Time to Talk

Sometimes I am a little overwhelmed by the amount of change that we have seen in our lifetimes.  We've seen the advent of cordless phones, cell phones, computers, and tablets that weren't even thought of on Star Trek (although they nearly got the cell phones right).  I have just finished setting up my ipad to be able to take it on a trip abroad so I can check the weather, restaurant menus, e-mail, and tourist sites while I am there.  Sometimes I find that I am so involved with the technology of living that I forget to look around. 

However, there has been a price paid for the convenience of all the technology that we have.  Instead of making more time for us it seems to just suck up all the time that we have.  Now our lives are so filled with "things" and "things to do" that we often don't have time to listen and talk.  In fact talking, real conversation talking, is about to become a thing of the past.  Now we e-mail, instant message, forward, social network, and even share pictures without ever having to see or talk to real person. 

Back in the "dark ages" when we were growing up things were a little different. 

One of the first things that we learned in our house, was that talking was fun.  It seemed like there was always a group of adults visiting around the kitchen table, swapping stories on the porch, sharing concerns (gossip) with the neighbors, or telling jokes in the living room.  Children learned the art of listening and being invisible.  If you got caught looking too interested you got sent outside before you heard the juicy parts.  Now, before you start to think my parents didn't do anything but talk, remember that it was a different time.  Parents worked long hours but when they came home they didn't sit and watch tv for hours, hole up with the computer for a night of surfing, or spend hours texting.  Our entertainment was people.

One of the best parts of growing up in a gregarious family was that you learned to listen as well as talk.  Sunday dinners were the best times.  We would gather around the big table in the dining room with all the generations represented, from Granddaddy down to the babies (we had a big piece of plastic kept just to put under their chairs for easy clean-up).  Conversation was an art with everyone being encouraged to participate.  Early during the meal it would be general talk with everyone catching up on the happenings of the day, but later when the dessert was served we got down to serious "yarning".  This was when the older ones would loosen their belts and settle in for some real, old time, story telling.  They would warm up with stories about escapades that our parents got into growing up, move on to tales of some of their contemporaries, and end up with sagas of their own youthful adventures and tribulations.  We would sit enthralled until a general nap time was declared (For the adults not the kids.  We went out to play.).

The youth of today are missing out on an important part of life...learning about and from your elders.  Without a lot of talking you can't learn that your mom suffered from a broken heart at fourteen and thought her life was over, just like you did.  You can't discover that your dad didn't make the high school team his first try either.  You can't appreciate the shear hard work that your grandfather put in farming without high tech equipment or the terror your grandparents felt when polio was striking young people down.  There is a lot of sharing that can only take place when we take the time to sit down and listen and talk.  Even the instant technology of today can't replace that.

Teenagers

Hubby just recently moved six young bulls to the field next to the house in hopes of enticing a passing farmer to buy them for their lonely heifers at home.   A field full of young bulls is a lot like having a locker room full of teenage boys, there is always some scuffling, shoving, pushing, teasing, and general rough-housing going on.  This group was no exception and immediately set about establishing who was the BBIF (big bull in field).  If one went to drink another would decide that he needed to drink first, resulting in a head butting contest over the waterer.  When the feed was poured into the trough it was like trying to feed a table full of teenage boys, with each grabbing as hard as they could in case the others got more.  In fact, teenage bulls and teenage boys are a lot alike.

The first night they were in the field we awoke to bulls standing in the yard.  It seems that during the night they had decided to have a scuffling contest next to the fence and pushed a section of planks out into the drive.  So, before anything else could be done we had to collect up the truant teens and herd them back into the field.  A couple of gates provided a quick patch job for the fence until replacement planks could be obtained.  Since our yard and the hay field in front are not fenced we were lucky that they decided to munch on flowers instead of wandering off.

They seemed to have settled down since then and we haven't had further drama, but knowing teenagers, we've still kept a watchful eye on them.  Friday night we decided at the last minute to go out to eat with a neighbor.  We rolled over the hill to pick them up when hubby commented,"I don't see the bulls."  "Oh, they're probably in the trees and you just don't see them.", I airily replied.  "Maybe", he grunted but after picking up our neighbors he decided to take another turn up the drive and check on them again.  Sure enough, the gate was open and the bulls were gone. (No one admits it but I suspect the last one to feed didn't latch the gate!  Guess who?)

