Nine Dog Winter

Chapter one: What to do about a dream

I was having a difficult time trying to sleep. Mosquitoes were bouncing on the tent’s roof as if it was their own private trampoline. Fishing my watch out of a boot beside my sleeping bag, I checked the time: one o’clock in the morning. The sky was disgustingly daylight.

My campsite overlooked a tiny, sub-Arctic lake teeming with rowdy birds. A half-dozen species were squawking, cooing, warbling, gobbling and quacking at each other, terribly pleased to have flown all the way to the Yukon where there was certainly no lack of bugs to eat. Yet it wasn’t this noisy, natural celebration of spring that was keeping me awake, it was the thought of going… dog mushing. This weird notion was really messing with my mind.

The concept of owning sled dogs had been lurking in my subconscious over the years, slowly growing until, at this opportune moment, it had emerged as a full-fledged compulsion. All I could think about was dropping everything, rearranging my whole life, and moving off to the remotest corners of Canada’s Yukon Territory to go winter camping with huskies.

Over the past two weeks, I had been on a working holiday in Whitehorse, revising a map book of the Yukon River. The first edition, which I published five years before in 1975, had sold out and the summer canoeists were clamouring for more copies. A week before, when I was redrafting some critical bends and sandbars by referring to aerial photographs, a friend had slipped a few old winter shots into the slide projector tray. There on the screen was the tiny dome-shaped cabin I once lived in near Whitehorse. The piles of canoes and firewood surrounding the building were covered with so much snow they looked like landscaped shrubbery. Smoke was rising straight up from the chimney so it had to be Minus Twenty Fahrenheit or colder when the photograph was taken. Cross-country skis were propped in a snow bank by the door; the odd-looking, orange-and-white puppy posing in the doorway was Casey, my pet and best friend. He has always been a ham for pictures.

As I looked at that image, the hibernating dream began stirring in my head, though I wouldn’t realize this until too late to stop it. The next slides were typical scenes of the Yukon Sourdough Rendezvous, the grand carnival held in the territorial capital every February. There were flour-packing contests, a beauty pageant, Gold Rush era costumes, sourdough pancake breakfasts and… sled dog races.

Dozens of teams were gathered on the river ice for the start and I could pick out a few friends’ teams in the photos. Jean’s was on the left, Cor’s beside them, and next was Jon and his crew. I caught myself wondering why I’d never owned a pack of dogs too. The old excuses of mess, noise, time and money seemed insignificant as the romantic, snowy images glittered on the screen.

During the next few days, while I revamped the canoeists’ guidebook, my dream began to assert itself. Out of the blue, I would blurt out a question about building harnessing or bending boards for a toboggan. People looked at me strangely. After all, it was May with daytime temperatures pushing into the 70s.

My plan had been to return to Vancouver Island to resume my fledgling journalist career as soon as this book was off the presses. I’d thought living in the Yukon was a long-finished chapter in my life. Since then, there had been a different story for me on the coast, with another cast of characters and a new plot. Yet here I was back in the North, lying in my tent, sleepless at the thought of spending a winter way off in the bush with my own dog team, going on camping expeditions, visiting with trappers and learning about living at Sixty Degrees Below Zero.

Perhaps all Canadians harbour genetically-transferred, idealist impulses to relive a pioneering lifestyle. If so, very few of us put these instincts into thoughts, fewer into words, and only the rare soul is compelled into action. Yet a full-fledged obsession had me clearly and completely in its grasp; I’m not sure I was really being given an option. The thought occurred to me that this might be quite dangerous – not everyone returns from his or her romantic Yukon dreams. However, the next message from my subconscious was to have faith in my luck.

Two days later, I found myself walking thirty-two miles in a thunderstorm, then sleeping under a spruce tree near the base of a mountain. Come daylight, I rolled up my soggy sleeping bag, poured water from my boots, ate an apple, and hiked up into the clouds. Following a steep ridge, I eventually climbed above the weather and could look for peaks and other landmarks. A few craggy features matched the lines on my now-mushy topographic map, so I knew this was the right mountain.

