen “T-bones”, well you know what? If the mushing community doesn’t consider itself a bunch of slobs then the other ones using the same trails, IE: snowmobilers and cross-country skiers might just have a different opinion. Not only does this set a bad example, it sets the stage for where maybe we might end up being denied access to public/private lands because we’ve all been put in the same basket and earn the reputation of being “litter bugs”.

Another fine example of not wanting to follow simple rules is when I crossed the Finish Line in St-Pamphile. I asked “JF” who was checking the gear in the sled, only to be told that a lot of people were missing their equipment and had complained about not knowing what was needed so they had decided to do away with the gear requirement. “Nice to know now.” I said. “And to think that I was carrying all this junk. Oh well,” I consoled myself. “It was a good practice run for Fort-Kent.”

Those are really trivial examples and some of you might be saying to yourselves, “Get over it Gino, it’s no big deal.” Although I will agree that in the scheme of things, we shouldn’t lose any sleep over it, I’ll ask you this. “Where do we draw the line? How much are we willing to tolerate? Is it fair that while some of us want to play by the rules, others will bend them so to win at all costs?” I don’t see any problems with the guy not wearing his bib through out the race. However, I do have issues with the individual who after going through the “vet check” goes back to his trailer, opens a drawer and pulls out a “prescription pill” bottle. I wasn’t the only one to witness this and those who did all agreed that they weren’t vitamins he was feeding his dogs. So what were they, anti-inflammatory pills, horse steroids or amphetamines? Yes folks, welcome to the racing world, 21st Century style. Yup, according to a veterinarian friend of mine, it’s out there. We’re feeding our dogs “uppers” just to keep that competitive edge. Another “bending of the rules” that I saw, was when a musher passed me on the trail. His yearlings got scared and got all tangled up. He stopped in front of me so I did the same. There was no sense in me passing him just have the same situation repeat itself. He planted his snow hook and yelled at me, “I’ve got a tangle!” “No problem,” I shouted back, “I’m not in a rush.” What happened next was something that I didn’t expect at all from him. He rushed to the dogs and while trying to untangle them, he put a real serious beating on two of the animals. Pounding at them, he had totally lost it. Holding my own team back, the only thing that I could do was yell, “Tabarnach, arrête, calice, (in French) they’ve had enough.” He looked at me and I guess he saw that I wasn’t impressed. He managed to straighten out the mess and was on his way. Now here’s a guy that I should have reported. This type of behavior is by far not acceptable. I really regret not doing anything about this and today will only say this to this person, “I’ve totally lost respect for you my friend and you should park your sled!”

Although the next incident didn’t happen during the racing season, it did soon after and demonstrates how some might consider these canines lesser than commodities and don’t care about their welfare. After all was said and done and the snow had melted, this individual got rid of almost half his “dog yard”. Where he could not sell or give them away, he simply loaded them up, took them to the woods and shot them where they were left as “coyote” food…

So coming back to that Friday, when John Pelletier, stood up there at the CAN-AM musher’s briefing with that hockey puck sized water bowl, although people thought it was funny, I’m sure that he did not. Let’s face it. This year, it was the bowl, the year before that the size of the axe and before that, the size of the snowshoes. It seems that every season, someone always comes up with another way to try and “screw the system”. Maybe I’m wrong but wasn’t he trying to put the point across that the CAN-AM organizers wanted and do put on a professional and well organized product? I think so. But they can’t do it all by themselves and must be getting tired of all this reluctance to follow the rules. As for the “dog food”, we were all told quite clearly that it would be checked. So why did some of us not heed to this “friendly” advice and make sure that we were in compliance? Discrepancies found in the weight of the food and being penalized for it, can be hard to swallow but all of us were subjected to the same procedures. These shortages can most likely be attributed to many causes that can vary from having the food scattered at the bottom of one’s sled bag because of the rough ride to just another shrewd if not devious way of bending the rules. I’m sure that good folks like Scott and Corina Alexander did not try to cheat and that there’s a logical explanation to their missing food. In their case, I hope they’ll reconsider their decision and come back out next year. We need honest mushers like them on the circuit.

Listen Folks; regardless of who puts on these racing events for us, I am positive that they do their best to provide the racers with a level playing field and an atmosphere of camaraderie. Unfortunately and let’s not kid ourselves, there are and will always be these few “dick heads” out there that will try to undermine their efforts. If this had been the plot to an old “Spaghetti Western”, I would have loved seeing it at the end of the show where the good town folks would have gotten together and would have ridded their streets of the “Bad Guys”. Unfortunately, this is not a movie and I really don’t know where a lot of you guys stand on this entire situation. There are only a few things I know for sure. We all have to do some serious soul searching and decide where we stand on this. If collectively we do something to promote the “good cause” then this sport will continue going in a positive direction. However, we can’t expect the “officials” to do it on their own. They need our assistance and contribution so to make this work. As for me, I will return next year just to make sure that some of those “outlaws” that I meet, do feel awkward in my presence. And if I happen to see someone tip his white cowboy hat at me somewhere out there in a parking lot, then I’ll know that I made a difference helping our friends, the sleddogs. Remember, Moses and that child at the beginning of this story…

On that note, have a great summer and remember. “Be kind to animals. You’ll live longer.” = -)

Gino

P.S. If you agree with the above, give it the widest distribution.

R.I.P. SOX

2010-04-21T04:09:00.001-07:00

It has taken me a while before I could find the courage to announce the news that "SOX" was no longer amongst us. It is with deepest regrets that I have to say that I had him put to sleep three weeks ago.

This was one of those hard things that a "dog lover" must do but in his case, it was even harder because, not only was a great sleddog, he was a true and most loyal friend. You see, my little sack of dynamite was real hardcore on the trail and like my second shadow, following me around on the property.

Throughout last season's training period, I noticed that he was favoring his hind quarters, sometimes his left leg, sometimes his right. We thought it was a temporary injury but the vetenarian confirmed that he had a genetic condition called "Hip Displasia". Of course she sent me on a further guilt trip when she added that the heavy mileage we put these mid-distance dogs through didn't help but what can you do? Anyway, the hard decision was taken and he is no longer suffering.

He will be laid to rest (once the ground thaws) with his other departed friends and a "white pine" tree will be planted to mark his grave. Knowing "SOX" and the energy he had, that tree will grow big and tall and his spirit will continue to bring joy to us for decades to come.

A friend of mine figured that the following might bring some closure and I guess if there is such a place then I'll try even harder to be a good person. Let's face it, I'd be pushing my luck,showing up there with sixteen dogs in tow. = -)

" HEAVEN "

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them. After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble. At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight. When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer,
he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?' "This is Heaven, sir," the man answered. "Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked. "Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up." The man gestured, and the gate began to open. "Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets." The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog. After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence. As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book...
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you have any water?" ''Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in." ''How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog. "There should be a bowl by the pump," said the man. They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it. The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog. When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree. "What do you call this place?" the traveler asked. "This is Heaven," he answered. "Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too." ''Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's Hell." "Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'' "No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind."

Thanks "Bert"

THE RED LANTERN "CLUB"

2010-04-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

So there he was, standing there on the podium holding his first place cheque and accompanying trophy. To hear him speak, anyone not suspecting, would have thought that this guy was the “poster child” for the sleddog racing world. Very well educated, he knew how to choose his every word so to move a crowd and from their reaction, was obviously saying all the right things. Yes, there he stood. Finally, I was getting the opportunity of putting a name to a face of a person I had been seeking out for the better part of three years. This was Sunday evening at the Awards Ceremony in St-Pamphile and I guess his “shiny white teeth” speech was souring my mood and putting a damper on an otherwise great weekend. Don’t get me wrong. I know that what I’m about to say will make me sound like a sore loser but please do bear with me. Although I will admit that I was a bit disappointed with my results, this was not the reason as to why this “hero” was making me sick to my stomach.

First of all, to start putting things in perspective, I had taken a real hard one on the chin as I had come in dead last in the “45 mile” run. For the first time in my racing career, I had earned the not so coveted honor of being given the “Red Lantern”. As you would have it, there’s a legend attached to this curious identified item. It is said that somewhere up north, a widow of a musher kept this lantern lit, night after night so to guide her lost husband home after a snow storm. In the true spirit of this tradition, the “Red Lantern” is supposed to be given to the last racer to cross the finish line as a gesture that says that all participants are in, safe and sound. However, somehow this got twisted around and now the ones receiving this award are somewhat often subjected to a lot of razing and at the receiving end of a blunt joke because they came in last. I have to concede that I had to somewhat swallow my pride but in all honesty, I didn’t really care about the standings. For me, it was most important to see that the dogs had managed to tough it out and complete the event healthy and happy. Let’s face it, I had just put them through a most grueling challenge and they had completed the prescribed seventy-five (75) kilometer distance with just a couple of glitches. This in its own rights was a major accomplishment and a true statement as to why they call them canine athletes.

Now, this is where the “hero” and I differed and this was why I wasn’t too fond of the “man of the hour”. It didn’t really have anything to do with his first place finish. Hell, we hadn’t even run the same event. However and like I said before, I had been studying his case for a long time and he was one of the best examples out there of what the dark side of racing has to offer. In his game, the animals were simple tools that were to be used and abused. In his game, he would step on anybody that stood in his way and would backstab whoever he felt might be a threat. In his game, his word wasn’t worth spit and winning was everything thus he would do whatever it took and this at all cost.

But I’m getting ahead of myself and at this stage, the direction where this story is headed paints a pretty bleak picture of what I would otherwise consider a great outing. I wouldn’t want to turn you guys off right from the very beginning so it would only be fair to start accentuating the positive things that transpired during the weekend.

That Saturday morning, when I left “Baisley Lodges”, I knew exactly what I would be facing. It wasn’t rocket science. One only had to visit the race statistics found on the “Village des Mushers” to realize that these Quebeckers running that particular circuit were all business and took their racing most seriously. If one took the time to check the timings attached to the results of the mid-distance events, it wasn’t hard to figure out that I would be out-dogged and this right from the word “Go”. While they were pushing the envelope way beyond the “12 MPH” average on a “30 miler”, the best my band of misfits could manage to do on a same training run was “9.3 MPH. But this was to be a “45 miler” so I was gambling that some of the other teams would fizz out due to the extra length involved. So off we went to run the “Odyssée Appalachienne” for a second year in a row.

When you try to live a simple life and run a competitive sleddog team on a shoestring budget, well let’s just say that cutting corners in areas such as where the rubber hits the road, might not always be the best idea. Last summer, I noticed that my dog trailer could use some new tires. They were smooth as a “baby’s behind” and I could not but be amazed as to how long they had lasted. They needed to be replaced and I thought that I should do this before starting a new mushing season. Normally, if you don’t want any headaches, you invest in a good “6 ply” tire. This type is built to carry extra weight and in my case, I only have a single axle under my trailer so these tires should not be considered a luxury but a necessity. I think of my dogs as being very special and when you ride such a precious cargo, you should ensure that they can travel in all security. However, good or bad, I took the decision to go to the local scrap yard and invest in two used and may I add well weathered tires. They still had lots of thread on them so at a bargain price of $40.00 (complete with rims), they were a steal. While installing them and upon closer inspection, I had noticed that they were cracked so was a bit hesitant about them.
“No problem,” I told myself, “I’ll carry a spare when traveling on long trips.”

On this particular “adventure”, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had made the wrong investment. We had driven about 70 kilometers and coming close to Rivière-du-Loup when abruptly, my Toyota “4 Runner” started swinging from side to side. I looked in my side mirror and could see that my trailer was the cause of all this commotion as it was fishtailing like there was no tomorrow. I eased off the accelerator and pulled to the shoulder. Other than having been surprised by the unusual behavior of my vehicle, there was no real harm done so I parked on the side of the road and went to check on the “Mob” and inspect the damages. If the trailer leaning on one side wasn’t a clear indication that I had a “flat”, the mangled stringy black mass around the dented metal wheel sure confirmed it.
“No big deal,” I said to myself, “I came prepared.”
Prepared or not, I wasn’t going to change it there on a busy highway. I just didn’t want to gamble that by an odd chance, someone might come along and plow in the dog trailer. Like I said, they’re simply too precious. I was close to an “exit ramp” so opted to get off Hwy 185. Besides, I knew there was a gas station just around the bend and I reckoned that it would be a good place to stop.

I was parked way back so not to disrupt any possible customer traffic and in the process of jacking the trailer when the owner showed up. After exchanging casual greetings, he piped up and said, “So you run dogs, do you? Are you headed to the big race in St-Pamphile?”
“Yup” I simply replied.
“I used to have sleddogs when I was younger but old age got the best of me so I packed it in.”
I knew that he couldn’t be much older than me, so out of curiosity I asked,
“How old are you?”
“51”, he answered.
Trying to keep a straight face, I twisted my tongue around three times. I didn’t want to have to admit that I was older than him, thus immediately changed the subject.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare wheel like this, in your back pocket?” I inquired jokingly.
“No, not in my back pocket but I might have one behind the garage. It’s a Chevrolet Cavalier rim, isn’t it?” he asked.
Before I had the chance to answer, he was gone and back, carrying something that looked like it might be compatible.
“Here,” he said convincingly, “this should do the trick.”
To my delightful surprise, the “Old Man” (tongue in cheek) knew his stuff as this thing fit the exact bolt pattern.
“So, how much for the tire?” I asked sheepishly, knowing quite well that on too many occasions, the price goes up when a person is in need.
“Oh, considering you changed it yourself and that you look like a guy that takes care of his dogs, I guess five bucks should cover it.” he said.
“Five dollars?” I rebutted immediately. “Are you sure that’s enough?” “Yeah, Yeah!” he insisted. “The thing had been collecting dust and was cluttering the backstore for years so if I can do you a favor by getting rid of junk then we’re both happy.”
“But are you sure though, that it’s enough?” I asked, now feeling guilty for thinking that he might have been a “thief” waiting to take advantage of me.
“Don’t sweat it.” he replied, waving me off. “Besides, now you owe me a big one. Hopefully, one of these days, you’ll remember this episode and return the favor to another complete stranger.”