As teens everywhere will, they had seized the opportunity for a little extra freedom.  We found them in the corner of the hay field looking hopefully at the heifers in the next field.  Thank goodness everyone in a rural county usually has some experience with farm animals.  We all baled out of the pick-up like circus clowns.  The two men took off to collect the bulls, the neighbor's wife climbed into the cab of the truck to turn it around and follow, and I took off running to put the dog up (the fool dog has never figured out that there is a time to shut up and be still) and run to open the gate back up for the bulls.

Like the teenagers they were they came running around the corner of the yard, kicking up their heels, bucking and jumping.  We all stood there and watched, knowing that it wasn't their best plan.  Sure enough they hit the blacktop and started sliding and scooting.  Soon they had all jammed into the gateway in a tangle of legs and bodies and popped through like corks.  Picking themselves up they shrugged and nonchalantly strode off as though they had planned the whole thing. 

Beware!  Accepting an invitation to go out to eat with us is never dull!

Murphy's Law

If there is one law that every farmer knows it's Murphy's Law, "that if it can go wrong it will". 

Hubby loves his half day off on Wednesdays.  He hustles home with dozens of things on his mind that he wants to get done.  On this particular Wednesday he wanted to disc his garden and as a favor to a neighbor, disc his too.  Naturally, he arrived home to discover the disc sitting in the barn in pieces.  Literally.  Our son had dismantled it to make some repairs and was waiting on parts.  First order of business was to jump in the truck and go pick up the parts.  Then reassemble the disc.

Shortly after he was hooked up to our son's little tractor and discing the garden in the sunshine.  Back and forth he drove, dragging the round blades (discs) through the ground until the big clods were reduced to little clods.  All the time he was planning where he wanted to plant the corn, beans, tomatoes, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, eggplant, squash, pumpkins, cantaloupes, cucumbers, carrots, potatoes, ..... if everything he dreamed up from the back of a tractor was actually planted we could feed the world. 

With that job accomplished he decided to go up the road to the neighbors and work on his garden some.  He didn't have to go far, just over a mile, but he did have to get on the big road in front of our farm.  I hate it when they have to take farm equipment on the highway because of the heavy traffic.  Tractor's don't go very fast and traffic can quickly back up.  Then drivers get antsy and do stupid things because they are in such a hurry.

As soon as he got on the road he opened it up as fast as he could and took off.  He was almost to the turn off when he noticed the tractor sputtering.  Just as he managed to pull off on the side of the road it sputtered to a stop.  No amount of trying would get it started again.  In frustration he realized that he hadn't brought his phone with him (I nag him constantly to carry it with him.) so he couldn't call anyone to help him.  In resignation he climbed down and trudged all the way back to the house.  Catching our son at the barn they drove back to the tractor and managed to get it started.  Since it was running well, he decided to go on to the neighbors.

Everything went well until he started home.  As soon as he opened it up on the road it started sputtering and once again he found himself sitting on the side of the road with a dead tractor.  This time he had brought his phone with him, so he immediately called our son.  No answer.  Tried again.  No answer.  Tried again.  Cussed.  Looked at the house in the distance and thought about the long walk, again.  Decided he just wasn't going to do it.  With that he hopped off the tractor and stuck his thumb out in the age old hitchhikers signal for a ride. 

Frankly, in today's age, I'm surprised he didn't get run over.  Car after car passed to his complete annoyance.  In the drivers defense, here was this man standing on the side of the road in dirty blue jeans and shirt, with a cap pulled down over his eyes, looking like he had a mad on against the world.  After all, their mothers had spent hours drilling in them the dangers of picking up strangers on the road.  Finally, a young man, who obviously didn't listen to his mother, pulled over and gave him a lift to the house.  On arrival he discovered son sitting on the tailgate of his truck visiting with a buddy, his cell phone forgotten in the cab of the truck.

