Karen Land

They don’t call it “Big Cow Country” for nothing…

... or is it Big Sky country?

… or is it Big Sky Country?

 

Somehow we’ve made it through one entire week back home in Montana without any major “Jigs incidents” — knock on wood. For Jigs, making it 7 days in a row without getting sprayed by a skunk or tangled up with a porcupine or stepping on a rattlesnake is a major miracle. My good fortune so far has little to do with Jigs’ improved behavior, and more to do with the fact that I’ve been hiking with him on a leash. But today, no extendo-lead was going to protect me from my terrier’s favorite Montana activity. When Jigs spots a steaming cow patty on the trail (before I do) he lunges straight towards it, ducking his head and somersaulting into the watery pile with the same enthusiasm as a teenager cannon-balling into a swimming pool. And he doesn’t stop there. He squirms back and forth on his back until his wiry coat has completely absorbed the soupy flop. When he finally stands up, the cow dung quick-dries in the wind, leaving my cuddly bedmate encrusted from head to toe. This is nothing new — I know this about Jigs — yet my time away dampened the stinking memory. After needing to give Jigs two hose-downs in one day, it’s all come back to me now. Montana is Big Cow (Pie) Country…

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A meadow muffin-maker takes a siesta.

Running a (Very Remote) Red…

Is this a joke?

Is this a joke?

Until the other day, if I had to make a quick guess, I would have imagined the closest stoplight to be at least 80 miles from my home in Martinsdale… probably on a main street in Lewistown or Livingston. So a few night ago this random stoplight out in the middle of nowhere came as a surprise to me as I drove home from a hike with the dogs. I actually stopped and waited at the red light for 15 minutes (even snapped this photo through my bug-splattered windshield) until, finally, I started to feel a little bit silly sitting there all alone, not another human or vehicle in sight. Maybe I’m imaging things… I thought to myself. If someone waits at a red light in remote Montana for over 15 minutes, are they a bit dense? If someone runs a red light in remote Montana and nobody sees it, did it really happen?

(Answers: YES, NO)

Good, Together

Lolo (left) and Pig taking a snack break just 20 miles from the 2004 Iditarod finish line

Lolo (left) and Pig taking a snack break just 20 miles from the 2004 Iditarod finish line

Lolo is waiting in the Rav. After pacing the length of my yard for an hour, I decided to give the poor girl a break. It’s 50 degrees here in Martinsdale, and a steady breeze pushes the cool Montana air through the wide-open car windows. Glancing at the vehicle parked in front of my house, no one would know a dog’s in there. Lolo sleeps curled up in the backseat.

Since Lolo was a tiny pup, she’s been a little bit “different.” Hyper-alert, serious, always wanting to please — these characteristics make for a good lead dog, and that’s what Lolo became after I bought her for $100. Terry Adkins — annoyed by Lolo’s spooky, yet stubborn nature — didn’t want to waste his time on her. “Good luck…” he said, taking the check from my hand. “Thanks… I’ll need it,” I replied, restraining my excitement for fear Terry would change his mind.

Lolo (left) and Pig lead us off of Norton Sound onto the main street of Nome, Alaska. 2004

Lolo (left) and Pig lead us off of Norton Sound onto the main street of Nome, Alaska. 2004

I made that purchase over 13 years ago. Today is Lolo’s 14th birthday. Like my beloved Borage, she was born in the year 2000. I witnessed both of their births. Sadly, Borage did not make it to June 13, 2014, which would have been his 14th birthday, too. Even Lolo seems to sense it is a bittersweet time. Or, more realistically, Lolo still grieves her loss. Borage was her buddy, her constant sidekick. Lolo likes my little dogs, yet her behavior shows she longs for something more. Sled dogs know their own. They were raised in a giant pack, fed raw meat, trained as working dogs. They ran literally thousands of miles together. When one member of a string passes, the others feel as if they’ve lost a limb… or a heart. I know — that’s how I’ve felt since March 11th, the day I had to put Borage to sleep.

The last time Lolo and Borage were together here at the Martinsdale house, June 2013.

The last time Lolo and Borage were together here at the Martinsdale house, June 2013.

After Borage died, Lolo howled for weeks. The only time she stopped her mournful crying was when I put her in the car. Sitting in her usual place, right behind the driver’s seat, she feels safe. Like Borage always did, Lolo loves the Rav. Whenever I hear her wailing out in the yard, or see her trotting the fenceline, I know it’s time to open the car door and say, “Load up!” Lolo no longer leads an Iditarod sled dog team. Her friend, Borage, is gone. But inside our car, Lolo knows she’s still part of a string. And that I’ll be out to join her soon, loading up Jigs and Chloe, taking us all somewhere good, for a long walk together. 