I reached in my pocket and retrieved some cash. I spotted and insisted that he take at least $10.00. He reluctantly accepted and after thanking him and shaking his hand, I was on the road again. Looking in my rear view mirror, I could see him standing there in the parking lot, with his hand still up in the air and waving “Goodbye”. I couldn’t but wonder if he was envious of me for going or regretting not running dogs anymore. Did he do this because at one time, we shared the same passion or was it because he had a kind heart? Whatever his motives were, his act of generosity struck an agreeable chord with me. It left me with that warm feeling inside, the one that leaves you thinking that in these hard recessive times where everybody is struggling to make ends meet, it is nice to see that someone else would actually go out of his way to help a fellow man. For some strange reason, I did not feel so alone that day. For some reason, this unselfish act truly emphasized what I really believe in - And that, is that the day we decide to put greed to the side and truly make an effort at being kind to one another, then there will be less problems in this world.

That’s what was going through my head while again going down the highway when the second bargain priced tire ripped off its rim. Contrary to its counterpart, this one just disintegrated into thousands of shredded pieces. It didn’t blow nor did it deflate slowly. It simply pulverized and scattered to the four winds. Curiously enough and I guess some might even call it “Divine Intervention”, it did not affect the driving performance of the jeep and at 100 km/h this was most remarkable. I once again pulled over to assess the damage and I guess with all that flying debris pounding the undercarriage, most of the dogs got scared by the noise and were whining.
“It’s OK guys,” I tried to reassure them, scratching their noses through the grills of the doors. “It’s OK.”

I pulled into an emergency exit, put the spare and I must stress the “spare” aspect of it and headed out to the next town, called “La Pocatière”. There I found another garage where they fixed my flat using an old second hand tire. Where I had been given a break on the previous occasion, these guys didn’t have any qualms about “sticking it to the man”. So after forking out an exaggerated $75.00 in “cash”, I was again on my way, hoping or should I say praying that this was to be the end of the tire saga. “Note to self,” I muttered along the way, “Quit being so frivolous. If you would have bought those “6 ply” tires instead of those “El Cheapos”, then this would not have happened. You risked the lives of all those dogs back there and for that, you should be ashamed…”

Finally, we reached destination but it wasn’t where we were supposed to be. You have to understand that because of local politics as I was to later find out, the starting line for my race had recently been moved to “Tourville”, a small community approximately fifty kilometers on this side of “St-Pamphile”.

Now, you wouldn’t think that there would be much of a story about finding a cheap motel room but I guess what transpired that day was most unusual and needs to be addressed. It all started when I stopped at the “Tourville” Tourist Information Office and inquired about accommodations. Although being most pleasant, the young lady couldn’t find anything. The influx of mushers in the region made it that everything was booked.
“The best I can do,” she said with a bit of disappointment, “is to send you back to “St-Jean-Port-Joli”. This meant that I would have to backtrack 60 kilometers only to return again the next day and re-travel an additional 100 kilometers. To me, it didn’t make any sense as we needed to be back really early for the start. Add to that, the “Mushers Briefing” scheduled for 1900 hrs that evening in “St-Pamphile” and there was no way this could be done. Somewhere during this short span, the dogs needed to be fed and I needed to get some sleep, even if it was for a couple of hours. I declined this option and chose to carry on.
“If worse comes to worst,” I consoled myself “I’ll just sleep in the back of the jeep.”

At this stage of the game, some of you are probably questioning as to why I didn’t reserve a room ahead of time. Well, it’s like this. Although I had registered way early for the race, I couldn’t book anything as the details of the “45 mile” race were up in the air for the longest time and not published till two weeks prior. So by then, nothing was available. I was more than a bit upset by all this and I guess my piss poor attitude was showing. The kind girl, although she had tried to help me out the best she could, was on the verge of receiving an earful when I got a grip of myself and started breathing through the nose.
“Hold the fort here,” I commanded myself, “you can’t take it out on her?” “First of all, it’s not her fault and secondly, she’s trying her best to find something.”
Nonetheless, this situation plus the tire episode, made it that I was having a bad case of anxiety attack and it was just best that I simply leave. While she was still on the phone, I was on my way out the door and probably headed back to New-Brunswick, when suddenly she said,
“Hold on there Sir, I might just have found something.”
For some reason, that statement didn’t fall into deaf ears so I turned around to face that superb and beautiful radiant smile of hers. All proud to be telling me about her findings, she informed me that the organizers had set up a couple of “Prospector” tents in the school yard and that there was still room available in them for a few more mushers. It wouldn’t be the “Hilton”, she added with a snicker, but they were there if I couldn’t find anything else. You know, sometimes it doesn’t take much to turn that frown upside down and I guess this was one of those special moments. I don’t really think that it was in this young lady’s job description to take flack and entertain a crusty old fool like myself. But her “go out of her way” attitude sure made some points with me and earned her a gold star. She’ll probably never know this but her sweet kind ways sort of re-set my mood button which switched from a bitter negative to the positive side of things. And that is most important when dealing with PTSD. One should always try to look at the glass as being “Half Full”. After thanking her wholeheartedly and letting her know that she had brightened my day, I continued on my journey, now curious to see where I would be spending the night.

When we pulled in at the St-Pamphile school, you could feel that the entire town’s people were in a carnival mood. Young and old, it seemed that everybody and their “dog” were participating. There were kids playing street hockey, music blaring throughout the whole area with folks “line dancing”. While some guys were para-sailing, there was a humongous “bomb” fire right smack in the middle of the parking lot. I was looking for the mushers’ marshalling area when I spotted Rob Cooke’s now almost famous calling card. There she stood, that huge right-hand drive beast of a white VW van of his, making that European statement amongst the North American “dog trucks”. For some strange reason, I had taken a shine to that old girl. I don’t really know if it was because it reminded me of my years spent in Germany or for when I used to move furniture as a sideline with a similar “milk truck” way back then in Winnipeg, but it always put a smile on my face everytime I saw it.

After finding a parking space, I walked over to Rob Cooke, who was standing there with a couple of other guys and watering his dogs.
“So how did you make out?” I asked, dying to find out if all his hard training on the “Baisley” trails was paying dividends, “Where did you place?”
“Bloody hell,” was this Englishman’s generic response. “Those Quebeckers are crazy. We had the best run we ever had and still we came in last.” After, listening to his account of the event he had just raced, I couldn’t but feel sorry for him. He was sort of in the same “boat” as I was. Where I stubbornly refused to and would not change any of the dogs in my line-up to better my standings, he was a “die hard” traditionalist who still ran Siberian Huskies. Although nothing would be said, we both knew what needed to be done to stay ahead of the competitive game. However, the compromise was just too big and a stepping stone to a never ending game of “catch up”. To take that plunge might mean that one might be willing to seek the glory of the game and this on the backs of some poor animals. Speaking for myself, I wasn’t prepared to go down that road. These loveable mutts of mine were family and these outings were our way to meet interesting people and promote the “Be kind to animals” philosophy. Besides, call it crazy if you want, but I had this sense of loyalty towards the members of the team that made it nearly impossible for me to sideline any of them. How could I replace a character like the ‘Kid” or for that matter, Vixen after all those years of hauling my ass around? True enough, they were no longer fast enough to keep up with the rest of the “Boyz” but they were most dependent and always there, day in and day out, pounding that trail. I don’t think they really understood the concept of faster is better but they sure loved to go out and mix it up. To me, driving this sleddog team was like having a ten year mortgage. I knew what I was getting into when I got involved with the sport and I would uphold my commitment. In today’s “Generation Me” society where everything needs to have immediate gratification and everything seems to be disposable, how could anyone treat these fantastic distance runners like outdated cell phones. After all, aren’t they beautiful living creatures made of flesh and blood? Yeah, I had this special bond with my dogs and I was reminded of this every time I went to the barn to let them out to do their business. It didn’t matter what kind of mood I was in when I walked through those doors, I was almost always guaranteed to walk out of there with an upbeat spirit. Their “glad to see you attitudes” and their crazy antics made for quite the entertainment. One had to just take the time and observe them in their natural environment. If one looked closely and really observed what is going on when they’re socializing, one could actually see fine examples of how “us humans” should behave and interact amongst ourselves. In a pack of dogs, there is a well established hierarchy, complete with its leaders. While every one watches out for one another, all have their places and respect that position. When something is not right, there is none of this bickering and plotting behind somebody’s back. Instead, it is dealt with there and then. Sometimes, the punishment might over exceed the crime but that’s the way it is. In their world, order and discipline is most important and you will very seldom have repetition of the same offence. They know exactly where they fit but most importantly, they know that they must cooperate, coordinate and work together if they are going to get a chance at survival.

“Did you find a place to sleep?” I inquired to Rob.
“Well, not really.” he answered. Then pointing to and referring to James Wheeler, he added “However, James here is supposed to ask the motel manager if we can crash on his floor.” “Yeah,” the other one interjected, “you’re more than welcomed if you can’t find anything else.” I didn’t say anything about the offer as I needed to keep my options opened. From the looks of things, some of my fellow mushers looked like they might soon be in the “party mode” and I could see where this might end up if I didn’t behave.
“Thanks, Guys.” I answered. “I’ll keep that in mind. However, there might be tents available and I’d like to check that out.” On that note, we coordinated a later meeting and away I went.

They weren’t hard to find and when I reached those white canvas structures with smoke stacks coming from the sides, I inspected the premises. Although the first one was full to capacity, when I entered the second one I was met by a couple who according to them were in charge of keeping the “buck stove” fed. Yes, there was plenty of room in this one, the nice lady told me. For that matter, they were the only two people sleeping in there that night and would be more than happy to share “the straw” with some weird French speaking Acadian. They were most cordial and as a “Come on in and join the party” gift, the husband reached by the stove and offered me a drink from his bottle of “Caribou”. For those who might be uninitiated to this particular potent beverage, it is wise to know that if you can stomach this concoction of red wine and pure moonshine alcohol, then you best be prepared to be dizzy in a flash and this for a very, very long time. Not only will this mixture give you a complete “body stone”, it will peel paint right off the walls and even explode if you put it too close to an open flame. In my younger days, I had tested my capacities against this ever so “evil fire water” and had not been man enough to meet the challenge. I remember then waking up two days later with a bad case of alcohol poisoning and with a most severe hangover. Not knowing what day it was, I literally had gone out and bought a newspaper just to confirm that I had been out like a light for that long. Just the smell of it reaching my nostrils while he was pouring some in a glass for me was bringing back those bad memories and was enough to make my stomach churn.
“No thank you, not for me.” was my immediate response. “That shit is just too much for my weak constitution.” This seemed to satisfy the cause so the man re-poured it into his own glass and took a long drawn out swig. There was no adverse reaction to the taste on his part and from the half dozen or so empty bottles lying at his feet, you could tell that he was accustomed to poking back this Quebec nectar.
“Jesus,” I reflected to myself, “the guy must have a cast iron stomach. How the hell can he still be sitting up after drinking so much of the stuff?” “One thing is for sure,” I giggled while exiting the tarp door, “he won’t feel the cold when he passes out tonight.”

With that, I went to the school to register, satisfied that things were picking up for me when it came to the “where am I going to sleep” department. Instead of curling up in a ball in the back of my jeep, I would actually get to see what it was like to sleep in a “Yukon famous Prospector tent.” Like that girl had said in “Tourville”, it wasn’t the “Hilton” but what the hell, it was a dry and warm shelter and as long as the “Stoker” for the stove didn’t blow us up, we’d be all right. I located the office and when I walked in, it was like I was meeting old friends. So pleasant these volunteers were, they made me feel like royalty. I was charming the pants off them and making sure that they knew that they were a special bunch and one of the reasons as to why I enjoyed coming back to this particular event when the accommodation topic was brought up.
“Well,” I hesitated while putting on the “sad eyed puppy” look, “I’ve found a straw bed in some stranger’s tent and from the looks of things, we might be in for a “Rigodon (referring to Quebec Folklore Music)” all night but that’s OK. Hopefully, I’ll get some sleep and won’t be too grumpy tomorrow morning.”
All three school teachers looked at themselves, I guess taking pity on me, when one of them said,
“No, no, that’s not good enough. I’m sure we can find something better suited for our soldier friend from New-Brunswick.” one suggested as if I wasn’t in the room.” Turning to me, she added,
“Stay here for a minute, I’ll go and check something that might be better.”
She left only to return with an attractive woman that might have been close to my age, who she introduced as her mother. After some small talks with this newcomer, in an engaging voice, she eventually said,
“You can come and sleep at my place, if you want.”
I was kind of taken by surprise with this gracious but most unusual invitation and didn’t really know what to make of this offer. Not really knowing where we were going with this and not wanting to put myself in a maybe compromising position, I came up with an excuse.
“That’s fine,” I replied, “but there’s two of us so I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“No big deal,” she continued, “there’s two bedrooms in the basement. “Maggie,” she instructed her daughter, “just take them to the house and show them where they can sleep.” Now, reassured that the invitation had nothing to do with “Hanky Panky”, I was glad to accept the invitation.

The daughter and myself were almost out the door when a man’s voice calling her name could be heard in the long hallway.
“Maggie,” the voice said, “Hold on for a second.” We both turned around only to see the mother and now the husband coming to us.
“Take him to the camp.” he suggested. “I’m sure they’d be more comfortable there. They’d have lots of room to let their dogs run loose and they wouldn’t be disturbed.
“Are you sure?” she replied.
“Yeah, I think it would be better.” the father concluded with her only to address me directly. “Besides, some of us have got to take care of some of you.” he added smiling and pointing to my “Veterans Canada” patch on my parka. “It’s the least we can do for you guys.”

So on our way we went to find this camp in the woods. It was pitch dark outside by now and after driving for a little while, Maggie and her friend, another teacher, showed me where I would spend the evening. As luck would have it, it was sort of situated in the middle between the two towns. I eventually connected back with Rob Cooke and told him the good news about the “log cabin”. Later, when we eventually decided to pack it in for the night, I guess and as I had also previously been, Rob was totally surprised by what stood in front of him. It turns out that out of the goodness of their heart, this most kind couple from St-Pamphile, had lent their beautiful family cottage, a huge wooden structure complete with fire place and private lake to a couple of complete strangers.
“Do you think it can get better than this?” I asked my roommate while we were inspecting the premises.
“You know Gino,” Rob said shaking his head in astonishment, “I don’t know how you do it but it seems that you always land back on your feet.”
What amazed me about that observation was the fact that he was right. So that night, lying in a very comfortable bed only associated with a luxurious “five star” hotel, I questioned myself as to why I was so lucky. I didn’t exactly know what it was but I had to be doing something right. Contrary to what some might believe, there were no big revelations nor did the sky open to let angels fly down. Nope, none of this stuff happened. However, the events that I witnessed that day left me with a ray of hope and that warm good feeling that said that there were still a lot of us “good people” out there, still willing to go out of our way to help a fellow man. And that’s what put me to sleep with a “shit eating” grin on my face that night.

