There is a Season

Hey folks. This post has been a long time coming, but to tell you the truth, I’ve been so heartsore about it, I couldn’t bring myself to put proverbial pen to paper.

I want to wax poetic– I want to put off even saying it, as much as I can– but I know that’s just dragging things out.

After nine short, fast years, ATAO Kennel is hanging up the hat.

At least, it’s retiring– we’re retiring– from the OG format, where our dream was running long-distance sled dog races across Alaska and the Yukon.

How did the time go so fast?

We have been lucky– blessed by the fates, and by you all, and so many other supporters and helpers and teammates. We’ve gotten to do many good, solid races, near and far. Some of us who swore they’d never mush have not only raced, but placed better than any other ATAO team! We’ve gotten to have adventures we never would have dreamed about. We ran Iditarod!!! We did it! And maybe what I’m most proud of, we’ve built a home for a pack of our teammates that provided joy, comfort, love, play, and RUNNING.

I’ll be honest: this is not how I expected things to go. Five of the nine years, for me, Will, have been spent trying to get back on the runners.

When Shawn and I started ATAO, it was with the agreement and idea that we’d raise one generation of sled dogs. Once they retired, once the team had run onto the trail ahead, we’d maybe move somewhere with more moss and ferns, or travel overseas, or who knew what. It only took a couple years with these dogs for us both to look at each other and say, “I don’t know what I’d do without mushing. Without sled dogs.” We made plans for new litter names. We built and anticipated and loved our dogs and loved the lifestyle, and loved the years of that ahead.

Then I ran Iditarod. And it was incredible. It was indelible. I’ve been releasing, on the slowest schedule ever, a podcast with recordings of my time on the trail. You haven’t gotten to hear, yet, the end of the race. The hour + where I so effusively talk about what’s next. About how the experience was perfect training for the next go round.

Mushers talk a lot about races or experiences as training runs. This was, for me, a perfect training run.

But the truth is, it was not a training run: it was the race. The only race. The only one I’d get.

Whatever happened, for whatever reason, twelve hours after I crossed the finish line, I began a totally different journey. A journey of doctor’s offices, x-rays, scans, blood tests, and perpetually inconclusive results.

My body is altered. My capabilities are altered.

It’s really hard to go into the details of this, because it’s all so… Nebulous. I gaslight myself ad naseum. Am I really feeling pain when I grip a fork? Am I really as exhausted as my body is saying? Those things seem within my control– But after Iditarod, when the symptoms reared their head, I wanted to be as cautious and intentional as I could. I was already ready to start the training for the next race, and I knew part of that training would be taking care of myself in ways I’d never successfully done. And part of that would be navigating the gauntlet of the medical system to try to figure out what was wrong, get it better, and get mushing.

But that didn’t happen.

For four years, I tried to listen to my body, and I persisted against the void of answers. I persisted in tests, in plans, in the massive executive function of advocating for myself (when I, myself, am my greatest detractor). Last year, I came to the conclusion that I may never know what, exactly, is wrong with my body. But I also came to the conclusion that if I could do many of the hard things I’ve done in my life, I could mush through this pain and exhaustion.

So this last year, I tried.

I’m proud of myself in how I tried. Maybe. I feel that as I type it, and I also feel an immediate shame for feeling proud. I don’t know– that’s the mental element of it. Which is so real too, and so overwhelming. Shame for missing the next Iditarod. Shame for missing every one after that. Shame for my capability, or lack thereof. Shame for letting people down.

This past winter, I pushed. I pushed against my body and my mind, and I did get on the runners. I also adjusted; I reduced my bull-headedness. I made myself a seat for the sled. (The difference in exhaustive cost with or without a seat is shocking, btw. Even when just sitting on the seat for a few minutes every hour, I could tell a huge difference.) And I got further than I’d gone. Since finishing Iditarod, up til this winter, the longest I’d mushed was about six miles. This past winter, I did a 40 miler. It was incredible. It was beautiful. It also took me out for more than a week. Whatever I’m dealing with, the cost after is immense.