Once again they return to the tractor and manage to get it started.  This time he drove slowly home with son following in the truck with his flashers going.  He was almost home free when he started up the hill to the house and barn.  The tractor started sputtering and stalling again.  He jammed on the brakes and it sputtered to a halt.  Son meanwhile was checking his missed messages and failed to see the catastrophe in front of him.  Bam! He ran into the back of the disc.

Fortunately for the peace in the family there was minimal damage to truck or disc.  Nothing, as hubby put it, that a sledge hammer and a few good whacks won't fix. 

By the time I returned home from a meeting, son had wisely left for his own home and hubby was sitting on the porch getting consolation from his patient collie.  

Childhood Memories

Even in small rural communities like ours we are affected by the fear that has swept the nation for the safety of our children. Maybe it is the media that has brought all the horrible tragedies that can befall children into our homes, but even in our safe little town I see parents keeping close restraints on their children. They are driven to and from everything, organized into group activities that allow them to play in a controlled, supervised environments, and warned repeatedly not to speak to strangers, leave their yard, answer the door or answer the phone. Parents carefully screen the children theirs associate with and even the parents to be sure they are appropriate for their children.

Nothing brings this home more to me than remembering the unbelievable freedom that we experienced as children. We happily roamed the streets of our town in packs going from house to house with carefree abandonment. Admittedly, times were different then. Most mothers were at home during the day so there usually was a watchful eye scanning the streets and yards. However, they weren't watching for predators but for any pranks that we might be up to. Not much escaped them. It wasn't unusual for a mother to round up the whole group of us and design a punishment for us all on the spot. It might be scrubbing the sidewalk free of the less than desirable design we had lovingly chalked in, raking the yard of the debris we had strewn while making a village for our toys, or pulling weeds in gardens, washing dogs, or whatever jobs she could dream up to keep us occupied and out of trouble. No parent ever objected to their child's punishment, mostly because we weren't about to complain and admit what we had done to deserve it.

We all hit the door early in the morning and disappeared until mealtime. It was an unwritten rule in our house that if you didn't get out from underfoot quickly my mom would find a job for you. Needless to say we left as soon as our cereal was slurped down. We thought nothing of walking for blocks to see a friend or get to an activity. Some of us had bikes but if not we trudged along visiting and wandering along the way. Sometimes we would organize ball games in an empty lot (what has happened to all the empty lots?) or gather under a shady tree to play in the dirt. One of the favorite things for us girls was to tramp down the tall grasses and weeds to make "rooms" with connecting "halls" for our pretend houses. Those lots provided hours and hours of entertainment.

With all this freedom from supervision we learned a lot of valuable lessons. We learned that arguments usually ended when both sides got bored with the topic. Grudges weren't held, because you might need them on your side for Red Rover. Secrets were kept...period! You never abandoned a friend if he was caught and you got away. You went back and shared in the punishment. It was easier to get along with people than to sit on the sidelines and watch others play. Whining usually got you laughed at. Telling tales on people meant no one wanted to be your playmate. We learned that a little dirt wasn't bad but a lot of dirt could get you in trouble when you got home. We also learned that unless the bleeding wouldn't quit, you ignored scrapes and scratches and got back into the game. The lessons were sometimes tough. If you showed poor sportsmanship and cheated, lied, complained constantly about unfairness, took advantage of others, or ignored the rules, you simply weren't chosen for teams.

For all that today's kids have so many things that we did not have; tennis lessons, dance lessons, gymnastics, basketball camps, football camps, craft camps, field trips, movies, video games, toys and toys, I'm sorry they missed out on the long endless days of summer. When each day dawned with long, slow hours to be filled in any way we wanted. When the days ended when the street lights came on and signaled it was time to go home. When time moved at a slower pace.

It was a different world.

Aunt Gertrude

I never really knew my father's mother. She died when I was a small child and while I have wonderful stories of her from my dad, it was his older sister that was my true grandmother. She was 21 when he was born and already a teacher herself but somehow they maintained a close and loving relationship. When my sister and I entered the picture she became the loving matriarch in our lives.