As for the race itself, they were correct when the organizers guaranteed that it would be a challenging and interesting trek. I enjoyed it whole heartedly as it took us through very scenic landscapes. We traveled through forested areas and went right “down town” in villages complete with the old traditional “white steeple” churches. We crossed a river via a “covered bridge” and made our way across frozen lakes. We tackled the water lines of a maple sugar operation by ducking them and got the chance to really test ourselves on one particular trail that can best be described as a “trap line”. I don’t know if it was intended as such but its design made it that it completely tested the skills of the driver as well as the endurance of the dogs. It wasn’t the perfect run and poor old “Oumak” was again giving up at approximately thirty-two miles into the race. I was really getting upset at his choking attitude if not style but really felt bad the next day when I saw the sore under his armpit. It turns out that the dog was not to blame after all. Rather it was the fault of his “dumb ass” master who had the bright idea to put on a brand new harness on the animal just before the race. Not accustomed to its fit yet, he ended up with a most severe case of “harness burn”, one that would hinder his performance for the rest of the season.
“Poor Mak”, I told him that Monday while he was rolling on his back in his “I’m so cute” position and exposing the raw meat. “You must think I’m cruel to let you run a marathon with sneakers that weren’t broken in.” He didn’t seem to take offence as to what had happened. He was just content and happy that I was rubbing his belly.
“If only man could be so forgiving.” I thought to myself, having been taught another dog lesson, “Wouldn’t this planet be a better place to live?”

Anyway, coming back to the race, I had once more taken another gamble that would prove to be again an incorrect choice. If you recall from a couple of months back, I had sidelined one of my best dogs, “Sox” due to some soreness in his hind quarters. He still hadn’t recovered from that so I had put a spare from the “B” team on the string. This dog, who by pure coincidence was Oumak’s brother had been given to me by these folks who had rescued him from what they said, was a pretty pathetic situation. As the woman described it, she had visited a breeder where she had found “Sky” tied to a post at the end of a two foot chain and this in “knee deep” shit. To make matters worse, this wild and scared “gray wolf” was nothing but skin and bones and reeked of urine and excrements. The reason why its owner was apparently getting rid of it was because it had a small shoulder injury and could not run the long distances. Not to worry, he had assured them, he was still a good dog for what they wanted him for, which was recreational mushing. The woman took pity upon him and felt so sorry for the poor animal that she forked out the demanded $200.00 just so that it could be taken out of that awful context. She would later find out that trying to turn a true sled dog into a house pet might be quite the challenge. On too many occasions, “Sky” would often run away, taking himself out for regular runs throughout the countryside. She felt that he needed to return to mushing surroundings so had given him to me last summer. True enough, he was a hard working individual that would keep his tug line tight at all times. Solid between the ears, he had this rare quality of a long distance dog where he would always stay focused and never get discouraged. Also true though was the fact that this shoulder injury was a permanent thing and one that would flare up on occasions. That Sunday afternoon, eleven miles from the finish line, the pain would be back and he started limping along. Watching him, favoring that right front leg, I was to realize that pushing him passed the thirty mile barrier was not good for him. His heart was in the right place and he never gave up but the realities of it all were that this damaged shoulder would cause him to be in severe pain whenever he would push the limit. Slowing the team down and trying to encourage him. I asked,
“You OK, Sky?”
With that said, his ears perked up and his stride straightened out.
“I know you can make it, buddy. Only a few more miles to go.” I added.
Watching him struggle just to keep up with the team made me even fonder of him and proud to have shared this expedition with my friends and partners, the “Canadian Snow Hounds”. However, where one side of me could really appreciate the collective efforts of their performance, the other side of me wanted to put my fist down somebody’s throat and rip his heart out. You see, I had been curious about “Sky’s” injuries and had contacted Sylvain Voyer during the previous autumn. He didn’t know what the circumstances were but assured me that it had not happened in “his” yard. He referred me to another musher who would later discreetly confide in me that it had been caused by a beating with shovel which had simply been administered because the dog had jumped on the person and had soiled his clothing. He would not dare point any fingers but added, “It wasn’t the lady that gave him to you.”

Now remember, way back at the beginning of this story, when I was talking about a guy with shiny white teeth? Well guess what, it’s the same guy. It’s that same guy that when I wanted to buy Oumak, he tried to cut Sylvain’s grass and sell me one of his own dogs. It’s the same guy that puts nice people like Johanne Cloutier down, saying that she bought a reject of a Saskatchewan Cook’s dog even after paying $700.00 for it. It’s the same guy who borrowed Diane Marquis’ best lead dog for a two day race at the “Defi de Kemp” last year and for some reason, the dog could not finish the second leg of it and came back injured to her kennel. It’s the same guy who after having a very successful racing season, reneged on his word and decided to jack up the price drastically for stud fees, a price that he had previously negotiated with Gaétan Martin.

Yeah the guy can stand up there on that podium and bullshit all he wants as to how he’s the greatest but let’s get one thing straight. He’s building that reputation at the expense of a lot of good folks in the sleddog sport. Unfortunately for him, I can see right through that crap and it’s like I told the “hero” two years ago, “The mushing community is very small and eventually what you do might just come back and bite you in the ass.” To you, the “Man of the Hour”, I now say “Sorry my friend but right or wrong, somebody has to expose you for the fraud that you are. You’re not what a real dog person is all about and represent just a very small percentage of what the racing world is. If we all continue to keep our mouths shut then eventually your behavior will tarnish our good reputations and you will drag us all down into your sink hole.” As for the saying, “what happens on the trail stays on the trail”, well I don’t really care if I’m pegged as a “whistle blower”. I was raised with certain values and one of those qualities that I do possess is that I’m able do the right thing even if it’s not popular. In this instance, I feel that somebody needs to speak in the defense of the dogs. Publishing this, might not be one of the brightest things I’ve done but what the hell. Somebody needs to come forward and bring the mistreatment of sleddogs to light. For those reading this - If you think that this guy is the exception to the rule, let’s go back to last summer and remember those 100 + dogs that were rescued somewhere in the area of Mont-Tremblant. They were also left there abandoned and left to starve. If we remember correctly, those poor critters also belonged to another musher with a bright “Colgate” smile.

As for collecting the “Red Lantern”, somebody needed to bring it home so it might as well be me and the “Boyz”. It’s like I keep telling people, “We’re not in it for the glory but rather for the scenery. And folks, the scenery in this charming Quebec region called St-Pamphile, is a great place to experience if you want to race dogs. The citizens of that friendly township sure know how to put out an excellent product .

Peace on Earth to one and all. Remember, together we can make a difference. = -)

Gino

P.S. The name of this individual was withheld for specific and obvious reasons. The “Google” search engine is a very powerful tool and one that can be dangerous if used maliciously. The purpose of this text was not to “chuck shit” at anyone in particular but to remind one and all that these dogs that we share our daily lives with, should be cared for and not used as simple commodities. Just ask yourselves one question.
“Where do I rate on a scale of 1 to 10 when it comes to the treatment of my dog (s)? Hopefully, you won’t be left with a guilt trip…

THE TELEGRAPH-JOURNAL REPORTS...

2010-03-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

Well to answer someone's question, "No, I'm not dead". I've been just too busy lately and haven't had the chance to really sit down and "blog". Not to worry, I'm working on a couple of entries that I think might just rock the mushing world a bit. Right or wrong, something needs to be said about this racing business. So stick around... Meanwhile, take a gander at the following article.

Gino

P.S. Later folks, gone to Quebec to pick up a secret weapon. But that's a totally different story.
= -)

Determination abounds at sled dog races
Published Saturday March 6th, 2010

Marty Klinkenberg

Armed with a team of rescued dogs and inspired by war heroes, Gino Roussel will barrel across the starting line this morning at the Can-Am Challenge.

The 52-year-old from Saint-Jacques has no chance of winning the 60-mile Willard Jalbert sled dog race through the snowy Maine countryside, and really could’nt give a hoot. "We are not here for the glory," Roussel said Friday as his crew of cast-off canines was checked by a veterinarian in the parking lot at the Lonesome Pine Ski Lodge in Fort Kent, Maine. "We are here for the scenery."

A veteran who served in the Canadian Forces in Bosnia and Algeria, Roussel is as lovable as the mutts he trains and races. A victim of post traumatic stress disorder, he was given a former racing dog to keep him company five years ago and it changed his life. "I am supposed to be taking lots of pills and no longer able to work," Roussel said. "Then somebody gave me a dog and I hitched him up and away we went. "Now, it is my therapy, and I don't take a single pill. It is probably the greatest reason I get up in the morning."

A native of Edmundston who carves out a living running sled-dog tours, Roussel says he turned down a $128,000-a-year job offer in 2009 to keep training his dogs. He has put in 1,200 miles with his team this winter, running them 45 to 50 miles three times each week.
"All my dogs have got a story, and all of them are mutts," Roussel said. "Some are rejects from the racing circuit and some were abandoned, but it doesn't matter to me. I feel every dog deserves the chance to run. "You can always get bigger, better and faster, but there is still always going to be somebody bigger, better and faster than you."

More than 80 sled-dog teams from across Canada and the United States have converged on Fort Kent for today's Can-Am Crown, which includes 50- and 60-mile contests and the Irving Woodlands 250, the most demanding and longest sled-dog race east of the Mississippi River.
A qualifying event for the famed 1,100-mile Iditarod Sled Dog Race, the 250 begins at 10:20 a.m. local time, with the 60-miler starting at 8 a.m. and the 30-miler at 9:10 a.m.
All three races begin with a dash down a narrow chute set up on Main Street in Fort Kent, which is just across the St. John River from Edmundston.

The pack of racers gathered on the border is something to behold: Iditarod veterans and newcomers trying to work their way up to the 250-mile marathon, each doggedly determined.
The oldest starter is 67-year-old Al Hardman of Ludington, Mich., an expat-Canuck who has done the Iditarod four times and raced here last year on a new pair of knees. The youngest is 12-year-old Bailey Vitello of Broofield, Mass, who is competing in the 30-mile race against his mom, Eileen.

In-between is Becki Tucker of Voluntown, Conn., an emergency veterinary nurse who is doing her first 60-mile race. Fifteen months ago, she nearly died in a four-wheeler accident.
"Doctors told my husband to say goodbye to me, that I'd either be a vegetable or dead," said Tucker, who suffered a fractured skull, a brain injury and broken clavicle. With the exception of being a bit more forgetful than she was before her accident, the 33-year-old is fine, and delighted to be sledding again. "It's my passion," she said.

It is Gino Roussel's passion, too, but it is more than that. It his therapy - and a way to remember fallen heroes. On Friday, he was wearing an 82nd Airborne ballcap with a yellow ribbon attached. Back home in Saint-Jacques, he said, he has built a concrete monument to the Canadian victims of the war in Afghanistan.

"I do this for the guys over there," he says, and then he fights back tears. "I do it basically because I can." A friend of his came back from Afghanistan, he says. He lost both legs and one arm to an explosive device.

Marty Klinkenberg is the contributing editor of the Telegraph-Journal. He can be reachedatmartyklinkenberg@hotmail.com

EAGLE LAKE - THE "ROOKIE"

2010-01-23T04:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you pull a stunt that you simply know that was way out of line. Sometimes you do something that makes you feel like you’re three inches tall and that everybody is finger pointing you as the “very, little, little man”. For the dogs, Eagle Lake was a great training experience and I couldn’t have asked for a better performance. Well disciplined, they went out there and did the job I asked of them. As for the “boss” well, I guess you could say that I received a real dose of humility. It’s like they say, “One day, you always end up meeting your man”. And in this adventure, “Boy” did I ever…

To start off, when we got to the “Mushers Meeting” on Friday night, I felt confident or should I say a bit “cocky” about my running this event. The “Baisley Mob” had oodles of miles under their belt and on our last outing, the pure energy that was felt through my gangline strongly put the point across that we would not be coming home late for supper. Normally when I sit at these briefings, I usually scout the room to see who’s in attendance and try to establish where I rate against the other racers. This is part of my old competitive nature, a side of me that I must keep in check. I have to because in my younger days, I would participate in all sorts of sporting events and had this philosophy that winning was everything and if need be I would win and this at all costs. Five years ago, when I got sucked in and re-entered the sport of racing sleddogs, I brought that attitude with me. Unfortunately, that first season was a complete disaster, one that finished with a tragic conclusion. I remember waking up that next morning with a severe case of frost bite and a couple of dead dogs. No, this had not been one of my finest hours. As a matter of record, it was one of those experiences that you feel too embarrassed to talk about but one that keeps haunting you every time you get on the runners.

So, I had kind of forgotten that part where I should have been a bit more reserved thus wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on during the meeting. This was to be the first of a series of mistakes that I would do during the weekend. If only I would have done just a bit less socializing and paid a bit more attention, I might just have noticed the “rookie”. But nooo… My gums were flapping at about 100 MPH and I guess I was enjoying standing on that “soap box” showing off and pulling my own suspenders.

Anyway the next morning, at 0400 hrs sharp, I was out of bed and out that door within fifteen (15) minutes flat. I was a man on a mission and it was time to get the last minute things loaded up. I went through my check list and when I slapped my “Bowie” knife on my hip, I knew that if I wasn’t ready at least, I looked the part. I wasn’t nervous about running the event but Eagle Lake had something to do with these bad memories and I had these nauseating feelings churning in my stomach. To those who know me and my caffeine habit, no it had nothing to do with the pot of “Kick Ass” coffee I had just drunk and can vouch that it had to do with the name “Eagle Lake”.

