People who know me well know that I don’t like change. More to the point, I do all within my power to resist change.
Which, when you think about it, is pretty silly — not to mention futile, since change is a natural part of life.
Still, that does not mean I have to embrace it.
In my defense, I will say this resistance to change comes honestly. If you were to look at photos taken of yours truly as a babe in my parent’s home and compare them to photos taken when we moved my father out decades later, very little had changed in the way of furniture and decor.
I find that both comforting and a tad disturbing all at the same time.
Be that as it may, there is no denying there have been changes here on Rusty Metal Farm over the years. Some unexpected — like the death of my husband. Some planned, like the decision to start contracting out some of the maintenance around here that had become a bit overwhelming.
And now, as I face my 35th winter here I am facing a big change, and one that did not come without great thought and discussion with friends.
After 17 years on the runners, this is the year I hang up the harnesses and park the dog sled for good.
That’s right — Rusty Metal Kennel is in full retirement.
This was not a decision reached lightly. I owe a lot to mushing, my fellow mushers and the amazing dogs with whom I have shared so many adventures over the years.
But, all good things must come to an end and a combination of logistics, lifestyle changes and the simple fact that this musher and her dogs are not getting any younger combined to bring this latest change to call whoa on a sport I deeply, deeply love.
It began in 2000 with three dogs, a borrowed sled and a lot of optimism. Over the years, the Rusty Metal team grew to 11 canine athletes out in the kennel with more than eight miles of groomed trails on the farm and neighbor’s land.
I’ll never forget the day that, for the very first time, I hooked up a small team of dogs and completed a successful run all by myself. You would have thought we had just won the Iditarod.
That was perhaps my first life-lesson from mushing — it’s a sport that teaches confidence.
When you are out there on the trails, it’s often just you and the dogs so when things go awry — and trust me, awry they often go — it’s up to the musher to figure out a solution.
Over the years I have faced and dealt with falling off the sled, tangled teams, injuries, moose, balky leaders, fights between dogs and a host of other trail troubles.
Every single time, the dogs and I figured it out and made it back home heads high, tails wagging.
In 2010 we took our biggest leap of faith together as a team and entered the Can Am Crown Sled Dog Race.
With the help of my neighbor and retired musher himself Shawn, we’d hit the trails all that fall in the predawn hours before it got too warm to run with the ATV. When the snow came and we switched to the dog sled, I’d hook up my racing team of six dogs and spend hours on the trails getting all of us into shape.
Thanks to those dogs, I can say I have experienced the Can Am from virtually every angle — as a volunteer, board member, host family, writer and racer.
At my lowest points in life the dogs were always there — furry shoulders to cry on and goofy antics to bring a smile.
For 17 years I’ve headed out to the dog yard in sickness and in health, injured, dead tired and in all kinds of weather to feed and scoop what I would imagine has added up to an impressive weight in poo over time.
Last spring I said goodbye to two of those Can Am team members when they got so old and sick I made the decision to have them put down. Last week another kennel member passed on. As I look out there are just four dogs remaining in the yard, and I fear one is reaching his end of days.
That’s the worst part of the sport — these amazing dogs, athletic as they are, do not live forever.
So, as I look ahead to whatever other changes may come along, I will continue to pamper and play with my tiny kennel of retirees and look back on close to two decades of Rusty Metal running.
You know what? I wouldn’t change a thing.