Lolo ready to go to the Martinsdale Reservoir for her 14th birthday.

Lolo ready to go to the Martinsdale Reservoir for her 14th birthday.

Bedding Down the String…

The key to life... is a REAL key...

The key to feeling truly at home… is having a REAL key!

Saturday evening after stopping in Ames, Iowa to visit the ISU campus and then again at a bar in eastern South Dakota to catch the Triple Crown (California Chrome, I still love you), I arrived in Wall, South Dakota at 11 pm. The owners of the Welsh Motel were expecting me — I had called them as I left Sioux Falls to let them know I was still about 4.5 hours away.  “Do you want your usual room on the east side of the building?” Kelly, the owner’s daughter, asked me. “By then, any room will be the perfect room…” I told her. On my cross-country trips, I always make it a point to stop at Welsh’s. I cherish feeling so “at home” even though I’m halfway between my real homes in Indiana and Montana. Welsh’s is one of the most welcoming, dog-friendly motels in this country. “How many dogs do you have today?” they ask out of curiosity instead of dread. During the winter, my Alaskan Huskies usually prefer to sleep in the cold car, yet the owners always insist, “Bring them inside!” Several summers back on one 100-degree day, I shared an air-conditioned Welsh’s Motel room with 5 dogs. The reasonable rates (under 50 bucks!?!) and park-at-your-door layout (yes, a REAL motel!) make it easy to arrive late… and bed down stress-free. Home is where people wait up for your arrival… and smile when you walk through the door.

 

Introducing, “The Great Ravioli!”

 

Thanks, Doug!

Thanks, Doug!

I’m devoted to my 1999 Toyota Rav 4 (a.k.a. “Ravioli”). The vehicle — basically just a big dog crate on wheels — has delivered my string thousands of miles across this country. Yesterday morning after I stacked my belongings and 3 dogs in their usual places, I popped the hood for a quick check of the fluids. I was horrified to discover an empty coolant reservoir. WHAT NEXT? I thought, knowing better than to say it out loud — I didn’t really want an answer. I dialed up Ravioli’s “doctor” and, as always, he answered the phone. “What’s up?” Doug said, knowing I must be stuck somewhere with a sick car. When I’m broken-down on the road, Doug rescues me with his knowledge by phone; when I’m stalled-out in Indiana, he’ll come looking for me. Thankfully, yesterday I could drive the Ravioli straight to his house for a consult. It didn’t take him long to find the problem, mend it with radiator stop-leak, and send us on our way. As I merged onto Interstate 74 WEST, I glanced down at my odometer, catching the numbers as they rolled to 266000. I love my little Ravioli…

Saying, “So long…”

Mom, Dad, Grandpa Land, and Aunt Dot ready to drive WEST. Indianapolis, 1967.

Mom, Dad, Grandpa Land, and Aunt Dot ready to drive WEST. Indianapolis, 1967.

In the last 21 years, I’ve driven back and forth between Indiana and Montana over 40 times (I lost count). To give my Iditarod presentations, Borage, Jigs, and I traveled over 30,000 miles a year by car, ricocheting from state to state like a steel marble in a pinball machine. When it was time to go, it never took me long to gather a few belongings (that’s all that fits in a Toyota Rav with 2 to 4 dogs), and pack the vehicle. When I departed from my parents’ house (which was often — I loved spending time at home), my dad would appear in the driveway with a bottle of windex and paper towels. He carefully washed the inside and outside of the glass, backing up to search for missed streaks. It took forever to get out of the driveway. We took photos. Both Mom and Dad petted each of my dogs… and kissed them… and said, “Behave yourself. Listen to your mother…” My mom always cried (even if I’d be back in a few days), insisting on not just one hug but several. Dad stood back and waited for his embrace. To the both of them, I said, “I love you.”

Mom, Borage, Jigs (he's in the car), and I leaving for 2 weeks of talks in Texas.

Mom, Borage, Jigs (he’s in the car), and I leaving for 2 weeks of talks in Texas.

Nowadays, leaving is hard. I dread pulling out of the driveway knowing that if I look back over my shoulder neither of them will be there. No one will be standing on the blacktop waving goodbye, not moving until my car fades from sight.

People often say, “I hate good-byes…” But when I think of all the love wrapped up in a parting — whether a brief or lifelong separation — I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. Whenever I have a chance, I will say, “Good-bye…” No matter where they’re headed, I want to send my loved ones off like they’re boarding a giant ship and heading out onto unknown waters. And, like my parents taught me, I’ll wave until their vessel disappears.

Mom telling Borage to BEHAVE

Mom telling Borage to BEHAVE