The day went to the dogs ~ February 8, 1990

David Heiller

The temperature had hit 30 degrees when I pulled into Jim Sales yard south of Askov. It was a beautiful February Sunday morning by our standards, but a little warm for Jim’s family.

His family of dogs, that is.

Jim Sales owns a bunch of them, stout-hearted, young-hearted, good-hearted dogs. You get the impression Jim is from that mold too.

They’re sled dogs, real sled dogs, Malamutes and Samoyeds, and when I pulled up with two kids, they opened up like a pack of kids, jumping and yelling. My daughter Mollie wouldn’t get out of the car at first. She seemed to realize she may have met her match. Even the day care doesn’t sound that loud on a Friday afternoon.

It was a musical sound, not ear-splitting like some dog barks; more like the sound of a pack of coyotes on a winter night close up.

Jim and his son, Jon, hooked up four of the Malamutes to Jim’s sled while Noah, Mollie (now in my arms) and I stood to the side. It takes a lot of muscle to bring the dogs to the sled. They weigh about 70 pounds each, and can easily pull 100 pounds apiece.

Jim grabbed his trail lead-dog, Kemo, by the harness and waltzed him along on his two hind legs. “They’ll pull you to death,” he said. He steered a wide circle around Smuta, a Samoyed who was staying home this trip.

“These two have a thing about who’s the dominant male,” Jim explained.

Smuta and the other Samoyed stayed home because it was too hot. Even the Malamutes don’t like this 30-degree nonsense. Anything warmer than 10-above and they get hot under the collar.

I took some students dog-sledding in Ely, Minnesota once-upon-a-time. These junior high students had as much fun as David and Noah and the dogs at Jim's house, and way more fun than Malika had.

Finally the four dogs were in place: Kemo in the lead, Anana next in the team position, then Demon and Tobuk as wheel dogs, closest to the sled.

Noah and Mollie climbed into the sled first, then I kneeled behind them. Jim hopped on back, and we took off. And I mean took off. You don’t think of sled dogs as going fast, but sitting a few inches off the snow, eyes level with a dog’s rear end, and you feel like you’re moving, Jim figured they had a load of 400 pounds. They didn’t look like they were even pulling hard. That was easy for me to say.

“Kemo, huh, hup,” Jim shouted. “Hey, hey, hup.” Jim half-ran, half-rode behind the sled, talking to the dogs. He explained that “hup” means go, probably from the Eskimo word for “huk.” He thinks that’s where football players got the word “hike” too.

Through the Woods

We leave the open field, and enter Jim’s woods. “Haw, Kemo, good boy.” Jim runs ahead again as we take a right turn. “He doesn’t always listen to me,” Jim says of his leader. “He doesn’t think he has to.”

Kid check: Noah has been smiling most of the way. Mollie has been whimpering. Except for when we go down a hill. Then they both laugh. There’s a big difference between age 6½ and 4½ when it comes to riding on a dogsled through fields and woods.

We come to a small hill, and Jim runs to the lead and starts to pull with the team. “I’m a team member,” he says between breaths. “They seem to respond—when they know you’re working—better.”

That’s my cue to get out of the sled. I push the sled up the hill while Jim pulls. The dogs are feeling the heat now.

The trail snakes through an old stand of birch and maple. It’s right off a [Les] Blacklock calendar, pure white, birch and snow and sun. “I was getting firewood off here, but my son won’t let me now,” Jim says. Mighty pretty.

I ask the kids how they are doing. Noah is fine, but Mollie wants to head back. Soon we’re back on the field. Jim points out some coyote tracks. He says they come calling in the night, and his dogs call back. “We’ve got pretty understanding neighbors,” he said.

We pass a ditch that leads into a marsh, and Kemo suddenly swerves into it. “Ho, ho Kemo!” Jim yells, chasing his leader while I stomp on the sled’s brake. “Must have seen a grouse,” he says. He untangles Kemo, I turn the sled, and we are heading home again.

Home again. The dogs know it. They kick into overdrive and take off. Jim does too, running alongside. I’m left in their dog tracks. I hope I’m in that kind of shape when I’m 57, I think to myself. Heck, I wish I was in that good of shape RIGHT NOW.

Jon comes out to meet the team as it pulls up by the row of dog houses under the pine trees. Jim tries to plant the snow hook into the snow, but there are only a few inches, and it doesn’t hold. So he and Jon unhitch the dogs together, one by one. This time the dogs walk on all fours back to their houses while Jim holds the harness. No waltzing now. They’re all danced out after that two mile run.

Mollie walks up to Anana. “Anana” is the Eskimo word for “little girl.” Mollie pets her, and Anana says thanks with a leap and a slurp. They rubbed noses, that’s for sure, and it sends Mollie back to me in tears. She’s had enough of that little girl.

In fact, she can’t stop sniffling enough to say thank you, so Noah and I say a couple extras for her. “That’s OK, I saw her smile a few times out in the woods,” Jim says.

It was definitely a day worth smiling about.