Aunt Gertrude was big in every way. Her father's daughter (he was 6'6" tall) she stood 6' tall with a big bone frame. In a time when being skinny wasn't the art form that it is now, she had a healthy body mass--not fat, just full figured. She was a woman ahead of her time. Most women in her day married, raised a family and kept the house until they died. She was a career woman who spent her summers traveling or attending far flung universities. She maintained two homes. During the school year she lived in Loraine, Ohio, where she taught high school business classes. During the summers she moved back to Kentucky and became our constant companion.

She loved to see new places and meet new people. Every chance she got she and a lady teacher friend would travel to far distant places. I remember her traveling to Scotland, Switzerland, and all over Europe on various tours. When I was in my leaf collecting stage, she collected various plants from across England, Scotland and Ireland meticulously labeled as to place, location, and history. She sent postcards, letters, pictures, and vivid descriptions of the lands that she visited to an enthralled niece. I got many an "A" on reports in geography and history lessons using her memorabilia. To my delight and astonishment she recorded a fascinating week spent in Marrakesh during the height of the drug era in that city. This at a time when my generation was just singing songs about it. Aunt Gertrude didn't know (or accept) that women were supposed to be meek, reticent and stay at home.

When I was fourteen she took my cousin and me to New York to the World's Fair. Until recently my one and only trip to the City. In a week we managed to sample everything that the city had to offer and cover the wonders of the World's Fair. We ate in Greek, Italian, Indian, and Chinese restaurants. We sampled the wonder of an auto mat where food was taken from little one foot cubicles and grazed the local cafeteria. We went to a Broadway play and shopped at Macy's. My most vivid recollection of the trip is being utterly exhausted!

At one point I remember being at the Fair and waiting for my Uncle and cousin to meet us. We had found a bench and were enjoying the shade when I fell asleep. Still more child than adult, I curled up contentedly on the bench and napped. To my utter horror this very nice looking young man woke me when he inquired if I was ill. Looking totally fresh and rested my aunt engaged him in conversation learning that he was a host for the Fair. In the meantime I sat like a zombie with seat slat impressions on my face wishing the earth would open up and suck me in.

One time when I was staying with her I asked her why she had never married. She went to the closet, removed a box of pictures and dug around in them for a few minutes. Finally she held up a photo of a tall, slender young man in a white sailor suit. She told me that if he hadn't been killed in the war (WW I) she might have married him. He was the only man she had met who was taller than she was! Beneath the light manner was, I suspect, a tragic love and a little truth. She was bigger than life and not many men would have lived up to her.

Oklahoma Land Rush

My claim to historical fame is that my grandfather participated in the Oklahoma Land Rush in 1889. My grandfather, who had my father and uncle in later life, was a young man at the time. Unfortunately, I really don't know a lot about it, since it didn't turn out very well and he never talked a lot about it.

The best I can glean is that he, like lots of others, was lured to the big free land give-away in search of a better future. All he had to do to secure 160 acres of land was reach it, claim it, and live on it for a year. In the year he had to make improvements to the property such as a home, barn, fencing, etc. At the end of the year he could get title to the land. The land in question was 2 million acres in central Oklahoma. To a young man with not much money to buy land with, it sounded like a wonderful opportunity.

The Land Rush was scheduled for April 22, 1889. In a short time 50,000 people had registered to join in the rush for the sections. Now a little math points out a glaring problem. If 50,000 people get 160 acres each the total is 8 million acres. When that many people are involved you can bet that some conniving, stealing, and general poor sportsmanship took place. In fact, some jumped the start date and hid out on their selected parcels until the time of the race, then claimed their section. These became known as "Sooners", since they left a little "sooner" than the legitimate rushers. I don't know if my grandfather was one of the "nice guys" waiting at the start, just lucky, or a "sooner" but he did claim a section of land. At some point I remember my father having a copy of the deed issued for the land signed with an Indian name.

Then came the year of "improvements". I can imagine my grandfather starting out with high hopes for a great future. However, he came from Kentucky with few skills for dealing with the dry prairies in Oklahoma. Having spent some time in Oklahoma I can tell you that it is very different from Kentucky. For one thing there is all that sky. In Kentucky our sky is nicely hemmed in with rolling hills, trees, a few small mountains and such. We tend to look up to see the sky. In the west it tends to jump at you from every direction but down. Then there is the matter of water. While the land is fertile and grows bountiful grain crops, it requires irrigation since the climate is dry. The irrigation requires rivers and streams, of which there are few, or underground water which is plentiful but deep. All of this had to have been daunting for a young man raised in the lush landscape of his home, Kentucky.