Another half hour’s scrambling brought renewed doubts, as I was near the summit and hadn’t seen any sign of human habitation. Happily, the last rise revealed a small ledge, upon which were perched a white outhouse, an ecstatic floppy-eared puppy, a many-windowed hut with an impressive array of antennae wires, and – standing in the doorway – my future wife. Marsha McGillis was grinning and shaking her head in disbelief while the black-and-tan dog was sniffing my wet boots and wriggling its whole body in delight.

From her fire tower high atop One Ace Mountain [on the BC-Yukon border near Watson Lake], Marsha coordinated communications with planes, fire crews and other lookout towers

A forest fire tower might be an unlikely place to discuss dog mushing, but we did just that. I explained I needed a good heater to keep me warm on this winter adventure. Marsha has since said it was not really fair of me to proposition her like that: she hadn’t seen a man for weeks and was susceptible to any offer.

Whether asking was ethical or not, by the time I climbed down the mountain three days later, Marsha had agreed to be my partner for the winter ahead. Her year-old puppy Tyhee would be one of the many dogs we would need.

* * *

Chapter Two: Making ready

As soon as Marsha could join me on Vancouver Island in early August, we set to work drawing up food lists and deciding on equipment. From my previous experiences in the North, I had a fair idea about cold weather camping equipment. Marsha had worked as a park ranger and camp cook, and had taken home economics and wildland recreation courses at college. Between us, we had enough opinions to cover just about any eventuality. Unfortunately, we were a trifle short on cash. Marsha and I had met the winter before while working as group leaders for Katimavik, a low-paying, government-sponsored youth project, and neither of us had much money saved.

Tight finances forced us to rely heavily on our chief assets: time and energy. The next two months would be spent scrounging, bargain hunting and building. If we couldn’t buy an item on the cheap, we made it. Some articles we handcrafted because traditional models were no longer commercially available. We aimed for simplicity of design and time-tested materials, but kept our eyes open for worthwhile technological advances. To push our pennies further, we bought raw materials from wholesalers and manufacturers in Vancouver and Victoria, avoiding the high mark-ups in northern stores.

We toured second-hand stores with a vengeance, but finally had to commit ourselves to making our own dog harnesses, dog packs, chains and collars, portable kennels, toboggans, one sleeping bag, anoraks, mitts, gauntlets, socks, vests…. The list seemed to go on forever and so did the projects. A few items wouldn’t get finished until we were in our cabin.

Although starting from scratch to make our outfit was exhausting, it gave us a thorough understanding of, and confidence in, our equipment. A delightful side-effect from all this industry was the boost to our self-images: we felt so capable.

Finished or not, at the end of September, everything we had would go to the Yukon with us in our ’70 Ford pick-up truck or on the trailer to be towed behind. The truck was a rusty, battered beast I bought when fed up with looking at used trucks. On the sixth day of walking the streets of Vancouver, classified ads in hand, searching for anything we could afford, I pounce on a deal just before midnight. Come morning, I had to try the key in four trucks parked in that lot before finding the one I’d paid for. Buying a vehicle after dark isn’t recommended for anyone caring about aesthetics, but we were aiming for sturdy. Seeing the old Ford now in the light of day, I told myself Furd (as Marsha dubbed it) projected a certain air of being dependable. Furd’s previous life was hauling plants, rocks and soil for a landscaping firm – the box was heavily dented. My main worry was the chatter already noticeable in the clutch. For thousands of miles through British Columbia and on up the dusty Alaska Highway, this old warrior would have to pull a flat deck trailer, both vehicles heaped with our winter necessities. As for appearances, we would have Furd so piled and draped with supplies on the trip North no one would notice the cancer eating at the wheel wells or the rippled fenders.

I had pinpointed a destination for us, but it was difficult to arrange actual accommodation from thousands of miles away. After many canoe trips on the Yukon’s rivers, my favourite area was the confluence of the Pelly and Yukon rivers. We ordered some large-scale topographic maps and climate reports to give us more info. The signs all looked good: there were abandoned mining roads and wagon trails galore in the hills for our dog travels, and a sparse population of trappers and homesteaders, the closest ones living within a half-day’s travel. From the weather records, we could expect a knee-high covering of snow during an average winter, and plenty of cold temperatures. We shivered at mentions of Seventy Below Zero!

The weather was that much above zero on Vancouver Island in early September. My parents, who lived at Qualicum Beach, had offered the use of their house for the month while they went off on holidays. I doubt they imagined what was going to happen.