Sleep deprivation is an old friend of mushers. We understand it intimately. You know what hallucinations look like, how you blink and blink and they don’t go away. How sharp the need to sleep is. How crazy you feel.

The exhaustion that I get, that I deal with now, is very different from that. Instead of sharpness, instead of a balance where you could simply fall asleep at any second, instead of even nausea or hallucinations, the fatigue I deal with now is slow, heavy, perpetual. It is like the nightmare where you move like you’re stuck in molasses. Everything is slow. Everything is weighted. And then in a crash, there is no negotiation. You sleep.

I found that if I mushed, I crashed for about a week. So I could mush about once a week, and I had to expect a steep cost after.

And what I also found was that being out there, being on the runners, I felt no joy. I felt pain. I felt cold. I felt irritated, like there was a piece of straw in one of my under layers, and I couldn’t get it out. I was bitter. I was despairing. I was unhappy. I could not find the drive that had gotten me through all the other pain and toughness and exhaustion before Iditarod, leading to Iditarod. I could not find the desire in my chest for it.

One run, as I was trying to be mindful, as I was trying to remember joy, as I was trying to ignore pain, as I was trying to be here now– I said to myself: my heart isn’t in it.

And that is the worst thing of all.

That is why I feel so much shame, so much guilt that I have let down a community that supported me and the team; that I let down the dogs.

I remind myself that the dogs have gotten to run, gotten to race, gotten to play and live and be loved.

They are old now. Last year was the last real chance to have run Iditarod with any of the core crew. Even the “puppies” are five now. How did that happen?

But the window has closed, now. The window for Iditarod. For Iditarod with this crew, with this team. With this body, at least.

And the truth is, while it’s been a joy to see folks like Sarah and Fiona and Shawn race and travel and learn, it’s also been really tough for me. My heart isn’t in it, but it’s like that wasn’t a choice. I want me heart to be in it. And I want mushing to be possible for more than little glimpses, for me.

And the other truth is that through all of this, I have been the caretaker, because even if you can’t mush a team, you must still feed them, care for them, tend to them. For five years, I’ve continued tending, and it has worn my body down. The cold, the dark, the hours. The work.

Some of the dogs are not retirement age. They deserve to be able to run. It’s what they love to do. A few years ago, many of the team went to the brand new kennel Waylon’s Way, where they are thriving. It’s beautiful to see. It’s heartwrenching to miss. We’re at the juncture now where we’re looking for good places for our team that still have miles to go. Maynard and Boomer joined Elmer with Waylon’s Way. Kenna is the one who taught Maynard to lead, and she was especially excited to have him join their team. Freddy is the last of the nicknames litter who is still here. Nala is down in Wisconsin with Shawn’s brother, and Squeak and R2 are with Shawn’s parents. (They joke that they are ATAO 2.0!)

Here at the kennel, we have some retirees:

Zenny, who retired early when she started having seizures. She’s on meds and living, truly, her best life. She is a strange and silly girl and a perfect candidate to be slightly high all the time. She loves playing with everyone.

Emmy, who lives in the main house. Shawn says that we live in Emmy’s house, and that we’re just here to offer her things if she wants them. She loves the couches. She hates visitors. She also loves the back yard with her comfy dog house where she suns all day long. She killed a grouse this spring and seemingly ate it. We only found feathers.

Egret stays in the main house a lot until she decides she wants to be in a dog house and moves to the yard. We leave the decision to her– when she goes to the main house, she stays there, when she goes to a dog house, she stays there. She can’t jump onto a house quite as easily, but she still zoomies around with all her heart.

Annie has developed a deep love for specific dog beds. She is the oldest old lady now, going on 13! Her back end is still pretty disconnected from her front end, but she is also still loving life. She needs help hopping over the gate threshold of a play pen, but once she’s in she’s gonna chase her favorite friends. She is a special, perfect girl and loving her well-deserved retirement.