I don't know what happened during that year, but I have to give him credit for not quiting. He got the deed, so he had to have stayed at least a year. However, it wasn't a happy experience for him. The only report he ever gave was "that land wouldn't raise a ruckus". At some point he gave up, sold his parcel and came home to Kentucky to start his own farm. He always maintained that it was the poorest excuse for farm land in the country.

On one of my trips to Oklahoma I was telling this tale to a local man. He looked at me and grinned. "So your grandad sold his sorry section that wouldn't grow anything for him? Well, it turns out that some of the sorriest land in that land rush had the biggest oil fields under it. If your grandad had kept it you might be an oil tycoon."

Now that's a thought to keep you awake at night!

Spring!

It's about a month early but Spring has come to Kentucky. The temperatures are hitting the 80 degree mark and the weeds are growing before your eyes. It's way too early for this to be happening and the extreme temperatures have also spawned some extreme storms. The tornadoes that ripped through this area spared us but destroyed so much in other places. So far our only major damage has been a tree just behind the house that was struck by lightning. The venerable old maple now sports a black stripe down its massive trunk and dirt clumps thrown up around it where the lightning ran down the roots and literally blew the sod up. Time will tell whether it is strong enough to survive.

Everywhere you look things are blooming. The first were the daffodils that sprinkle the front field. It wasn't long until the pear trees down the drive were in glowing white. Today I discovered that I even have an early tulip. Along with the warm temperatures and unsettled weather has come lots of rain. March is typically a wet month and this is certainly no exception. The yard is squishy with standing water in the low spots. Where we have weaned calves and kept them in a smaller lot to teach them to eat feed, they have churned the ground to a bottomless goo. Likewise where the cattle have come to the waterers in the fields it is now the consistency of quicksand. Once when someone asked how many acres we had and I had responded with the number, hubby looked at me hard and pointed out that I had cut out two acres. "Not so", I replied, " I figure I have mopped at least two acres of mud out of my utility room!"

I was in the kitchen last night when another rite of spring appeared. The door burst open and a tearful five year old came in with a downcast wail. "My daddy is going to be so mad. Justin made me do it and now daddy is going to be so mad." (Justin being the 14 yr. old brother). I turned from the sink and had to laugh. Standing in the doorway was a small boy that appeared to be carved out of mud. He had mud in his hair, on his face, down the front and caked to his back. "Did you fall down? No? Then how did you get so muddy?" "Playing basketball", he replied.

Between chuckles over his predicament, reassurances that he wasn't in trouble, and scraping the mud off him I kept quizzing him on how he became a human mud ball. It seems that he and the older brother were playing basketball in front of the barn. Every time the ball left the blacktop it landed in mud. Passes that weren't caught left a basketball shaped muddy spot on where they hit. Hence the large muddy spot on his shoulder and face. Then, since the field slopes steeply just off the drive, missed shots tended to roll down the slope and under the fence. Big brother was sending the little one to retrieve the balls and since he was too little to open the gate he was scooting under the plank fence. Also, since the cattle had walked the fence repeatedly to get to the waterer, that area was close to being a mud wrestling arena.

After getting him cleaned up and settled on the porch with a snack (no way was he sitting down in my house) I turned to take this up with the older brother. However, it seems he had decided that helping his dad and grandfather clean out the barn might be better than sticking around and facing a discussion about responsible kid-watching.

Yep. It is definitely Spring in Kentucky.

The Finish

With a time of 9 days 4 hours 29 minutes 26 seconds the Iditarod is over for the winner Dallas Seavey, the youngest winner ever. (He actually turned 25 on the trail.) The second place winner was Aliy Zirkle following exactly one hour behind him. Third place went to Ramey Smith, about 35 minutes behind her. The rest of the racers are strung out over the Alaska wilderness and will arrive over the next few days.