For force of habit where the dogs always come first, I was kind of in a rush to get to the barn as I was worried about a couple of dogs. My little guy “Sox” had pulled something in his lower back during a deep snow run and would be sidelined for at least three (3) weeks. The way he had been walking around the previous days strongly suggested that he would need some serious down time to recover. Such a sad turn of events, I don’t know who was the most disappointed. He had worked so hard to earn his spot on the team and now when it was time to “rock and roll”, he wouldn’t be allowed to dance. When I got to his door, happy to see me, he was jumping around to greet me as if to say, “Please take me with you. I beg you. Please take me with you.” Knowing quite well that this was not going to happen, I grabbed that cute little head of his and just said, “Next time buddy, you got to rest up for Fort Kent.” To make things right with him, I opened that ice cream container and gave him his morning treat. Usually, before a race like this, I’ll go around and give the dogs maybe 1/3 of a pound of meatloaf. I usually serve this meal approximately four (4) hours before so to give them a chance to metabolize the meat. However that morning when I opened the lid, instead of containing hamburger, it was cooked liver. I guess I had picked the wrong one by mistake and being too lazy to go back to the “Bunkhouse” and exchange it, I decided that I would feed this “rubber like” delicacy. Oh for sure all the dogs went crazy over the stuff but later that day, I would be reminded of this second “rookie” mistake. To make matters worse, when I got to “Oumak”, I noticed that he had barely touched his supper making it two days in a row that he had not eaten. To try to compensate but against my better judgment, I gambled that he would have time to digest the food and gave him an exaggerated portion of liver. He loved the stuff and just gobbled it up whole. “Mak, my friend, take time to taste it. Come on.” I begged him almost disgusted seeing him smack his lips and slobber all over. But he didn’t listen. He was hungry and probably snickering inside as he had trained the “boss” into giving in to his spoiled eating habits. This was to even more complicate the outcomes of my day.

Done with their morning business and with more than a few hours to spare, Fran and I decided to head out. I had to as I was anticipating getting a hard time crossing at the US Border. I’m not one to travel back and forth to the states but it seems to me that they sure love pulling me over for secondary inspections. Out of seven times in last two years, I was brought in the office six times. The only time that I wasn’t checked is when I pulled to the post and literally had to knock on the window to wake the guard up. This “old timer” was quite a nice guy and you could tell he was from way before the pre-terrorist era and just couldn’t wait for retirement. Fortunately, this particular morning, the young lady was quite pleasant and allowed us through with minimum delay.

Almost amazed by this turn of events, we carried on to Eagle Lake. After having a quick breakfast which was by the way, paid for by another kind couple of New Brunswick mushers, Shannon Herbert and Jeff Butler (thanks for the hand-out guys and welcome aboard), we continued on our way to the marshalling area at the public beach area. With plenty of time on my hands, I decided to go and “hob-knob” with the distance racers of the 100 mile event. In my case, hob-knobbing was just my way of spying on the eventual competition as the plan was to return here next year and run this longer event. Here again, too busy fraternizing, I hadn’t taken the time to size up the competition in my own race. If I would have done so, I would have surely noticed the “rookie”. Let’s face it. He wasn’t hard to spot.

Time went by and the organizers sorted out some last minute hiccups that had to do with where the trail would travel through. This year, instead of the traditional turning left after leaving the starting chute, the participants were allowed to proceed down “Old Main” Street. I had no problems with this change of plan and welcomed this modification. That immediate “Haw” turn was a bitch to negotiate and in the past too many drivers had had bad experiences in that corner. So when they called my bib number, I let go of my snub line and got escorted to the starting line. First race of the season and six “in great shape” dogs made it that the team was a bit too strong for the handlers to manage. Yeah, I could see that the “Boyz” were raring to go but we had a few minutes to spare and I needed them to conserve energy. To get their attention and over the loud speakers, I whistled then commanded them to stay. I did not get an immediate reaction and thus had to emphasize my last order. “Stay” I shouted, “Stay”. Waiting to launch, I could see that the “Kid” was in that zone where he gets overly excited. After telling the folks holding the sled back in the chute to grab it tight, I went to my big bruiser and got close and personal with him. “Kid, behave.” I commanded, “Be a nice guy.” He calmed down and looked at me with that great “Colgate smile” as if to say, “What’s wrong? Am I putting on too much of a show?” I walked back and listened for my countdown. Eight, seven, six…. At five, just like that quarterback on the line of scrimmage, I belted “Ready?” And at zero, I called the play with the “Uptrail” command.

For the better part of the first mile, both sides of the street were lined with people. Thanking the ones wishing us “Good Luck”, we struggled along on the unexpected pavement road. The dogs were clawing their way forward while I was trying to keep the sled to the right side where some brownish slushy snow could be found. Try all you want, we were destined to ruin the “hot wax” job I had just spent hours applying to my skis the night before. If there was to be a consoling side to this, it was the fact that all competitors would be subjected to the same “sanding job” so nobody would end up with an advantage.

I could see the trail just ahead and when we went by the volunteers directing traffic at that “Y” junction we were on our way for an enjoyable ride. All jitters gone, I took time to congratulate the team on their excellent performance leaving town, adjusted some gear and put on my mittens. The trail was hard packed with a layer of maybe two (2) inches of fresh snow on top. “Finally,” I said to myself, “we’re going to run a trail that favors my type of dogs.” With that in mind, I started planning my strategy. I had come to this event with the intention of using it as a training run for future races. Instead of running it effectively, I would tackle it efficiently. For those who care to know what the differences in the two methods are, well let’s just say that; You run effectively when you go all out, hoping that the dogs will last the entire distance. You run efficiently when you hold them back, keeping something in reserve for those last few miles. When you run effectively, the welfare of the dogs is thrown by the way side and you really don’t care about injuries. When you run efficiently, a healthy team at the finish line is much more important than the standings in the race. When mid-distance racing, the efficient method should be the one most solicitated. You know you ran an efficient race when the next day you hitch happy dogs that are willing and can go out for a run with good energy to spare.

When the “Kid” is loping and the rest of the team is trotting, that’s when I know that we’re moving along at the desired clip. It had taken the better part of this year to teach them how to trot in cadence for long distances but the patience had paid off. They could move along with this type of stride at approximately 9.5 MPH and for extended periods. For a “30 mile sprint” as the Quebecers would call it, this was a bit slow. But for the longer outings it was a most respectable speed. We were “on-bying” some of the competition and were gaining some serious grounds. Getting close to the turnaround loop and nearing the fourteen (14) mile mark, I met up with Rico Portolatin (the eventual winner) and could establish that I was running fifth if not close to fourth. The dogs were looking good and once we completed the turn and got off that awful gravel portion of the trail, the temptation was just too strong and just like a “junkie” I needed that “fix”. Too strong of a seduction, I gave in and let that “dark side” of my character take over. Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to push the envelope and take up the chase. There was prize money for the first five places and I would be going home with some of the loot. “JR, Oumak, let’s go. Let’s blow this pop stand.” And on that note, I whistled and they picked up the speed.

During all this time, I had been helping the team climb the mountainous segments of the course and for some reason, the whole frigging thing seemed to go in that upward direction. Having done all the leg work last summer to keep the weight down, I was in fair shape but this amount of running was taking its toll on the “old frame” and I was having a hard time keeping up with the faster pace. For some reason, there was something in front that was attracting the dogs’ attention and the team was really picking up some serious speed. We were coming up to a sharp uphill right curve when I heard this awful shrieky sound. I couldn’t make out what it was but from the fresh tracks along the trail, I suspected that it might be a moose or two. It was too late for “rutting” season, so thought that it might be a mother calling her calf. The sound definitely got the attention of the “Boyz” and they were lunging forward to get to the prey. For me, I knew what trouble one could get into when encountering the “King” of the forest so got ready for a possible showdown. The closer we got, the more the sound changed. Suddenly, I could distinguish words instead of noise only to recognize that it was the voice of a young musher. When I finally met with this person, she was running besides her sled. Knowing that the first “Golden Rule” of mushing it that “You never let go of your sled!” I thought this was a bit unusual and figured that she might have lost her team and was trying to catch up with them. Getting nearer for a closer inspection, I came to realize that she was helping her team get up that hill and was encouraging or should I say, pestering them to move forward. The dogs were doing just fine and other than annoying the animals, I couldn’t see the real purpose behind her method. As, my old friend and mentor, Leonard Lanteigne would have said, “Leave the dogs alone. They know what has to be done. When your leaders flop down on the trail and put their front paws over their ears then you know that they’ve had enough of your nagging.” I kept observing her and could not but be impressed as to how she could run. This hill was a “doozy” and when I started negotiating it behind her, I could feel the severe burn in my legs and the temperature rise in my body. This kid, whoever he was, had come to this event well prepared physically and if he had made it this far, well he was a serious contender if not a threat. I stayed behind because he was helping my dogs get up the hill but somewhere halfway, his team really slowed down and this almost to a crawl. Seeing this as the opportunity to blow the doors off him, I got just behind him, whistled to him and called for the “Trail”. Normally, the rules are quite clear when passing another driver. The overtaken musher must relinquish the trail and stop to let you go by. Also, he must not attempt to pass you for at least ten (10) minutes or one (1) mile. In this instance, this did not happen. I don’t know if he had forgotten that rule or if he didn’t know about it but instead of allowing me by, he jumped off the runners of his sled and started running and yelling at his dogs to push on. His dogs and for that matter my team, couldn’t make heads or tail of all this commotion and panic. It wasn’t the right approach in this situation but this “rookie” was adamant that I would not pass him. We went up side by side, both of us trying to pass the other. He was like the “Energizer” bunny rabbit. He just kept on going, going and going. I didn’t have a clue who this young person was but “Boy” did he drive a hard bargain. Wondering if I was going to be able to outlast him, I closed my eyes and had a visit with my friend “Bill” Kerr. Visualizing him in that wheelchair helping me sweat this one out, made me forget the pain. Unwillingly, I entered that “tunnel vision” zone and pushed through. The trail ahead transformed itself and appeared as if you were using a camera with a “fish eye” lenses and a red filter. Without knowing it, I had reverted to “combat mode” and this would translate into serious business with whoever crossed our path. For the young “rookie”, he had put up quite the fight but I managed to pass him after a long session of leap-frogs. I was putting some distance between us when the coffee in my stomach started percolating. Bent over my steering bow, I let it boil over. While I was doing some really needed up-chucking, I managed to look up only to see that the “Kid” was joining me. I couldn’t tell if I had grossed him out but here he was spewing out a jet of brownish water accompanied by, you guessed it, undigested chunks of liver. He shook it off, trying to dip for snow and I guess I followed suit. I grabbed a handful of the white stuff, melted it in my mouth just to get rid of that acidy aftertaste. The tempo of the team had really slowed down and found it curious as we were now traveling along on flat terrain. By the way his ears were drooping, I could tell that the “Kid” hadn’t recovered. I wasn’t finished uttering the words, “Are you all right there buddy?” when I noticed that Oumak had slacked off on his tug line. I was just about to ask what was wrong when he started throwing up. Where the “Kid” had spewed the meat out, my gray leader propulsed those too many pieces of liver as if he was a volcano blowing its top. What a sight. I never thought that there could be so much liquid in one animal. It just kept on coming. Obviously, this would be a setback in my pursuit of the prize money but I would push the dogs anyway. Trying to motivate them, I was losing my patience with them as they had tuned me out and were just coasting along. Then the “rookie” appeared out of nowhere and the chase was again on. After a series of more leap-frogs, he was now in front of us but was not putting any distance between us. I was getting so fed up with the non performance of my dogs and his blocking the way that I decided to stop and let him take some lead time. Standing there in the trail, I could see that his dogs weren’t going anywhere as they were just crawling along. As soon as I would move forward, they would do the same. I was getting really pissed at this cat and mouse game and was voicing my displeasure in my “better Catholic French”. I was angry at my dogs but mostly I was angry at myself for feeding them liver that morning. Unfortunately, this young individual wasn’t helping the situation and I guess, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. “Listen you little shit,” I screamed out at him as out of control as I could have been. “As I told you before, when somebody asks you for the trail, you have to give it to them. Check your bib number, now check mine. It’s quite obvious that I’m going to have a better time than you, so park the god dammed sled. You’re ruining my race and I guarantee you that I’ll ruin yours. When we get to the finish line I’m going to make sure that you’re disqualified. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” From the look on his face, the message had registered loud and clear. That look on his face, I had seen many times before and could probably describe it one hundred and fifty ways. However, what brought me back to reality was the fact that I had just scared this child so much that he might be marked from the event for the rest of his life. I could associate with that look as I had worn it on too many occasions during my elementary school days as I was always the “punching bag” to a bunch of bullies. Now here I was at the age of 52, bullying a kid that wasn’t even old enough to shave. Did I feel cheap? Cheap wouldn’t describe at all how I felt. Disgusted with myself would be more appropriate. Not knowing what this crackpot might do, I guess the “rookie” opted to put the chances on his side and stopped dead in his tracks. I coasted along and just glared at him. He didn’t know what else to do so just looked down at the ground.

I continued on but was no longer in the racing frame of mind. The dogs were almost out of fuel and were running on fumes while I was carrying a metric ton of guilt on my shoulders. I had cooled off by now and that “mad man” episode had passed. I just couldn’t comprehend as to how low I had gone and just wanted to end the day with some dignity left. To do something like this was one of those things that I most detested. I hated those bullies with a passion and had devoted my adulthood defending the “underdog”. To get ahead by taking it out on this young person like I had, was unacceptable. He had given me a run for my money and that made him a real warrior in my books. He had the heart of a lion and was as far as I was concerned a true contender in the making. He did not deserve to have his spirits broken if not destroyed by an old fool like myself. He was too good of a person for that. I had to make amends and felt the need to apologize to him for my bad behavior. I looked back only to see that he had not given up the “fight” and was still on my heels. I smiled within and just said, “God, this kid is persistent!” He didn’t know what to do exactly or if he should attempt another pass so I signaled him to come on by. His leaders trotted along so I released some pressure off my brake so to adjust my speed to his. I was going to take this occasion to talk civil to him but he beat me to the punch. “Excuse me, Sir.” he said sheepishly. “I’m sorry about what happened. This is my first race but I can guarantee you that it won’t happen again.” I could tell that he was being sincere and had learned that “relinquishing the trail” lesson well. I was intrigued by this young hard working musher so out of curiosity, I asked, “Listen son, how old are you?” “Twelve (12), Sir, twelve (12).”