…

Qualicum Beach is a sleepy village, populated mostly by retired folks. The centre of activity is a golf course overlooking Georgia Strait. From the fairways, one can look over the wide, sandy beach and glassy blue waters to the snowcapped Coastal Rockies. Sport fishermen troll between the anchored yachts while killer whales cavort in their wake. The residents spend their days at tea parties and cocktail gatherings when they are not themselves fishing, golfing or hosting relatives from less attractive areas of Canada.

A mountain of cardboard boxes covered by a canvas tarpaulin appeared on the front lawn. Beside my primer-painted and ailing ’71 Plymouth Valiant was parked the newly-acquired pick-up, and behind that a rusty flat-bed trailer bought from a fellow who’d used it to haul cedar shake bolts. Our dogs, Casey, Tyhee and the newcomer Loki, were chained to the porch. I’d just bought a stack of plywood and – with help from our carpenter friend and former Yukoner, Barry Barlow – was constructing kennels to fit on the truck and trailer. With chain saw roaring, Skil saw whining, hammers pounding, engines revving, dogs howling and the living room stereo blaring country music, we were beginning to attract a little attention from the neighbours. They closed their windows.

Taking advantage of sales on apples and pears from the Okanagan Valley, we decided to do some large-scale fruit drying. Marsha borrowed a library book on making your own solar fruit dehydrator.

This is too complicated, she decided, and definitely too expensive. Let’s just use some large pans, or some screens, or —

Before I knew it, she had me taking down all the window screens in the house for temporary drying racks. When I dragged the garden hose over to wash the dust off them, Marsha called out that she had another idea. Following the sound of running water, I found her naked in the shower stall, scrubbing screens with a bristle brush.

We arranged the screens in the patio and driveway, elevated on blocks to permit air circulation beneath the fruit. By thinly slicing the apples and pears, and directing an oscillating fan over the screens, we had each batch dehydrated in two days. At night, the neighbours could watch us carry all the screens inside to be spread around the house, where the drying would continue, safe from the dew. Next morning, as they had crumpets and tea, the procession would be reversed for their entertainment.

My parents’ closest friends began finding the queerest excuses to drop in and check on our activities from close range.

They must feel an obligation to Mom and Dad to see that no irreparable damage is being done, I explained to Marsha. All our comings and goings must be unsettling for them.

I think everyone is more interested in our going than our comings, she suggested. "At least, their first question seems to be When are you leaving?"

To Hank Bennett from two lots up, we proudly displayed our latest find.

I salvaged this deerskin from a doe killed on the highway last week, I proudly told him. We’re tanning it with a vinegar and ashes solution. We’ll be able to use the leather this winter.

I’m glad you didn’t pay money for that stinky thing, he said and looked sideways at me. Ever tanned a deer hide before?

Nope, I admitted. But how hard can it be?

That rhetorical question How hard can it be? became somewhat of a rallying call for our many preparations.

Meanwhile, our dogs, frustrated by the heat and bored of being chained, were taking out their anxieties on Dad’s cherished lawn. Before we noticed, Casey had burrowed under the thornless blackberries in pursuit, perhaps, of some prehistoric bone. Tyhee excavated a patch of grass and tunnelled beneath the porch with no apparent intent apart from a love of digging. When we moved them beside the garage, they proceeded to scoop out great potholes in the gravel driveway.

We were making good progress on our preparations, locating much of the materials and information right in the immediate area. Harnesses would obviously be a most important item for a winter of dog mushing, so finding or making these was high on our list of priorities. We wanted to have a reliable, simple style that would be suitable for freighting large loads.

Essentially, there were two main styles of draught gear for dogs used in the North: collar harness and siwash harness. The collar harness was essentially a scaled-down model of draught horse harnessing. It was the standard for working teams when the important factor was power, not speed. The teams that had transported the mails, for example, would have hauled massive loads through the worst conditions. Gold Rush era stories tell of travellers waiting at roadhouses after a big snowstorm for the mail team to come through and break trail to the next settlement. The dogs of those yarns were huge beasts, part Malemute, crossed with Saint Bernard, Labrador, Newfoundlander and wolf, outfitted in padded collars and tandem traces. The Mounted Police dog teams used these collar harnesses as well.

