I pushed the two inches of fluffy snow off our long driveway with our snow scoop. The powerful, almost-new, snowblower I inherited last summer sits in the garage, like a down-and-out pitcher relegated to the locker room. I honestly prefer the combined quiet and physical workout of shoveling snow.

Suddenly I hear an unfamiliar, yet familiar, clamor. 

It’s dogs. I can hear a pack of them chorusing in the distance. These canine exclamations are not declaring, “Who are you!” Or “I’m hungry!” 

No, I know this is a cacophony of pure joy and an example of canine cheering.  I wonder. Yes, it has to be. The high-pitched yaps, yowls and yips have got to be sled dogs.

Over forty years ago, I was introduced to the world of handling a small sled dog team.  The lead dog in my team of three was a Siberian husky christened Klondike Kate. She and her two teammates whined and hopped impatiently in anticipation of going for a run. My friend John, a veteran dog musher and owner of at least a dozen dogs, gave me brief mushing instructions while his three-dog team also voiced their displeasure at dawdling.  John told me that once he took off, I needed to release the knot that was tethering my sled to the post.

We rocketed down snow covered roads and surged up sun bright slopes. When going uphill, I jumped off and pushed while the dogs strained. An hour later we stopped. The dogs’ tongues were hanging out of their big smiles and I was a ball of sweat. 

Suddenly, John was off. I gave the rope a yank and in an instant I was splayed on my belly in the snow watching the dogs racing away with my sled. Luckily the sled had tipped on its side, providing enough resistance that I was able to catch up, flip it upright and jump clumsily onto the tails of the runners.  

Thirty years after that first ride I was living for a time in the Yukon Territory. Dog mushing there is very much alive and thriving. Even the territorial flag is graced with a proud malamute sled dog. These dogs symbolize the loyalty, stamina and historical importance of early exploration in the Yukon.

A yard full of staked dogs can make a racket. One dog yard, about a quarter mile uphill from our Yukon Outpost was mostly quiet but you could set your watch to the loud ruckus unleashed at feeding time every day.

Another Yukon neighbor, Karen, lived with her family and 34 sled dogs nearly a half-mile from our place. One winter day she called and invited me over to try skijoring. We stepped into our skis and clipped the pulling harness around our waists.  

In February of that winter I volunteered at the 1000-mile Yukon Quest dog mushing race. This race involved the big names in dog mushing in both Canada and the United States. The 10-20 day event would start in Whitehorse, Yukon and end in Fairbanks, Alaska. It is generally considered  tougher than the more popular Iditarod in Alaska.

I was helping move teams to the on-deck area where they were sent off past the cheering crowd every three minutes. Behind me a musher sank to her knees in front of her lead dog. As if kissing a blessing to the dog’s forehead, she whispered “We can do this. Together, we can do this.” Somehow in the frigid air, I managed to swallow the lump in my throat.

This time I knew what to expect when I pulled the anchor rope. I made it about ten yards with my team of three dogs before I sprawled in the snow and got snarled in the dog traces.  

Minutes later the calm demeanor of the lead dog had vanished and the team of fourteen raucously raced away through the cloud of their own steaming breaths.

Later I learned that this musher was a seasoned racer and this was her very first Yukon Quest. For several days I followed her progress online. But she was among the third of the sleds that scratch from the race. 

With those pleasant mushing memories echoing in my mind, I finished clearing the driveway. The dog yapping had quieted. I decided to drive the half mile over to the county park and see if my read on dog excitement was correct.

When I arrived, two women were directing their dog teams up to the parking lot. Two teen girls were unhooking the dogs, and leading them towards their boxes in the back of the trucks. 

The mushers let me pet a couple of dogs. I was particularly smitten with Zissou, the nine year old Alaskan-born dog. He comes from a strong line of Iditarod racing dogs. His owner, Hannah, admired him and said, “He still loves getting out to pull as much as any of my younger dogs.” 

I can relate. Though some say I am getting long in the tooth, I can still push snow off my driveway. But I will admit I don’t yip excitedly or lunge at the prospect of taking to the task.