I had taken more than my fair share of punches to the stomach in my life but this knock out blow, sent my knees buckling. This was to be a remake of “David and Goliath” and in this modern version, I was to be the slain giant. I looked away because I didn’t want him to see a grown man cry only to notice that the neck line between his two lead dogs was tangled and this, big time. Somehow, it got twisted around one’s neck and choking the animal while the other end was stuck in its harness dragging his partner. By the purple tongue, I could tell that the initial dog was gasping for air while the other one couldn’t pull because its head was stuck. I didn’t know how long they had been running in this peculiar position but knew that this dangerous situation needed to be addressed and this without delay. “Listen, my young friend.” I said calmly not wanting to alarm him. “You should stop and fix the neckline on your leaders. One isn’t pulling.” To this he pulled over, planted his snow hook and untangled the mess. Within a minute, he was back in the game and just flew by me, running on all “six cylinders”. I watched him go through the finish line in front of me, wondering if I would ever have the honor of sharing the trail with him again. Yup, I had met my match that day and had been reminded of a valuable lesson. You’ve always got to respect your opponent because there is truth to the saying, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight that counts but rather the size of fight in the dog.”

Between then and the “Award Banquet”, everybody seemed to think that I had run a good race and there was a lot “back slapping” going on. Although true, I just couldn’t enjoy the moment or myself, knowing that I still hadn’t apologized to the “rookie”. So that Sunday morning, I “put my pants on straight” and proceeded to that particular breakfast with the intentions of looking him up. Simply put, I needed to try to make things right with the young fellow. I couldn’t recognize him amongst the crowd till the race organizer, Tenley Bennett started handing out the prize money. Introduced as Sullivan Abbott, this young individual with nerdy looking glasses, walked up to collect his check. Without that bulky winter gear, he even looked smaller, thus making me feel even worse. I might be mistaken about this but he sure looked like one of those guys that would be picked on in school. To add insult to injury, when asked if he had something to say, he started talking and blurred out “ I’d like to give this money to Mr. Murphy because without his help, I would not have been able to run this race.” This kind gesture was, shall we say, just too much for me to handle. He had worked so hard for it. He deserved to at least keep the reward. But no, he had chosen to surrender it to his “mentor” as a sign of appreciation. Well, you know how the story goes. I had this huge lump in my throat and was holding back the tears. If he was man enough to part with his check, I was man enough to part with mine. So, when they gave me my $125.00 prize, I took the time to publicly apologize to young Sullivan, grabbed a nearby pen and signed my “bootee” over to him. “Here my friend,” I told him in all honesty, “you deserve this more than I do. Take it and buy yourself some good mushing gear.” With that I gave him a hug and thought to myself, “Someday my young man, you might just become that true champion this sport needs. You are one of those gems that are “rarely found so consider this an investment in the future.” Somehow, I think he got the message that he had been chosen so to carry on with the great tradition of dog sledding. Trust me folks. I assure you that this is a sure bet. This kid sure has the “shoulders” to take on the world.

Peace on earth to one and all. And remember, collectively we can make a difference.

Gino

P.S. Don’t worry about it Fran, somehow we’ll get the money to pay for the property taxes. Something good always comes our way. = -)

A LUCKY MAN

2010-01-13T03:24:00.000-08:00

When I reached the “Outpost” the other day, let’s just say that I was glad to see the old log cabin appear through the white-out. Safe at “Second Base”, I knew we were going to be there for a stint so I decided to unhitch the dogs and allow them to run loose. These surroundings were unfamiliar to most of them so best let them sniff around to see if these rustic if not primitive accommodations met with their approval. While dealing with the frozen snaps on the gangline with my bare hands, I couldn’t but run this ever present phrase through my head, “Yes my friend, you’re a lucky man”.

I wasn’t being cynical when I was repeating these words to myself nor did it have anything to do with the fact that we had made it to destination under such adverse conditions. You have to understand that when I took off that sunny morning, the weather was fine and I didn’t expect any real headaches along the way during this routine twenty (20) mile “long range patrol”. I had something on my mind thus needed some fresh air and some serious alone time to think things out. You see, three (3) days prior, I had just been tempted by an old friend of mine, working for Exxon Mobile, with a job proposal (six figure salary, may I add) in Papua, New-Guinea. With the recession and us running a “feast or famine” type of business, I must admit that the offer was more than attractive. So here I was once again being canvassed to get back in the security game and I have to admit, it kind of stroked my ego just fine, thank you. Only, I couldn’t figure out the sudden interest. It sure wasn’t for my “savoir faire” of the technical world. To me, a “Blackberry” was not a cell phone but a small sour fruit and close cousin to the “Raspberry”. High speed had nothing to do with my internet but instead was something I did, traveling down hill at twenty (20) MPH with my dog team. It sure wasn’t because I was up to date with directives and procedures as things had changed drastically in the last fifteen (15) years and terrorism wasn’t an issue with me in the backwoods of New-Brunswick. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it till I read Lloyd’s comments. “The company needs people like you that can get the job done.” Then it hit me. This guy and I had had a long working relationship in the military and this was to be a basic translation of “I owe you one, Buddy. Now let me return you the favor.” What my friend had not realized was the fact that I was like “Wayne Gretzky”. I had at one point been at the top of my game but when I hung up the skates, I hung them up for good and moved on.

Nonetheless, the offer had to be weighed then appraised and this seemed like a good time to do one of those “Year in Review” exercises. I walked in my “Home away from Home” and as normal, I stuffed the oversized wood stove with newspaper and dry kindling and got it going in a flash. I estimated that I’d be here for a few hours so I put in the good stuff. Two pieces of seasoned Maple hardwood were shoved down this black monster’s throat and it didn’t take long for it to start digesting them and throw some heat. Through my sister Michelle, I had inherited an old armchair that had belonged to one of my great-grandfather at one time. With its chewed up legs and ducked taped armrest, it wasn’t much to look at. To make matters worse, while it sat on the porch of the “Bunkhouse” for a couple of years, the dogs had used it to mark their territory. By now, I think you can get a clear picture as to where it should have gone. Fortunately for the “vintage” chair, the garbage man worked alone and it was against his mandate to pick up heavy things by himself and throw them in the back of the truck. Also because of its origins, it sort of had some sentimental values as I had fond memories of my Grandfather “Leboeuf” and remember seeing this spiritual man sitting in it with his “Rosary beads” praying for eternal salvation. Yes, I was having a hard time getting rid of that chair. For these reasons and the fact that the one hundred year old indentation in the cushion of the seat fit my “touche” perfectly and guess what. It had that “je ne sais quoi” formula that made it the most comfortable thing I ever sat on. Add to that, my putting my feet up on the coffee table by the roaring fire and you had a perfect combination of a place where you can sit down and do some serious thinking.

For a lot of people, 2009 will go down in history as the worst year seen in the financial markets since the great depression of the “dirty thirties”. It would also be the year that the Canadian Forces took the worst amount of casualties in Afghanistan. Now if you were to consider the so many factors associated with these two events then you would come up with a different prognostic than what our politicians are trying to feed us.

For the recession, one simply has to look at a few basic things… The hard working individual that has been unemployed for the last year, what’s he supposed to do when his benefits run out and he still hasn’t found a job. I guess he’s got two choices. Either, he goes on welfare or looks for a “minimum salary” job. And that could be a huge problem for the North American work force. We are extremely spoiled and not ready to make the sacrifices needed to help turn this economy around. In a lot of instances, it’s not because we are not willing to come in at $10.00 an hour but it’s because we have no choice. We have lived for the longest time, way beyond our means and our credit cards are “maxed” out. Consequently, we need that $27.00 an hour salary just to come up with the minimum monthly payments to our financial commitments. When the power of your dollar can only cover some of interest rates of what you owe then you know that you’re in a world of hurt. Even sadder is the fact that the huge corporations have seen the writings on the wall for a long time and have moved their plants somewhere in Asia where the labor force is way cheaper. There is something wrong with this picture when “GE” can produce and ship five Asian toasters to your local Canadian Tire for the same price as the toaster built by “Black & Decker” here in Canada - Same building process, similar materials but a huge difference in salaries.

Next you only have to look at our North American Auto industry and really see where the joke lies. Where the rest of the world has adapted to driving sub-compacts, we are still producing these obsolete dinosaurs called full sized pick-ups and SUVs. Please don’t get me wrong. The three big auto makers are quite aware of the situation but to re-tool and be able to compete in the small vehicle market is a tremendous financial challenge that will take at least five years to turn around. Add to that trying to convince their employees to take a drastic cut in salary and you have a recipe for disaster. And to think that our combined governments forked out billions of dollars just so that a “select few” could keep their “Toys for Big Boys” in the backyard. Yes, I’m a lucky man. I’m lucky in that we went through our own personal financial crisis in 2001 and somehow managed to stay afloat. Now instead of driving a $60,000.00 fandangle top of the line fancy living room on wheels, I drive an old beat up Suzuki Samurai that has maybe cost me $6000.00 to keep on the road over the years. It’s not that warm in the winter (the Japanese still need to improve on their heater technology) but it’s paid for. What’s nice about it is that the only financial commitment that I have towards it is to keep gas in it and even here there’s an added bonus. It’s cheap to run.

The other stressful thing that a lot of those unemployed people have on their mind right now is where the hell are they supposed to get the money to keep their mortgage going?” Here again, I consider myself a lucky man. Our property is paid for and the only thing that I have to worry about is to come up with the money to pay for the property taxes. So far this has not stopped me from sleeping as something good always comes up my way and I always seem to be able to manage to squeeze by. So to draw a conclusion to all of this, I would venture to say that although our lifestyle is not an extravagant one, contrary to many of our friends and neighbors, Fran and I can stay home and enjoy ourselves. At 52 years old, not too many can afford to live the “good life” and that in itself is worth millions.

Coming back to the recession, well we’ll see what happens. I personally think that it hasn’t gone full circle and it’s just an unavoidable conclusion of a long cycle of over saturating the markets with products. There is only room for so many TVs and computers in this world and only the companies with a solid bottom line will survive and outlive the competition. For us in Canada, well… The Conservative Government once again prorogued Parliament so we shouldn’t expect miracles coming from our elected members in the next little while. They’re too busy fighting amongst themselves and don’t seem to have time to sit down and come up with possible solutions to this financial fiasco. The present direction taken, copying the “quick fixer upper” methods of our American neighbors is not necessarily a sign of leadership. But I guess it’s better than nothing as like for most of us, this catastrophic economic episode is way beyond comprehension and they’re also at a loss. This present situation is far from over and I would dare to say that it’s only the “tip of the iceberg” and just like that big chunk of ice, it’s going to take years before it goes away. Time will tell and if one was to look for the “magic bullet”, I guess the secret to a winning combination would be to downsize and have very little to no “overhead”.

As for the war in Afghanistan, it’s sad that Canada has to trade human lives so that its people can keep themselves fed but that’s the price to pay if we are to uphold our NATO commitment. This is a totally separate subject matter, one that I will not tackle today. However, what does need to be addressed is the fact that during the last eight (8) years, we the allied troops, have been adapting to this new scenario of guerilla warfare quite well. This is fine and dandy but the other side has also evolved. On the battlefield, both sides are better equipped. While the insurgents are walking around with brand new “Kalishnikovs”, the Afghan Army has and is being supplied with new uniforms and of course the latest version of the legendary Colt “M-16” rifle. While the good side is coming up with “state of the art” solutions to protect its soldiers, the other side keeps coming up with more sophisticated ways to create more destructive bombs. In the latest phase of this conflict, we are seeing an added 30,000 + American Marines being deployed in “Taliban” heartland. Meanwhile, this threat called Al-Quaeda is managing quite fine to match the number of boots on the ground and for some reason is still capable of recruiting able naïve men from all over the world.

There is no solution in sight and no expert out there that can predict the outcome. The only thing that is for sure is that somebody somewhere is again filling his greedy pockets, supplying the “Military Machine”. What’s even more flagrant is that this escalation of force continues to grow and has gone way beyond that theater of war. Ten years ago, you would never hear of Muslim Fundamentalists or for that matter, Christian Fundamentalists. But now, both groups are there, “digging in” and promoting their own versions of what the new world order should be. Listening to either side, you can’t but see that somewhere some evil unknown force is advocating hatred and using people’s religious beliefs as a means to manipulate the masses so to promote its own agenda. At the end of the day, take religion out of the equation and you’ll see that the flames on both sides will most likely extinguish themselves. Whatever happened to the old proverb “Live and let live”. Are we past the point where we forgot that the blood that runs through everybody’s veins is red? Do we despise each other that much that if one of our loved was in need of a blood transfusion, we would refuse it because it came from somebody from a different faith? I won’t answer that one for you but will let you think about what you would do under such circumstances. It’s sad to say but a lot of folks these days hate so much that it would be a seriously difficult choice.

Where does the luck come when I speak of this? Well that’s quite simple actually. I often ask myself if I really have the “balls” to go out there and do what these Canadian soldiers are doing. To honestly answer that, I would have to say that if I was obligated because of military obligations then I would. However, I sure as hell wouldn’t volunteer to go out there just to get my ticket punched. Yes, I’m a lucky man because, through a great organization that I belong to, I came to recognize that there were others that served that have bigger health and life challenges. I only have to go back and look at the photos of when “VETERANS CANADA” patched this reservist from Sudbury, a Cpl William “Bill” Kerr. He was one of those fine young man that went out there on a second tour of duty and get this of his own “free will” and got blown up by an IED while on foot patrol. Yes, I’m a lucky man because when I compare my so-called traumas to his, mine don’t even rate in comparison. You have to understand – Cpl Kerr survived the ordeal but lost both his legs and part of his left arm. So when I’m out there running behind my sled and complaining that my arthritis hurts, I only have to close my eyes and picture this soldier confined to that wheelchair for the rest of his life. You know, for some reason his image gives me the courage to continue on. For that, “Bill”, I thank you wholeheartedly. I thank you for what you have done for your country and I thank you the inspiration that you give me on a daily basis. In my case, my friend, your sacrifices are well recognized and your efforts did not go unnoticed. As a small token of my appreciation, I will wear the round “Afghanistan/Some gave all” patch on my favorite parka. While traveling on the Racing Circuit this winter, if someone asks, rest assured that I’ll proudly tell them your story and how it helps me get through “the day”.