The more commonly-seen style over the few years I’d spent in the North was the lighter siwash harness. This version was made of nylon or cotton webbing – crossed around the dog’s body and padded lightly across the chest. All the racing teams used these, and an increasing number of trappers too. The dogs had greater freedom of movement in siwash harnesses, which was important for running a race, though the consensus I’d gathered was that this gear was not suitable for heavy freighting.

When I first started to train Casey as a pup, I sewed him a siwash from pieces of lampwick and seatbelt webbing. I learned hardly anyone was building their own siwashes any more, because it was almost as cheap to mail-order them ready-made.

How could we order harnesses if we don’t know the sizes of the other dogs we’re going to get? Marsha wanted to know. These order forms have blanks for a half-dozen measurements.

I’d rather try collar-type freighting harnesses this winter, I suggested, though I haven’t been able to locate a supplier. The demand seems to have dropped to the point that cobblers aren’t making them any more. I guess they’re all concentrating on making horse gear now.

My affliction for things traditional was coming out again. I’d envisioned dogs transporting us on extended camping trips. The loads were bound to be heavy and the trails unpacked. I had one old collar harness I’d brought back from the Yukon years ago and we took this to a cobbler in Coombs, near Qualicum, to get a quote on having harnesses custom made. His price, for cutting, forming, stitching and stuffing the collars, and sewing all the traces, including the cost of all materials, was a very reasonable $40 per harness if we helped with some of the labour. But having so little money, we decided to make them ourselves, using scrounged leather and straw. The process turned out to be neither quick nor simple. If we’d known in advance what all was entailed, we’d surely have borrowed money and taken the cobbler up on his offer.

For a collar pattern, I consulted library books on horse harness making, thinking we could simply scale down their patterns. In the meantime, Marsha had gingerly taken apart the ancient collar to see how it had been assembled. The leather and straw had, over its history, absorbed the odours of goodness knows how many sled dogs; when released, the stench was overpowering. We retreated while Tyhee wagged her tail in appreciation.

Our final collars would be made of tanned leather which was stitched to a thin steel rod and stuffed with oat straw. One saddlery text opined that rye straw was the ultimate, but we settled on oat straw we scythed from a sympathetic farmer’s field. [For step-by-step instructions, please see Appendix I.]

For traces, we substituted nylon webbing for the leather strapping used in previous eras. We would leave the tugs and backbands to measure and stitch later when we had all the dogs in front of us. [For diagrams, see Appendix I.]

We had acquired all the materials and were fumbling with a glover’s needle and pliers to stitch the first collar, when Dad’s fishing buddy dropped in for a surprise inspection. Colonel Norm Jeffries surveyed the situation and called for a halt.

That’s not how you do it! he roared. You bring that collar over to my house at four o’clock and I’ll show you how it is done.

When I arrived, Col. Jeffries had located his father’s sewing kit and was ready to demonstrate the two-needle method of stitching leather. His father was a harness maker in the British Army and later served in the Mounted Police.

This is the proper way to sew, Col. Jeffries declared. If one of the threads breaks, the second will hold.

Note the contoured shape of the left collar – reminiscent of a draught-horse’s harness – while the right one is what we referred to as donut-shaped.

He lent us the kit to work with, and I found the antique awl and knee vise a joy to work with. A faster, easier method of stitching heavy leather or webbing would have been to use a sewing awl, which makes a running stitch like a sewing machine. With this latter method, however, both threads may come loose if one breaks.

I had barely mastered proper two-needle form, when my grandfather heard what we were up to. He showed up with a glover’s palm to use instead of a thimble. Then he produced some pig bristles and bees wax to demonstrate how a real purist stitches. Leatherworkers shunned needles for centuries, preferring to form the bristle into the thread to make a stiff end for poking through the hole made by an awl. After an educational, but frustrating hour rolling bristles and linen thread on my thigh, I decided we’d better settle on being half-pure if the collars were ever to get finished.