The dash down the snow covered main street with crowds of well-wishers shouting out greetings was picture perfect. (The crews spent most of yesterday afternoon hauling in snow from outside of town and grading it down to a perfect smoothness.) After a quick hug to his wife and baby, Dallas, ever polite, turned to the waiting microphones and excused himself. "I need to say hello to these guys first." He then took a minute to give a quick rub and hug to each dog.

When asked about his strategy for the race. He told them that he had planned every step of the race to utilize the strong points of his dogs and to optimize every advantage he could to shave minutes on his time. Observers had noticed that his check point routine and feeding schedule was a dance with no wasted movements or lost time. He said that he had trained running against his dad and his better team. He had learned that by shaving minutes off of the feeding routine, dog care (hustling not sacrificing care) and check point stops he was able to make up enough time to catch up with his dad. With this in mind he planned every step of the way to make up time. He also meticulously planned his take over of the lead about 2/3 of the way through the race. In his words, "I'm not sure the front-runners knew who they were racing against." , referring to his feeling of being in control of his race. Although, Aliy led most of the race, once he made his move there was no catching him.

Interestingly, while he has his own kennel, his dogs are still too young to race. So his team was collected from the "second" string from other kennels. Most of his team for this race were rejects of his father. He noted that his team was not the most athletic, fastest, or strongest of the teams so he had to make sure they had the best plan. What he didn't say was that part of the plan was the extreme athleticism and drive of their musher. Dallas ran most of the race in a windbreaker suit jogging alongside the dogs to keep warm in the brutal temperatures. Removing his weight from the sled gave his dogs a little extra power. This running cost him with a severely blistered toe that one of the vet's lanced and bandaged for him toward the last of the race.

All of the racers have endured extreme physical punishment as they forge across the Alaska topography. The have walked, climbed and pushed through terrain from river valleys, to mountains to wind swept coasts, crossing rivers and on a couple of occasions frozen portions of the Bering Sea. They have done this in blizzards, drifts of new snow, brutal wind, and temperatures as low as -30 degrees. They have endured exhaustion, sleep deprivation, injuries, and hunger (Mushers are careful to feed the dogs on the trail but don't prepare food for themselves. They eat at check-points.) All of this is done with fierce determination but cheerful cooperation and friendship at the check-points and layovers. There you will see mushers sharing stories, offering advice, laughing and enjoying the moment.

With the front-runners home it is to be noted that the middle pack of racers have been sitting the last day or so in Shaktoolik waiting out a ground blizzard with winds of 35 mph , visibility of about 50 feet, and wind chills of -30. I can only imagine the conditions that would cause these hardened mushers to just wait it out. Consider that they are accustomed to spending days and nights on a trail in a climate that would cause our state to close down and demand a national emergency response! I salute these men, women, and dogs that thrive in an area that demands that they be strong and resilient.

Iditarod: Alaska's Ky. Derby

Although I have followed the Iditarod race for several years, it wasn't until our trip to Alaska last summer that I realized just how important this race was to the state. It's a lot like having the Kentucky Derby here in our state. It means money, national recognition, and a lot of state pride.

The race generates intense state pride. Everywhere we went there were signs, souvenirs, pictures, and talk of the Iditarod. Nearly every young person we talked to wanted to become a musher. Our bus driver, the waitress, the girl at the visitor's center all told us that their dream was to become a musher and race in the Iditarod. They take all kinds of jobs to finance their dream. They work for dog kennels for the experience and train all winter. It's an intense sport requiring dedication, great physical fitness, and lots of money. (dogs and equipment aren't cheap.)

However, the rewards are tremendous. Iditarod racers are the spotlighted athletes in the state. The few who are winners or finish in the top ten are as well known and popular as rock stars. They can be seen on billboards, television, cruise ships, books and endorsing all kinds of things. Most use their fame to create improvements in their villages or locales through programs, youth support, or corporate involvement. Everywhere they go they are greeted with autograph seekers and cameras. Children everywhere know the names of the winners and top finishers, like we know basketball players.