Another thing this year that made me realize that I was a lucky man was the certain revelations that I discovered of my Bosnian tour. Although the “Boyz” and I saw our share of military atrocities, we were lucky that we did our tour when we did. I guess you could say that if there was any good time to go to a war zone, Oct 93 – Apr 94 was probably the best time to be there. We came in at the tail end of the Medak Pocket massacres and when we got there, both sides had retreated to their corners to lick their wounds. When we were getting ready to re-deploy home and as “Col Zeljko Maglov” (I invite you to google his name) had confided in me over a few cognacs and a box of Cuban cigars, there would be another assault on the border in eighteen months. Although details of these upcoming events were passed on through proper channels back in Canada, neither this country nor the United Nations got prepared for that possible threat. There should have been a few eyebrows or maybe even a red flag raised when the Croats formulated a formal grievance to have the re-enforced observation posts of the “Vandoos” dismantled. What is known now that we were not aware of then is that the “CIA” spy satellites had noticed this particular build-up on the confrontation line. They thought that this was the work of the Serbians so subsequently reported these findings to the Croats. When investigated, it was reported by UN that it was not the Serbs but Canadians who had a series of seriously built-up defensive positions. Knowing quite well that these might impede their progress in the upcoming invasion, they successfully had them demolished. During “Operation Storm”, it is true that a lot of Canadian soldiers were held prisoners, helpless and abandoned in Knin and Gracac but there was absolutely nothing that could be done at troop level. The Commander of “Sector South” had been briefed by the United Nations of the upcoming events and was obligated to yield to the political will and agenda of certain “Western Nations”. To make a long story short, not one of you guys that was there during that sad period of European history, should blame himself for what happened. There was nothing that could be done. I know it’s sad and even enraging to see friends and workmates tortured at the hand of blood thirsty “mercenaries” but the situation was out of your hands. I guess here again I consider myself extremely lucky that I wasn’t in the compound when they arrested “Peter”. Who knows what I would have done to try and protect him. Maybe my actions would have warranted me to end up with the same dreadful demise that our interpreter saw. You see more than a few of us really cared for the individual. A great sincere individual, he worked for us at the “Guardhouse” and was a key player in helping us negotiate many close calls we encountered. He had earned our respect and his place as a member of the Military Police family in Sector South. I guess driving out of the main gate after the massacres and seeing him there hanging to a tree limb by his neck with both his eyes gouged out, sort of leaves you in a different frame of mind. (A personal note to Marc – drinking yourself into complete oblivion in your basement is not the solution, my friend. If you want to talk, get a hold of me. You’ve got my address.) Yeah, I can count my lucky star…

These were some of things I was reflecting upon when I opened my eyes and saw “Vixen” standing on my chest with her front paws and sniffing at me with her cold sweaty black nose. According to the clock on the wall, I must have been “meditating” for at least three hours. I was well rested and from what I could see, I wasn’t the only one that had needed some down time. In complete silence, all eight (8) dogs had managed to come in from the cold and had found a place to curl up on the floor around the warm stove. To see them snore and of course to hear the “Kid” fart really sent the message that this peaceful environment was more my speed and something that a lot of people only dreamed of. The scene put a smile on my face and emphasized the fact that these guys were now my family. There was no way in hell that I would leave them in pursuit of the mighty dollar.

When I got up to stretch out, this created some stir amongst the “Baisley Mob”. They started to jump around and horseplay but this was a bit too much for my likings “Rousse, you guys, Rousse” was the only thing I had to say to convince them to go outside. I looked out the window only to confirm that the weather hadn’t changed much but we had no choice. We had to continue on our way home, to Baisley. I wasn’t worried as the dogs were in fine form and had reached a new physical level of fitness, a higher plateau that I had never seen in the previous years. As it had been strongly suggested by the CAN-AM 30 at the end of last year’s racing season, if we were going to play in the “Big League”, we needed to amend our way of thinking and had to push way past that “No pain, no gain” threshold. So the sacrifices had been made throughout the fall training season and once we hit the snow, there was no doubt in my mind that the dogs were ready to tackle the upcoming race schedule. The Eagle Lake 30 mile race, set for mid-January 2010 would be used as a benchmark so to see where we stood. It was to be the first of three major events that would test and prepare the “Boyz” for the upcoming 60 mile race in Fort-Kent, Maine, in March 2010.

But when you’re a gambling man and are playing “Mother Nature” for the entire pot, well let’s just say that you are up against a real strong opponent. Too often, she’ll remind you that she’s in control of the game and you best be a smart player if you plan on leaving the table with all the chips. However, what she forgot to evaluate in her estimation was the fact that she was dealing with a bunch of determined canines. For most of them, they had worked together for the better part of twenty-four (24) months and the driver had the utmost confidence in them. No, they weren’t the most expensive sleddogs that money could buy but they were certainly a dependable “Go anywhere, anytime” type of dog team. Figuring that I had a winning hand, I decided to go “all in” and called “Mother Nature’s” bluff.

As it turned out, she wasn’t bluffing at all and when the 90 km/h cross winds picked up half way, let’s just say that it made it for an interesting return trip home. The trail was being covered with snow drifts and you had a hard time seeing in front of the two lead dogs. As we had just received a fresh dusting of nine (9) inches of powdery snow the day before, the wind made it that we were faced with blizzard like conditions. I guess, if you’re not a musher, being out there in these conditions sounds like a crazy prospect. Then again, it is not everyday that you get to test yourself against the elements of the great outdoors. To be able to face and overcome this rawest and purest form of challenge sends a person in a near state of euphoria. Call it crazy but I guess this kind of stuff keeps me going. And that to me makes me the luckiest man in the world.

These were some of the conclusions of a long drawn out analytic process that had taken decades to assess. It had been a long time coming but I had finally summed up that a whole bunch of good things had come my way during my adulthood and instead of feeling sorry for myself, I should capitalize on my good fortune. Back at the “Trailhead”, just enjoying this simplest and purest form of pleasure of seeing these sleddogs enjoy themselves rolling around making snow angels was another fine example of why I had made the right choice. It sort of drove home the positive spin that my life had taken and for a simple man, this was priceless.

For those who still haven’t realized what the secret to being a “Lucky Man” is, it’s very simple, really. “It starts at the grass root level and works itself up. When you’re kind to someone, somehow you will be rewarded for your actions. And that my friends, you can take to the bank and cash.”

Peace on Earth to one and all. Remember, together we can make a difference.

Gino

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL

2009-12-20T02:53:00.000-08:00

This year, on the first of December, I sat there and realized that once again the festive season was upon us. As it does every year since I retired, it puts me in a somber mood and this of course made me wonder as to why? Running it through my mind, I came to realize that throughout my career I had never really spent a Christmas Eve in the traditional sense of the word.

Early in my career, I was always the pimpled face kid who got picked for the “Christmas roster”. I remember driving around the quiet PMQ areas, checking the Christmas lights and seeing people through their living room windows enjoying themselves. Feeling a bit lonesome, I remember consoling myself by saying that somebody had to be out there in case police assistance was needed somewhere. Without fail, at midnight, the shift IC would come on the radio and call you back to the guardhouse for coffee and Christmas cake. The shift would end and you would end up spending Christmas Day sleeping.

Then came Cyprus. The luck of the draw would have it that I was to spend that Christmas Eve on the island. Being a “Battalion MP” with the Patricias, spending Christmas with homesick soldiers was quite the chore. They would have their Christmas diner to then sit down and build the traditional “Heineken” Christmas tree. After getting ready to go on duty on the night of Christmas Eve, I had ventured to the living room of Ledra palace only to see that the “Heineken” tree was now standing about fourteen feet tall. At this stage, you didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to realize that you were going to be busy. After drinking all day, the boys let their hair down and partied “Army style”. Using common sense and a lot of compassion, you became a big brother and took care of them. Although the guardroom cells would be full, you knew that you were only keeping them in there for their own protection. The next morning, the RSM showed up and when he woke them up, they had quite the headaches and your job had been done.

Then there was the six year stint in Germany. Not your traditional Canadian Christmas but quite enjoyable. Christmas markets, building wooden toys for local kids or being the designated driver for many evenings, there was a sense of close knit community and the job as a base MP at CFB Lahr was quite interesting. Here again, a lot of common sense and compassion got the job done. Although some would throw the book at some offenders, others knew quite well that the soldiers we dealt with had families and to park their vehicle and drive them home did not give you points for the “MP” of the year award, but somewhere along the line, this particular person would find it in his heart to realize that the MPs were there to help a fellowman.

As for the Bosnian Christmas, once you added the flack vest and the C-7, the job was basically the same. However, an incident occurred and it was to mark me for as long as I live. A young corporal working for me had his eyes on a beautiful young Croat interpreter. To possibly get later favors from her, he asked me if she could catch a ride with us from Gracac to Knin. Although it was against UN rules, I did not see any problems with the request and told him to bring her along. On the drive up, I could see that she was beating around the bush and was trying to ask me a question. As she could not cross back into Croatia and knew that we could, she was trying to ask us to bring something back for her. Thinking that she might want something like “designer jeans” or some exotic perfume, out of curiosity, I asked her what she wanted for Christmas. To my surprise, her answer floored me. She didn’t want anything for herself but rather it was something for her 82 year old grandmother. As it turned out, the young girl suspected that this was to be the old lady’s last Christmas and all she wanted was for her to have a feast of “shrimps”. Seeing how unselfish this young girl was made my heart rise to my throat. Swallowing real hard trying to keep the tears back, I told her I would see what I could do. Knowing that it was a matter of a few phone calls, these were done and 5 kilos of shrimps were delivered by helicopter to my office the next day. I gave the merchandise to this young corporal, gave him the night off and again worked the Christmas Eve shift. The next morning, he came back to the garrison. While watching him walk towards the guardhouse, there was no reasons for me to ask him how his night had been. Instead, I sent him to bed and pulled another 12 hour shift.

My last Christmas in the military was spent in Algeria. All primed and ready to go home to Canada, we had to postpone leaving Algeria that particular day due to unforeseen commitment at the embassy. As it turned out, somebody up there must have been looking out for us as the particular flight we were to board was hijacked by terrorists and who knows what would have happened if I would have been on that plane. Anyway, this was also another unusual Christmas Eve as we spent it sitting at home watching this huge sand storm go by.

To make a long story short, the point behind this is that the men and women wearing the MP uniform were and are still a special breed of people. Although a lot of people will advocate that we are police officers with specific duties, one must realize that we belong to a larger family and do cater to the military community. At Christmas time, everybody serving away from home all feel a bit lonesome and all react differently. Contrary to our civilian counterparts, the offenders we encounter probably had one hell of a year and most likely dealt with death on a close and personal note. Like I used to say to the “boys”, four basic principles will determine if you are to succeed. Firmness, fairness, politeness and compassion will make all the difference in the world. A gratifying reward you get from living with these simple principles is the respect you get from your fellow soldiers. Isn’t that what the Christmas Spirit is all about? Helping a friend in need?

Anyway to the serving men and women across Canada and Overseas, I wish to take this opportunity and wish you guys a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. To the boys in Afghanistan, “Keep your heads down and your powder dry”. If on Christmas Eve you’re on duty and feel homesick, remember that in your honor, somewhere in northern New-Brunswick, some “crazy old ex-Meathead” is out there dog sledding because he has the “freedom” to do so. God only knows that this freedom came with an expensive price tag this year. As for you “old farts”, I have fond memories of working with you guys at Christmas and will raise a glass in your honor.

Gino

Peace on Earth to one and all. Remember, Collectively we can make a difference.

DADDY'S GIRL

2009-11-08T12:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, somewhere, someone puts out some great stuff that you know you must share with everyone. On this Remembrance Day, let's take time to think about that little girl or that little boy who's father won't be coming back...

Jimmy posted a new blog entry to Veterans UN/NATO Canada. No comments need more to be added. Thanks Jimmy!

Daddy's Poem & Remembrance Day

Her hair was up in a pony tail,
Her favorite dress tied with a bow.
Today was Daddy's Day at school,
And she couldn't wait to go.

But her mommy tried to tell her,
That she probably should stay home.
Why the kids might not understand,
If she went to school alone.

But she was not afraid;
She knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates
Of why he wasn't there today.

But still her mother worried,
For her to face this day alone.
And that was why once again,
She tried to keep her daughter home.

But the little girl went to school
Eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees
A dad who never calls.

There were daddies along the wall in back,
For everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently,
Anxious in their seats

One by one the teacher called
A student from the class.
To introduce their daddy,
As seconds slowly passed.

At last the teacher called her name,
Every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching,
A man who wasn't there.

'Where's her daddy at?'
She heard a boy call out.
'She probably doesn't have one,'
Another student dared to shout.

And from somewhere near the back,
She heard a daddy say,
'Looks like another deadbeat dad,
Too busy to waste his day.'

The words did not offend her,
As she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher,
Who told her to go on.

And with hands behind her back,
Slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child,
Came words incredibly unique.

'My Daddy couldn't be here,
Because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be,
Since this is such a special day.

And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy,
And how much he loves me so.

He loved to tell me stories
He taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses,
And taught me to fly a kite.

We used to share fudge sundaes,
And ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him.
I'm not standing here alone.

'Cause my daddy's al ways with me,
Even though we are apart
I know because he told me,
He'll forever be in my heart'

With that, her little hand reached up,
And lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat,
Beneath her favorite dress.

And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads,
Her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter,
Who was wise beyond her years.

For she stood up for the love
Of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her,
Doing what was right.

And when she dropped her hand back down,
Staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft,
But its message clear and loud.

'I love my daddy very much,
he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here,
But heaven's just too far.

You see he is a Canadian soldier
And died just this past year
When a roadside bomb hit his convoy
And taught us all to fear.

But sometimes when I close my eyes,
it's like he never went away.'
And then she closed her eyes,
And saw him there that day.

And to her mothers amazement,
She witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children,
All starting to close their eyes.

Who knows what they saw before them,
Who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second,
They saw him at her side. '

I know you're with me Daddy,'
To the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers,
Of those once filled with doubt.

Not one in that room could explain it,
For each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her,
Was a fragrant long-stemmed rose.

And a child was blessed,
if only for a moment,
By the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing,

That heaven is never too far...