Traces would have to take a lot of wear and tear, being constantly flexed and strained, twisted and turned. They would get dragged through slush and dog doo, rubbed against trees, urinated on and gnawed. We were not too confident about the light nylon webbing we were using, for it was even thin enough to be sewn on Mom’s sewing machine. Marsha sat for hours measuring all the lengths of webbing, pinning them together, and stitching them at the places that didn’t have to wait for a custom measurement. She was rubbing her fingers raw on the traces while I was getting blisters from pushing the awl and yanking on the thread to make the collars.

Maybe we should have mail-ordered the other type, sighed Marsha.

Yeah, but think of the specialized technical training you’re getting, I kidded. And there’s no tuition charge.

We had the saddlery business down pat by the end of the month, but only three harnesses actually finished. The partially assembled traces were in a spaghetti-like tangle, stored in an empty kennel box on the trailer. The straw rolls and leather were kept handy, in case there was a dull moment during the long safari ahead of us. Marsha had already penned names on the first three completed harnesses.

This one’s for Tyhee Maquillée, she announced grandly, draping it over her German Shepherd and Siberian Husky cross. The puppy had filled out considerably and now weighed fifty-five pounds. She would never get too big, though, because her growth had been stunted by the strain of carrying puppies from her first heat.

Tyhee’s long nose and skinny tail would set her apart in any gathering of northern dogs, but she had the necessary thick coat and big paws. Around her eyes were patches of tan which had given rise to her fancy surname, Maquillée, a French word meaning a female who wears make-up.

Loki, you old mongrel, come try this on, I called when Marsha pulled out the second harness. You’ve seen a freight collar before, I’m told.

Loki was a gift to us from friends who were building a ferro-cement fishing boat near Courtenay. Mel Hart and Laurie Murray had Loki as combination pet and watchdog while construction was under way, but now the Lamplighter III was almost finished. Soon they would be heading out to sea and would have no room on board for the dog. Mel said a previous owner had used Loki in harness in the Cassiar, B.C. area, so we were glad to have acquired a veteran. When we’d gone to the boatworks to fetch him, Marsha had mistaken Loki’s fuzziness and lopsided grin for teddy bear friendliness. When she mussed his fur and playfully wrestled his head, Loki suddenly roared and snapped at her face. Marsha stumbled back out of his chain’s reach and we surveyed the damage: two bruise marks on her forehead and two at her jaw line. I turned my attention to Loki: he was lying down meekly, knowing he had made a horrific mistake. I reprimanded him, determined he remember not to get rough with us humans. He’d impressed upon us not to let down our guard with huskies.

Loki was a much-scarred and sturdy-looking dog, about Casey’s height. He weighed about five pounds more than Tyhee and the same amount less than Casey. He and Casey growled a lot the first two days together before settling down as comrades, with Casey apparently the alpha male of this pack of three.

Casey and I had been together for five years, since I acquired him as a pup in Whitehorse. He had some experience in harness, mostly from pulling a small toboggan behind me when I first tried winter camping and travelling on cross-country skis. For the record, Casey had actually run in the Sourdough Rendezvous races one year while being dog-sat by my buddy, Jon Rudolph. Jon had assembled a gang of borrowed pets and strays just to try the sport. At the starting line, the announcer described these dogs as, "—not really Malamutes, not really Siberian Huskies. Ah, let’s call them just friends."

Casey would be a good choice for a silly team. Almost all sled dogs are black and white, with a few dogs showing some brown or beige markings. My pet was bright orange with white trim, and clownish in demeanour. Somewhere he’d picked up a nickname of The Poofer.

Here’s your collar to try on, Poofer, Marsha called to Casey. He rolled on his back to suggest he’d rather have his tummy scratched. Marsha laughed and shook her head, saying, Some lead dog you are going to be!

Indeed, unless we could buy an already-trained leader in the Yukon, Casey the Poofer would have to be the first dog in my team. He appeared to lack a winner’s driving determination, but could understand a few basic commands and would do in a pinch. I had hopes Tyhee would have the temperament to lead Marsha’s team, because we had decided two teams would be better than one. This would allow us to take more equipment and supplies on long winter camping trips. Since we could anticipate having up to a dozen dogs between the two squads, there were still nine collars to be stitched. My blistered fingers ached at the thought.