The race itself isn't the product of a grand business scheme but rather the result of literately hundreds of volunteers who work around the year to see that this race is accomplished. 1500 volunteers from 21 states and 4 countries will put in over 35,000 hours of time for this year's race. They will be doing everything from manning the COMM center (collecting data from the check points and posting in on the Internet) to working at the checkpoints to assist the mushers in finding places to bed their teams. Teams of veterinarians will be on hand to check each dog at every check point. Workers will monitor the times, speeds, conditions, weather, and mushers to report back to race headquarters. Volunteers will see that food is cooked, sleeping areas are clean, straw is available for the dogs, hot water ready to fix dog rations, supplies are ready for the next leg of the trip and to keep everything running smoothly.

For weeks volunteers have been collecting supplies and seeing that they are packaged and delivered to the check-point sites. Many of the communities are small, many under 200 people, so the strain of feeding the 67 mushers and numerous visitors, news people and support people is massive. Supplies are gathered and flown in to these villages to provide for the rush of people. The locals, however, are proud to be able to provide many of the dishes that will feed the racers. Each stop is a veritable feast for the humans. The dogs dine on food that has been supplied by each musher for his own animals. However, rather than attempt to haul that much food with them, it has been delivered to the check points by a virtual air force of small planes that have ferried in food and supplies.

All in all, it is a massive effort by the people of Alaska to see that the Iditarod race proceeds without a hitch. They can be proud of their race and the tremendous organization that goes into it.

Iditarod Musings

It's a beautiful spring day in Kentucky. The daffodils are blooming in the yard and in delightful clumps in the front field. I just watched the University of Kentucky lose the SEC tournament championship but maintain their number one seed in the NCAA tournament. Yep. It's spring in Kentucky. Daffodils and basketball.

With that break over I returned to studying the Iditarod Trail and the extreme weather conditions the mushers and dogs are experiencing. The race started with temperatures reaching to a balmy 25 degrees F. in the afternoons and dipping down to -5 to -10 below at night. (Remember, they don't have much daylight this time of year). Now the lead teams have reached the Bering Coast with temperatures hovering around -30 degrees. The cold is beginning to take it's toll on both people and dogs. The mushers are beginning to find that keeping awake is harder as exhaustion and cold settle in.

This year the weather has been a challenge, even for Alaska. The old-timers are saying that this is the most snow they have ever seen. The trail in spots has been covered with an additional two feet of snow during the race. This creates some interesting challenges and some real strategies. The race committee marks the trail and breaks a path for the race. However, they only break trail for the first sled, trusting to the following sleds to pack it down and clear it for everyone else. However, if a musher decides to get an early start the trail breakers rush out to open the trail for them. Then if the others don't follow right away, the snow has a chance to fill the path up before they get underway. Then they are on their own to break their own trail. This is much harder on the dogs and slows them down. This is why rest breaks, while necessary, become a part of the strategy.

In addition to the hazards of running over rough trails at night in extreme cold, the mushers have to be alert to dangers of the four legged kind. Most mushers will carry a gun with them to protect themselves and their dogs. The biggest danger (literally) is a moose. The moose like to use the trails for the same reason the racers do. It's easier than fighting the deep snow. Consequently, it's not unheard of to run into a moose strolling down the trail. These guys are big, really big, and irritable, really irritable. Sometimes they will abandon the trail and let the dogs pass, but sometimes they will defend their right to the trail and just wade into the dogs. This is an extreme danger for the dogs and the musher. Sometimes the only defense is to just shoot the moose.

The problem then gets even bigger. It seems that in Alaska moose tend to use all types of trails, including highways. So killing a moose isn't all that uncommon, whether it is intentional or accidental. To deal with this and eliminate the waste, Alaska has a law that if you kill a moose on public land you can't just walk off and leave it as "roadkill". You have to field dress the animal and notify someone to come and get it so it can be used. This can slow you down considerably in a race, so every effort is used to come to a peaceful solution.

The lead is still held by Aliy Zirkle but she is being chased by a determined group of men. Aliy runs a team of small dogs and there has been a lot of speculation as to whether her little dogs can maintain the pace over the distance. Her dogs average 40-45 lbs. while most of the bigger teams will weigh 60-70 pounds. This could be a big advantage when strength and endurance are needed toward the end of the race. So far the 41 year old woman is making the 25 year old man in second place eat her dust....um....snow.

You go girl!!