WOW... LEST WE FORGET

KEEPERS OF THE FLAG

2009-10-22T03:24:00.000-07:00

General Hillier once said, quote “When soldiers experience unsure military experiences, it produces uncertainty, which causes them to lose confidence in what they do and actually causes some fear. That's normal in the military.” unquote.

That’s nice but what about that young guy that just came home from that “God Forsaken” place called “Panjway District”, who was put through the “wringer” and had all the juices from his body squeezed till he’s got nothing else to give. How are we supposed to make things right by him? Oh for sure, the Department of National Defense and Veterans Affairs have contingency plans to deal with these psychologically affected individuals but after not experiencing but surviving such an ordeal shouldn’t we do more for them? But then again you might ask, “What do you expect us to do?” We wave the patriotic flag. We wear the “Support the Troops” pin. Hell, some of us even pour cement bags. What else, do you expect us to do? Well at this stage of the game, I’ll honestly tell you that I don’t really know the answer to that one but can see that there is a problem and it needs to be fixed.

If any of you followed the news recently, “good old boy” Peter MacKay just announced that Canada might not be pulling its troops out of Afghanistan as scheduled in 2011. Rather they would most likely stay and be employed in a less dangerous role such as mentoring and training programs. This to most of us with half a brain is not really news as we were expecting it but did anybody notice that the Canadian population never took the bait. You would think that if we were that committed to bringing the troops back home that at least one or two protesters would have charged “Parliament Hill” with their “No more war” placards. No, that news segment turned out to be a simple blur that vanished never to be challenged. Now that to the “Tories” was probably a good thing. You see, they’ve been strategizing to get a majority ever since they’ve been elected. By checking the population’s pulse, they realized that the patient is sleeping comfortably numb and to further commit our soldiers passed the deadline might not affect the outcome of an upcoming election. So, armed with these realities and behind “closed doors”, they can now negotiate some “shady deal” with our cousins south of the border.

“Whoa!” Stop the press and let’s rewind the tape a bit. There needs to be a little history lesson injected in here. If we recall, in 2002, then Liberal Prime Minister, Paul Martin, agreed to send troops to Afghanistan as part of the coalition force. This seemed to satisfy the spoiled needs of then US President, “Georges W. Bush”. By pure coincidence if you want to believe this, they suddenly relaxed the surtaxes on our lumber and allowed our meat to be imported as our cows were no longer mad. As for our steel industry, it was no longer sub-standard and hell yes, “Alleluia”, the famous “red P.E.I. spud”, was again good to eat. Years went by and all of a sudden, the same dilemma appears but under a different name. Last year, when “Obama” introduced his “Buy American” policy, this sent our politicians scrambling as here we were after pulling through the first one, we were being subjected to a second round of “blackmail”. Thus probably the reason why we have troops over there. Not because, we’re fighting for their freedom but rather because we’re fighting to keep ours. We are at the mercy our largest trading partner and if we want to keep our families fed, we have to “play ball” with the Americans. The Canadian Soldiers assigned to the violent Taliban heartland are a key component to this complicated political chess game and will be used and abused till this so-called war against terrorism is over. These are the arrangements that we are stuck with and in all fairness to “Stephen Harper”, he basically has no choice but to stay the present course of action which probably can be loosely translated into a bastardized version of “Co-operate or else.”

From the beginning, General Hillier was the architect and main driving force behind Canada’s mission of taking the responsibilities of “Panjway District”. While between 2002 to 2005 (four years) Canada lost eight (8) troops, since their move to Kandahar in 2006, a staggering number of one-hundred and twenty-two (122), have fallen for this country and the fourth year (2009) is not over yet. That folks, averages to about 30 individuals a year. Just thought that I’d bring these surreal statistics so to show what kind of sacrifice these soldiers are making…
Anyway, when the CDS decided to retire in Jul 08, I for one really thought that he had dropped the ball and left the “Boyz” to be fed to the wolves. To say the least, this did not sit well with me. Although I now apologize to him for what I called him, at the time, I was fit to be tied and promised myself that retribution would be paid. So in my devious twisted mind, in Dec 08, when they announced the 100th casualty, I concocted a ploy where I would send my Canadian flag on a mission to the “Big Sandbox” and when it did return, I was going to mail it as a “retirement gift” to General Hillier in Newfoundland with a note that was going to tell him to hang this in his plush University office as he should also share the burden of living with the ghosts of all those lost soles.

The plan was set in motion and it went without a hitch. Without a hitch, yes but as soon as that flag hit the ground running over there, I started doubting it as I could see that it had serious drawbacks that could be catastrophic. One of the purposes of the flag was to give the opportunity to a young man to have something else to think about other than the drudgeries of war. What I never thought of was that it might just draw unnecessary attention to this individual and that being in the spotlight like that might just bring some additional danger to him. Add to that the fact that “Bobby” was doing such a bang-up job of promoting the “morale boosting flag” and this to the point where he was drawing media attention and you know what? I was getting worried that he might not be focusing on the true nature of his real mission. So for well over six months, I just sat back and prayed that nothing bad would happen to him. Every time they announced that “a NATO soldier was killed”, I swallowed hard, hoping that it wasn’t “Pte Buteau”.

So you can imagine how glad I was to see this young “combat veteran” safe and sound when he showed up on my doorsteps last Saturday and get this, two days after arriving in Canada. For him and the guys in his section, I guess it was important to make sure that the flag made it safe and sound back at “Ciment Hill”. From what he related, his tour of duty was “no cake walk” and if hell does exist on earth then they have found it and it’s located downtown in the “Panjway District”. Until the American Marines showed up, next door in Hellman province to relieve some of the pressure, the two outposts manned by the Canadians reported close to 75% of all contacts with the enemy in the area. Considering that their “Strong Point” was involved in more than fifty (50) close quarter firefights, I guess for them the flag acted as some sort of security blanket and gave them a sense of reality of who they were and what they were fighting for. It’s kind of ironic that this bond and sense of loyalty towards an old fool that lives in the backwoods of New-Brunswick developed but what the hell, “Whatever spins your bowtie, I guess”. Anyway, I didn’t care too much about the flag at this point as I previously mentioned, the thing had brought me nightmares. This till, “Bobby” presented it to me complete with its traveling case. From what I could gather, the personnel of the Funeral Guard in Kandahar had taken the time to neatly fold it in the traditional triangle shape before retiring it to the wooden box. When I opened the lid and saw this honorable gesture, tears filled my eyes and I just couldn’t find the right words to say. All I could do was look into this soldier’s eyes and see that here stood before me a kid that really needed a huge hug at this stage of the game. So without further ado, I opened up my arms and we held each other and this for a serious long time. I don’t know who needed it the most, me or him. All I can say is that nothing else needed to be said. He had just survived probably the worst experience in a soldier’s career and contrary to the fifteen colleagues that didn’t make it home safely during that particular rotation, he had lived through the ordeal and this according to him, would get the occasion to go back and fight another day.

When I embarked in this adventure with the “Keepers of the Flag” last spring, my motivations were somewhat of a narcissistic nature. To “stick it” to the man and really rub his nose in it sounded like a good plan at the time. However, after listening to a few individuals that have lived the Afghanistan experience for the last year, I’ve come to recognize the fact that General Hillier was indeed a “Soldier’s General” who was most likely the key element that kept the politicians in check. We’ll never be privileged enough to find out what really transpired between him and the Prime Minister just before he unexpectedly decided to “pull the plug” but one fact remains uncontested. Since he was sidelined, the operation has taken a completely different direction. From what I have been told, the DND chain of command is taking orders from “civies” that don’t have a clue as to what it takes to win this thing. The order of the day seems to be, “Just make us look good and there won’t be any heads served on a platter”. Gentlemen, it sure isn’t my place to run the boat but this smells like something the Canadian Forces experienced in a recent past. It seems that the more it changes, the more it resembles our involvement in the Bosnian/Croatian conflict. And that part of our military history is nothing to brag about. We can’t be fighting this thing with our hands tied behind our back. This sends the wrong message. There is nothing worse than having a front line soldier second guess his true calling. We seem to forget that the “Boyz” need our complete support and undivided attention and this should be a given. If this is not to be the case then there is but one other solution. “Bring them back home!” It’s that simple.

As for the tattered flag, I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it. It seems to mean a lot more to those few Royal 22e Regiment soldiers who took it out on patrol than it does to me or for that matter, the “General”. I’ll have to sit on this one and think about this for a while. Who knows? Maybe I’ll keep it around for a fourth generation of “Buteaus”. I don’t really know. Let’s just say that for now it is resting safe and sound in “My slice of Heaven” and we’ll see what the future holds. = -)

Peace on earth to one and all and remember collectively we can make a difference.

Later Folks,

Gino

P.S. Oh by the way “Boyz”, GREAT JOB AND WELCOME HOME!

UNITED VETERANS?

2009-10-07T03:02:00.000-07:00

On the property, along the river bank, I’ve got a small foot path that I’ve long ago baptized the “Puppy Trail”. Nicknamed as such because of its purpose, this is where the young six week old sled dogs puppies get indoctrinated to early training. The other day, as per the normal daily ritual, some of the dogs and me went for a walk on it. A simple but most enjoyable time of day, this gives them the occasion to socialize and sniff everything in sight. I usually get a laugh at seeing them horseplay and interact but most importantly, I usually take this quiet moment to reflect. Although a short distance, maybe half a kilometer if you do the whole trek, for me, it never seems to get monotonous. Why should it? The beautiful scenery never stays the same with every changing season as there’s always something going on. One morning, the loons can be gliding along and fishing while on the next one, you might be lucky enough to see otters crack open and eat fresh water clams. It’s like you’re watching a “Nature Show” on the Discovery Channel but without the reruns.

Point in case, a few days ago, for entertainment, the local flock of Canada Geese flew by us, in a well defined “V” shape formation and landed maybe five hundred feet up river. One of the young ones obviously had not mastered the art of landing and when its webbed feet touched the surface, he tumbled head over heels on and in the water. Not a “crash and burn” event, a few seconds later, he right sided himself up, shook the marbles out and continued swimming with his family. Now some of you might think that this is not much of a big deal or might even suggest that I lead a boring life. Possibly, but then again, how many of you have had the occasion to listen to that particular sound of the wind when it goes through their flapping wings. Or how many of you have taken the time or even at that, have had the opportunity to see the progression that goes on during that transition period of “Flight School” from when the hatchlings come out of the egg to when they finally take off for that first trip down south.

Nature has an amazing way of teaching us certain lessons but you have to take the time to absorb what is being taught. For instance, in the case of these Canada Geese, a whole bunch of things transpire during their stay here in the summer and the lessons learned can be directly applied to our daily living and in my case to my “dog sledding” world.

First, when they do arrive in early spring, they know exactly where to go and who is a friend and who is a foe. Thus, they revisit those who make them feel welcomed and feed them. Where it is not in my nature to offer them food, I don’t really condone the practice in their case. After coming home after a long and hard trip, they need to rest and replenish their strength. Food can be scarcest at the best of times in this somewhat “urbanized area” and we’ve created a situation where we have but no choice to help them out. You have to understand that although we call them the “local flock”, they’re not from here originally. We used to have Canada Geese in this region maybe thirty years ago but they were hunted into extinction. These birds that now call the Madawaska River home were imported from Ontario ten (10) years ago from a town that was overpopulated by them to the point where they became a nuisance. As a result of somebody’s “brain fart”, they caught and brought twenty-five (25) young specimens to this area and let them loose. Today, this relocation program is a victim of its own success as we are faced with a situation that will in a near future become a possible problem. You see, first of all, we can’t hunt them due to laws prohibiting the use of firearms in the close proximities of buildings. Also, they don’t really have any natural predators so we have over one thousand of these game birds that are fighting to survive by feeding on anything that they can rummage. Too often enough you’ll see them foraging for grass on somebody’s manicured lawn. They don’t care that this “doctor” or “lawyer” is paying mega bucks to keep up with the “Jones”, they just want to eat. This makes them unpopular with this self proclaimed upper class “Aristocratic” crowd and some of these folks will even go to extremes to persuade these pesky now called pests off their land. Now what happened to this moving out to the country and co-habiting with nature? I guess if it doesn’t “ruffle my feathers”, it’s OK but if one craps on my deck, there will be hell to be paid. You know, I kind of feel for those geese as I’m faced with a similar dilemma when dealing with this “sophisticated crowd” of shore dwellers. I had the Ministry of Environment visit me a couple of years ago, acting on a complaint as apparently, my sawmill yard was a source of pollution and a threat to the environment. It turns out that I knew the officer and he gave me the real scoop. As you would have it, the wife of a prominent doctor felt embarrassed to have her guests drive by my place as according to her, it was an eye sore. Now what the hell does she expect from a working operation? Is she not smart enough to realize that lumber come from trees and trees have bark and when you’re finished with the transformation, you have waste material? Come on, give me a break! But then again I should have known better, this coming from a woman that has never worked a day in her life, to later manage to sleep her way into a rich man’s bed. I guess things haven’t changed much in Suzanne’s boring life. You have to remember that I know her from when she was a kid. When she was young, she was so poor that it was the only thing that she had for entertainment but now instead of playing with her “shit”, she’s chucking it. The irony of it all is that she was on the “committee” to have the Canada Geese brought to her front yard. As a sidebar by the way, the only reason I’m mentioning this here is because, from what I’ve heard through the “grape vines”, she has been reading my “dog stories” and apparently, it’s “approprié” to know the “Baisley writer”. Yeah right, like I said before, “Give me a break!”

Anyway back to my birds (just had to get that off my chest), because of this “local turf war”, they have learned to adapt to the situation. Right from “Day One”, the chicks have got to learn how to swim. In this situation, all the adults surround them in a circle like formation and all the newborns are gathered from the different nests and allowed to paddle safely across the waters. When a threat is recognized, the alarm is sounded and all the mature female geese will tighten the inner circle while the ganders will take a defensive position concentrating on the side of the perceived danger. Once the menace has passed, they will return to their previous circle like positions and will continue to glide along.

Within the first six weeks of their existence, a transformation takes place in the lives of the young chicks’ lives. They lose their grayish duvet to have it replaced with the well recognized plumage of the Canada Goose. As soon as their feathers are fully grown, the parents immediately teach them how to fly. Initially, they simply learn to flap their wings till they realize that they can create lift. Then the parents will show them what has to be done and “hoopla”, they’ve got this moving forward and lifting off the water down path. Not too sure of what’s happening, they’ll go back to the safety of the surface of the water to again try this again in an immediate future. This goes on for a couple of weeks and next thing you know, they know how to fly.