* * *

Chapter Three: And away we go…

My parents returned just in time to see us off. We had the cavalcade stretched out on the street, with Valerie the blue Valiant lined up in front of our homely truck-and-trailer rig. Marsha would be driving the car as far as Victoria for delivery to its new owner, our friend Barry Barlow. All our worldly possessions were tucked somewhere into the canvas-covered mountain on the trailer or crammed under the canoes on the half-ton pick-up. Why we were taking the canoes no one was quite sure, but they added a finishing touch, like a top hat to a tuxedo. I had been carting these two battered canoes around the country for so long that a move just wouldn’t have seemed right without them.

The kennel boxes were crowded on the trailer with barely space to open the ten compartment doors. Taking advantage of every available nook and cranny, we had stuffed supplies in all but three of the little rooms. Now came the dogs’ chance to try out their travelling quarters. With Mom’s camera clicking, we proudly walked Casey, Tyhee and Loki from their excavation sites to the trailer.

They were dubious. Tyhee jumped into the back of the pick-up truck, while Casey made it clear he would prefer to sit in the driver’s seat. Loki crawled under the trailer.

Aw, come on, you guys, I pleaded with them. You’re spoiling a very dramatic moment.

One by one, we manhandled the reluctant canines into their boxes. Loki gave us a scare when he bared his teeth and snapped at Marsha, but he submitted meekly after I cuffed him on the snout. It was disturbing to think about introducing nine strange dogs to this routine; our own pets were hard enough to manage.

You’d better stop at a butcher and stock up on bones to make those compartments more enticing, Dad suggested.

Good idea, I said, as I gave him a good-bye hug.

The neighbours were peeking out their windows, no doubt relieved we were finally leaving. To us, the feeling was more one of disbelief. We had been planning and working so hard to make this moment possible, and the departure time was finally here.

Mom gasped, ran into the house and, a moment later, reappeared with a shopping bag. She handed it to Marsha and gave her a kiss. I almost forgot, Mom said, indicating the contents. I packed you a lunch. Just some sandwiches to snack on. And some biscuits for the dogs.

I drove slowly down the street, watching the trailer in the wide outside mirrors to see how it would behave. In those reflectors, I could see Mom and Dad waving and smiling. I felt the sadness that comes with departures, and my eyes misted over.

They certainly will have a few things to remember us by, I thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment as an image of the dogs’ diggings flashed into my mind. What didn’t occurred to me then was another reminder we’d overlooked in our cleanup. Come the rains of January, hundreds of oat seeds from the straw we’d cut for the collar stuffing would be uncurling their first leaves and growing up through the gravel driveway.

The metal rims on Marsha’s sunglasses are taped so they won’t freeze to her cheek skin when she’s out in the extreme cold.

We slept that night in Victoria, the Garden City, at Barry’s home. The dogs were tethered out in the trees of a vacant lot next door to his apartment building. The condominiums towering overhead must have intimidated these country dogs, because they settled down immediately, each curling into a furry ball to sleep beside his or her water pan.

On the ferry crossing to Vancouver they were, by contrast, excited and noisy. We chained them to various parts of the truck to allow them a chance to stretch and breathe after the confinement of their kennels. Each had a ham bone for entertainment, and fresh water.

As Casey paced at his chain’s end, we realized the effect the dogs were having on the other passengers. The heavy chains, thick collars, shaggy fur, powerful teeth pulverizing the large bones, the manner in which Casey and Loki strutted for any audience, all combined to make them appear bigger and wilder and curiously savage for this inter-city passage. They were drawing a crowd.

Then an unsuspecting pensioner ambled up with a miniature poodle in tow. He had barely said, Look, Tiger, when our dogs spotted his little pet. All three lunged forward with fangs flashing. Terrifying growls echoed off the steel hull, while their jerking rocked the truck on its springs.

The poor man looked as if he’d have gladly jumped overboard if he could have freed himself from the leash tangled around his ankles. But Tiger was made of sterner stuff. He growled right back at Casey. Then, demonstrating a mastery of the art of taunting, the bold little pooch peed on a car tire inches outside of Casey’s chain radius. That done, he walked defiantly away, jittery owner in tow.

Next time I checked on the dogs, my orange pet was still straining to sniff that tire. Tiger was small, but he wasn’t dumb.