Furiosa also has a back issue, and seems to have developed an allergy to straw. She stays in a fancy pen or in the house. I love her so much. She’s nine and definitely doesn’t think she should be done mushing, but she can’t pull any more without aggravating her injuries. She gets to play all day (she’s a great and favorite playmate for most of the groups). If I were to find a good place for her to be a dedicated retired pet, I’d jump on it. She deserves not just couch time but also a lot of one-on-one attention.

Rey is not completely retired, but pretty close. She can run and lead all the live long day, but she’s developed a chronic bronchitis that is acerbated by cold. She is one of the most loving of all of our dogs (which is really saying something), and quickly becomes a favorite with visitors because she just puts her whole body weight into leaning against you and begging you for pets. She stays inside when it’s colder than 0, but she’s gotten grumpy with some of the other dogs. She can be a bit of a jerk when it comes to things like the best couch or place to lay, and while Emmy will tolerate her, she definitely feels less at ease. If we found a good home for Rey– maybe with someone who skijors or bikejors– or even just a pet kind of home– we’d jump on that too.

Belle came back to us from Waylon’s Way when she officially retired. We also got to hang out with Aurora for a lot of the summer. We really, really missed those girls. Belle is as goofy as ever and ready to bully everyone into playing with her. She gets to be loose a lot of the time, and hangs out in the house when we’re with her, but she has some incontinence so she doesn’t get to be inside 100% of the time. More on that later.

The dogs who still run, who are with us, are:

Astro
Cassidy
Cowboy
Freddy
Goose
Link
Maverick
Ophelia
Potato
Rebel
Rogue

Cassidy, Rebel, Rogue, and Ophelia are getting up there in age. Ophelia is 10 and the other three are nine. Maverick, Link, and Goose are all seven (!!!). Even young Potato is now three!!!

We’re talking to some mushers doing tours this winter who may take some of the crew on to fill out their team. The real goal is to find good forever homes for these guys. Some of them have their spots on our couch ready for them (Ophelia and Rebel for sure). Some have some irons in the fire.

When we started the kennel, my dream was that we could host all of the dogs into their dotage. And the next iteration of ATAO is certainly as a retirement home in some degree, for as many of the ATAO crew as we can host. And, a truth I learned along the way of this journey is that if you find a good situation for one of your teammates, you take it. Jovi went to Aidan (of Waylon’s Way)’s mom down in Wisconsin. She is living her absolute best life. She is being doted on. She is given all of the attention of her humans. She is so deservedly loved. I want that for as many of our crew as is possible.

So what happens now for ATAO?

We are looking for the best spots for the dogs. We currently have 18 sled dogs, plus Oli and Huck. I want to get the number of dogs that I’m caring for down to 10. That will let me maximize space, time, exercise, and attention for the veterans of the trail.

Then what?

I’m not sure. After finally making the decision, the choice, the realization this spring that it’s time for ATAO as it has been to wind down, I felt a lot of grief, and a lot of relief, too. I thought about projects I want to do. Things I want to build and create. I thought about the option of traveling places. I thought about letting go of that pressure and shame.

ATAO transitions now to focusing on the best epilogue for every dog in our care, whether that’s as part of our little “retirement community” or getting to run as much as they want to and deserve, or becoming someone’s best bud (because any and all of these dogs would be perfect companions).

Patreon keeps the dogs fed right now, so while our four legged friends are here, I’ll continue to keep that open. To all the folks who have continued to support us: thank you. I know this era is not as thrilling as a big race like Iditarod, but the dogs are just as special as they ever were. I’ll strive to do better to share them with you. (I’m hoping being open about some of this will let me let go of some of the shame which has definitely contributed to the difficulty in posting.)

I have been creating a little album called “As I think” with pictures that come up in my featured photos, that span the too-short decade we’ve gotten.

Have I mentioned how grateful I am to have gotten such time? To have gotten to race at all? To have gotten to meet these particular dogs, and to have had the honor to be their teammate.

The change of life’s course is unexpected and in many ways hard– But I got to be part of this crew. I got to cover 800 miles of a race with them. I got to love them. There’s no greater privilege than that.