Throughout the summer, you will see them practicing this new acquired talent and every day they will be out there doing their thing. It’s nice to know how to fly but if they’re going to tackle this big upcoming fall trip, they need to build up their strength and endurance. So, day in and day out, they’re out there doing some low flying passes over the river. When the parents feel that the time is right, then they’ll bring the young ones to higher elevations, away from the water and on longer trips. They eventually learn that landing on solid ground requires a different technique but that’s OK because it’s all part of the learning process.

By the time the days get shorter, all the different families flock together to create one huge gaggle of geese. They practice and quickly learn that if you fly in a “V” formation, the goose in front of you cuts the wind resistance and you can go further than if you were traveling alone. So not by choice but rather because of their survival instinct, they stay together. After training all summer, they wait till their counterparts from further north pass over. At their invitation, they respond to their honking and then join them for the “three thousand plus” kilometer trip down south.

To see these thousands of birds fly way up there a couple of thousand of feet is most impressive especially when you see these huge moving “V” formations carve huge black lines out of the skyline. No religion or politics involved, they just do this “team work” because they know that if they’re going to survive, they need this “working together” for the same cause down to a science, otherwise their chance of success are at best either very slim or nil. ”

When this whole migration process takes place, it’s a sign that winter is well on it’s way and a good indicator that’s it’s time for the dog team and I to go out there and start losing that accumulated summer fat. Just like those geese, if we’re going to do our thing, we need to train and put on some serious miles. Just like those geese, we need to work as a unit if we are to attain our goal. For this winter, we’ve upped the “antes” a bit and the laborious challenge will be to run five (5) races in the Quebec Mid-Distance Circuit and finish the season with the sixty (60) mile race in Fort-Kent, Maine but that’s a totally different story...

As to where all this fits with the military veterans, well it’s quite simple. This is where we differ. I’ve been sitting here in the bush, observing what has been going on and like Louis Leclerc would have famously articulated, “I’ve got to give my head a real good shake”. Everybody seems to be full of good intentions but everybody seems to be promoting their own agenda. As of now, I’ve identified at least eighteen (18) different para-military organizations that seem to think that their cause should be the “one” that all of us should shoulder and promote. You really have to raise an eyebrow when you see people arguing about who has the right to display the “poppy”. Another good one is when you’re told that you better be careful as to how you use the “Support the Troop” logo as someone has a “copyright” on it and you might just end up at the receiving end of a lawsuit. What about those ones of a more rebellious nature that seem to want to hint that if the veterans were to unite, we could actually overthrow the government. Sounds good in theory but then again our infamous bureaucrats in Ottawa are not afraid of such a possibility. Rather, they tend to laugh at the prospect, knowing quite well that we’ll never be able to organize such a united front simply because we tend to promote our own regional selfishness and will never get along.

I could go on “bad-mouthing” about what’s wrong with the big picture and to tell you the truth, I completely deleted the first draft of this “blog entry”. Somewhere along the line, I realized that it did not serve any constructive purposes and that the “Boyz” in Afghanistan have got enough on their plate and don’t need anymore of these negative “vibes”.

For me it is and will remain quite basic. I’ve accepted the fact that in the past I was dealt with more than my fair share of bad hands and just don’t have the “moxey” to take on big projects. Some might argue that my limitations are attributed to old age or it could be because of this diagnosed condition called PTSD. As of today, the verdict is still out on that and I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that I’ve found a winning combination that affords me a comfort zone and for now, I’m quite content living a simple life. Out of the visitors (180 plus) that dropped in at “Ciment Hill” this summer, I had the opportunity to hear some amazing “war stories”. From World War II right down to Afghanistan, it astounded me to see that so many veterans of past conflicts would simply drop in and confide in me. Some stories were enlightening while some were atrocious. Whatever they were, it seemed that every one of them had this particular common theme. All these soldiers had been there and done their thing and for some reason they felt the need to be heard. And that folks is a quality that I do possess. I’m a very good listener. I mean, I can actually sit down and listen to what is being said by the person in front of me. And you know what? A lot of times, getting it off one’s chest might just be the first step on the road to recovery and inner peace. Now that in my books, makes it worth while to breathe fresh country air.

For us veterans and anybody else for that matter that still want to make a “war contribution”, this is in no way beyond our reach. Like “Dell” pointed out during his visit this summer, over 1.4 million people rotate around this veteran nucleus. If only half of these people would go out of their way to thank the Canadian soldiers for their efforts then they would not feel so alone and abandoned. Trust me, the real picture is not as rosy as our leaders want us to believe and morale is beyond low, actually it’s in the dumpster.

So, instead of trying to organize these big “shin dings” in honor of the troops, maybe we should do something on our own and add our personal touch. It can be simple gestures such as if you see one waiting in line at your local “Tim Horton”, offer to pay for his coffee. If you spot one walking down the street, “toot” your horn and give him a “thumb’s up”. Hell, just go out of your way and tell him that you appreciate what he’s doing for your country. I’m sure that it will make his day. As for me, well, I don’t plan on leading any big parades. I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing all my life. I’ll keep helping my fellow man and hope that someday he’ll return the favor by helping someone else.

Peace on earth to one and all and remember collectively, we can make a difference. = -)

Gino

THE OUTPOST

2009-09-13T13:18:00.000-07:00

Good Morning Erhard, Good Morning Herta,

The new addition to your family is simply beautiful. I am very glad to see that all went well. Congratulations to the proud parents and of course to "OMA" and "OPA".

Out here in New-Brunswick, everything is fine. We had a reasonable tourist season, considering the recession. They keep telling us that it's over but I'm not too sure about that. When even the Chinese are putting their people out of work, this does not inspire much confidence. But that's a totally different story...

I've been keeping busy, expanding on the business of Baisley Lodges. I've added the final extension to the "Bunkhouse" and will work in there over the winter, trying to get it ready for next summer. I also moved the "Trapper's Camp" to a location on top of a mountain, the balcony hanging over a "small cliff". The "Outpost" as it will be called is located 20 kilometers deeper in the bush and will be a great place to go with the dogs and also a great place to relax and even do some writing. The greatest thing about the place is that the view from up there is simply amazing plus as an added bonus there is no electricity or running water - just pure wilderness and a lot of peace and quiet. Mosqua and I were sitting on the balcony and admiring the scenery and you know what? I don't really understand why I've been so lucky. I'm not a religious man but for some strange reason, it's like somebody is looking after me. I'll have to keep that in the back of my mind. Somewhere, I'll have to return the favor, some day.

As for the dogs, well there has been a few changes in the barn. I had to say goodbye to my old friend, "Mr Tibbs". He had reached the end of the road and was suffering a bit too much. I took him to the veterinarian and had him put to sleep. A good friend of mine, the "Vet" didn't spare the dosage and he simply fell asleep in my arms, never to wake up. I buried him alongside his old friends, the other sled dogs and planted a spruce tree on top of his grave. A simple gesture just to remind me that he'll provide nutrition and energy to that tree so to help it grow for years to come. So, really he's not gone. He's just transformed himself to possibly live another century.

One of my favorite girls, "Snooky" is also gone. After serious contemplation, I finally decided to have her adopted. She moved this summer to southern USA where she will be doing what she enjoys best. She'll be able to run wild and fast on the sprint circuit down there. You see, "Snooky" didn't care too much for the long distance stuff nor did she care for the -20 Celsius temperature. So some good friends from down there needed a good mature leader so I let her go. I have to mention that if it wasn't for the fact that she went to a great family that will take really good care of her, she would still be with us.

"Sky the new Guy" also moved in. He's "Oumak's" brother and was given to me. Just like my grey leader, "Sky" has great work ethics and will be a great addition to the team this winter. He has serious attitude issues and doesn't trust humans. I guess when you've been tossed around from one place to another (I'm his fifth owner), it's kind of hard to put your confidence in the person that feeds you. Oh I guess with a lot of patience and a bit of caring, he will come along. He's been with me for two months now and he's making a lot of progress. Just the fact that he now runs loose on the property without running away, says it all. He's decided to make this his home.

As for the other dogs, well "Leonard" is in harness and in full training mode. He wants to come out running everyday but I have to be the parent and pace out the training. He's able and willing but he's still a puppy and is still growing. Better to take my time and build his strength and endurance over two years. Too many good dogs end up permanantly injured because we push them too hard when they're young.

The rest of the "Baisley Mob", well they're happy that summer is over and that we're back on the road. It's nice to see that they haven't forgotten anything over the last seasons and know what they have to do. The "Kid" has conceded his Alpha Dominant position to "JR". I guess he figured that my young white leader has worked hard enough over the last two years to earn his respect. Besides, "JR" kicked his ass a couple of times and pinned him down in a submissive position, so I think the message was sent loud and clear as to who is the "Leader of the Pack".

This season, we're running the Quebec Mid-Distance Circuit. This is a five race/ total accumulated points system where you run and even if you end up in the middle of the pack, you stand a good chance of finishing on top (Sort of resembles the formula one system of points).
At the end of the season, the "show down" is in Fort-Kent, Maine where we will run a "100 kms" race. It should make for an interesting winter. Who knows, I might even find great material to write about. So as you can see, we're staying busy but not really working.

Stay in touch and we will talk more later.

Your Canadian Friend,

Gino

VETERANS AT "CIMENT HILL"

2009-08-05T23:12:00.000-07:00

Good Morning Bruce,

Just thought I'd take the time to give you an update as to what transpired during the month of July. Well to start it off, it rained just about everyday. Not really news nor should I feel privileged but anyway, we pushed through and set up for the third annual "Veterans Party" or as it was dubbed the "Old Soldiers Christmas Party". It's kind of fitting to call it that as one said, "We might as well celebrate Christmas in July, we were never home in December." We weren't that many (maybe 40 people) but we had a great time. A fantastic supper, a "Bomb fire" and a live band, we partied till the "Wee hours" of the morning. It's like they say, it's not the quantity but rather the quality of the company. It is totally amazing how all these good folks got along. What was more amazing is how old we are all getting.

All the Maritimes were well represented and so was the province of Quebec. Amongst the partakers were MPs in the likes of Yves Beausoleil (instigator of these parties), Carl Inglis (who forgot his rain suit), Luc Veilleux (contact person at Dorval Airport) and André Belley (Security Specialist in Valcatrez). The one that traveled the furthest was Yvon Brière aka “Bonhomme” who came in from Sudbury, Ontario. This "ex-Airborne" turned "Navy Stewart" type was quite the character and a guy that was right up my alley. He pulled in with his "Harley" sporting an assortment of patriotic flags and towing a huge trailer, that not only carried his luggage but also two army barrack boxes. Obviously, a "pack rat" who collects military memorabilia’s, it was great to be able to swap stuff with this guy. Did I mention that one of his barrack boxes was full of these "Army" souvenirs? His wife described their basement and from what she said, I think that "Chief Elliott" might have met his match. As an added bonus, the next morning, he prepared breakfast for the entire crew and this on the fire pit and on his own dime. Great time was had by one and all but it was not to stop there. People kept trickling in at “CIMENT HILL” and this till last night (31 Jul 09). Let's just say that I'm not the "Party Animal" that I used to be...

A few things were noted and are worth mentioning. The first thing was the comradery that was felt throughout the event. It was obvious to me that there was a sense of belonging amongst those gathered and that we felt the need to remind ourselves of who we are and what we stand for. Secondly, this organization called "VETERANS CANADA" do great things for fellow soldiers. They’ve been known to physically go to someone's basement and talk to him, guiding him to needed assistance. During these trying times, I do believe that such a bunch can do wonderful things in helping some of our troops coming out of Afghanistan. Call it “Front Line” intervention or call it being “God Parents” to a needy soldier, whatever… Their devotion is an example of what determined volunteers can accomplish. They've taken it upon themselves to offer their services to provide motorcycle escorts to fallen comrades at various funerals throughout Quebec, a gesture that is mostly appreciated by the families. Did I mention that they raised over $1500.00 this spring for the "MP Blind Fund”? Anyway, I for one feel quite comfortable hanging around with this great bunch of guys (kind of reminds me of our PPCLI days) and I might just stick around and see what transpires. They seem to fill that particular void that I’ve been feeling for all those post military years and that my friend is a “good thing”.

Other than that, Fran and I are real busy taking care of business at the mill and at the lodges. To the onlooker, it seems effortless but let me tell you, it takes a lot of efforts to keep this big boat afloat. I guess that’s the price of success. Not to worry, “mushing” season is only five months away. This season, our goal is the “Quebec Mid-distance” Circuit that ends in Fort-Kent, Maine with a “60” mile race. But that’s a totally different story.

Stay in touch, Buddy and remember, the “JIM MORTON, not for Timmys” coffee is always fresh.

Gino

P.S. The 1955 ¾ Ton “Provost Paddy Wagon” finally made its way to “CIMENT HILL” and decided to stay and call it home. It purrs like a kitten but I guess it’s like all those “old things” that are no longer deemed useful by the military, “it needs some tender loving care and an oil change”. More to follow.

IN MEMORY OF CPL NICK BULGER

2009-07-05T02:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, somewhere, someone sends you something that you just know you have to keep for a special occasion. In this instance, J-C Dionne forwarded me this little poem. I only thought that in this once more somber moment, I’d let circulate out there in cyberspace.

“IN MEMORY OF CORPORAL NICK BULGER”

THE FINAL INSPECTION

The soldier stood and faced God,

Which must always come to pass.

He hoped his shoes were shining,

Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,

How shall I deal with you?

Have you always turned the other cheek?

To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,

"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.

Because those of us who carry guns,

Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,

And at times my talk was tough.

And sometimes I've been violent,

Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,

That wasn't mine to keep...

Though I worked a lot of overtime,

When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,

Though at times I shook with fear.

And sometimes,

God, forgive me,

I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,

Among the people here.

They never wanted me around,

Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here,

Lord,

It needn't be so grand.

I never expected or had too much,

But if you don't,

I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,

Where the saints had often trod.

As the soldier waited quietly,

For the judgment of his God.

Step forward now, you soldier,

You've borne your burdens well.

Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets;

You've done your time in Hell."

~Author Unknown~