By nightfall, we’d gone only as far as Haney, where we pulled into a camp-ground, our nerves frazzled. Driving the ungainly load through city traffic had been no picnic. Tomorrow we’d get a taste of the open road. That is, tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…. At reasonable speeds, and barring breakdowns, we had over fifty hours of driving ahead of us to reach Whitehorse.

There is one aspect of the journey I’m looking forward to right now, Marsha muttered as we scurried about in the headlights’ glare to set up our tent. As we drive northward, we’ll be getting out of this soggy coastal climate! Staying that rainy night in Haney was like camping inside a car wash.

We left southern B.C. in late September, and had the highways largely to ourselves. The summer tourist traffic had long since gone home.

Autumn seemed synonymous with harvest on the fertile Fraser River valley and a time for late haying in the golden Cariboo region. Yet as we passed out of the Bulkley Valley near Hazelton and touched the first gravel roads, we became progressively more aware of the desolation of this season in the North. Leaves had long ago quit the deciduous trees and the colourful roadside displays of wild roses and fireweed existed only on the guidebook covers. The country was shrouded in drabness, mourning the loss of summer or, perhaps, dreading the approach of winter. One could sense a desperation in the air.

The days were getting noticeably shorter as the latitude increased. Darkness would descend like a dense curtain. There was no snow yet to mirror the starlight and no moon this week. Only the eerie, beautiful flicker of Northern Lights distracted us from the hypnotizing swath of Furd’s high beams sweeping over the endless gravel ahead. The spruce trees and rock bluffs flashed by on either side like disjoint rushes of a movie. Where ground water was undermining the roadbed, we crawled along at 10 miles per hour, weaving around deep ruts and mush-holes. At one point, our headlights illuminated the ancient wreckage of two eighteen-wheelers that had underestimated this highway and become their own burnt, twisted memorials.

When we were both too cross-eyed and dizzy to continue, we’d pull off and camp in a gravel pit or at a picnic area, sleeping on a tarp beside the truck, under a heap of sleeping bags, blankets and stars. The nights were nose-nipping cold and clear. The fabled northern mosquito and black fly slept deep in the muskeg moss to arise only when the sun was high overhead and our dust-caked vehicle had resumed its journey.

By now, we wouldn’t have minded a few rainstorms. On and on through the dust we drove. Being passed by another traveller was a nerve-shattering event. Each vehicle threw up a billowing beige cloud of fine dust which hung in the still air like dirty cotton candy. For seconds after a truck swept by, we would be driving blind, trusting only that the road was clear for the next hundred yards until visibility was restored. Everyone had their headlights turned on night and day, trying to minimize the chances of a head-on collision in the blind moments.

The powdery, flour-like dust found its way into the cab from under the floorboards, around the windows, even through cracks in the dashboard. Though dust was settling democratically in our every pore, the discomfort we felt inside the truck must have been slight compared to what the poor dogs were enduring. Dust clouds almost hid the trailer and its kennels from view, no doubt coating their lungs with the same brown layer that the cargo wore. While we had the truck suspension and seat springs to cushion the bumps, there was only a bit of straw on the kennel floor to absorb the constant jarring for them.

We’ve got to do something, Marsha insisted on the second day since leaving pavement. Those dogs will hate us if we keep this up.

What are our choices? I asked. They won’t all fit in the cab with us, and the back of the truck is full. If they stand on top of the canoes, one of them will probably fall off and get killed.

We could always move one of the two kennel boxes forward to the back of the truck. It is less dusty there.

And move all that’s in the truck box onto the trailer? Do you know how long that would take?

By the next gravel pit, she had me convinced and we pulled off to start the tedious transfer of dirty equipment. Fortunately, we’d planned ahead and any food or delicate items were well wrapped in airtight bundles of plastic or canvas. We trusted that the contents of these grimy sacks were still clean.

Having moved the boxes, I thought our kennel problems were over for a while, when Casey created a new challenge. He chewed the plywood around the little breathing hole in his door until the opening was just large enough to get his head out, but not back in without hurting his ears. He set up a terrible racket, and the more he struggled, the worse he impaled himself on the jagged edges of the gnawed hole. At length, after many calming words, interspersed with the odd threat when we got impatient with him, Casey’s head was back in the box and I could repair the door, while Marsha checked his ears for external injury.

The best temporary solution I could