Danny Glenn Journey of the Heart

           Three years ago my mother, daughter and I went to Nome to watch the finish of Iditarod. I guess lines from Shakespeare describe what happened best; “The eyes say what the lips fear to speak”. I looked into the eyes of the mushers and their team and thought…man, where have you been and wherever you’ve been, I need to go there’. Nature, one of the wild adventurous places like the spirit in all of us has always been my best friend, a place I go to find comfort and solace. I feel right there.
            I realized that Iditarod for me at fifty would be an ultimate challenge, but I am attracted to what seems to be primitive and raw. When I’m out there in the wilderness I think about how nature and its’ wilds have been inspiration to humankind since the beginning of time, and I’m constantly amazed by the grip it has on the imagination, and its’ power to enrich the human spirit.
            So I made a commitment to lease a team from 25-year Iditarod veteran, John Barron. The first year I could not run dogs much because I was chair of the Madison Civics Club, had to sell my business, get my twins settled into college and get things in order at home to prepare for my absence. I also had to begin a self-prescribed intensive regimen of weight training, running and biking for the demands that lie ahead. In October, 2005 I left the comforts of home and moved to Montana into a cabin with no electricity or running water. As I approached the runway in Missoula, the closest major city, I could see the familiar switchbacks in the face of the mountains, cut in by time and progress – switchbacks I use to get up to my cabin.
            When I step off the plane I’m acutely aware of the change in my surrounding; cowboy hats instead of Packer caps, and the wild décor of elk and grizzly mark a clear distinction from Madison’s mantra of gun control. I gather up my gear and head for the hunter’s butcher shop to retrieve the seven tubs of bloody meat I’ve pre-arranged to pick up; antelope, caribou, moose, elk, white tail…it really didn’t matter that the blood spilled over into my truck bed and onto my luggage, that’s just the way it is, my life now a peculiar dichotomy. I watched my hands transform into mushers’ hands, dried blood and ‘dog’ that permeates the skin, calluses that formed on my palms, and the tell-tale dark ring that circumvents the nail bed. I left my manicured nails back in Wisconsin and I’ve got one heck of a handshake now from the hours I spent clutching my driving bow.
            As soon as I get the meat I take my old four-wheel drive, attach the trailer, fill the propane and gas tanks that I had taken down the mountain and left to re-fill – just getting up and down the mountain is an arduous journey. I purchase perishable food to re-stock the cabin, and drive about forty minutes to the base of the mountain. I put on my winter gear, get the chains out, kneel down to finesse the chains on; I had never done that before either; drive part way, then walk with snowshoes until I get to the place where I’ve hidden my snowmobile in the woods. It’s always stressful wondering whether or not I’ll be able to get it started; once I had to wait in my car for seven hours until help arrived. I keep emergency equipment in my truck for days like that. Another time I slid and came way too close to a sheer drop off. I threw the shifter into park, got out on the passenger side and walked the rest of the way, several miles through a shortcut in the woods. It’s usually dark by the time I begin the ascent; I have a headlamp on, over-gear, lined boots, matches, hand-warmers, a knife and .44 in my pocket. The trail is ten miles straight up. It can be narrow and icy with steep and challenging inclines. Once the cotter pin came out of the Otter I had attached to my snowmobile, and it slid downhill a few miles dumping my provisions as it went. That wasn’t my best day.
            The closer I get to the cabin this special feeling overwhelms me. I feel excited to hug my dogs, happiness, freedom – contentment.   When I round the last corner I can’t get off my snowmobile fast enough. I throw myself at their feet and hug every one of ‘em. Being late by the time I get there, I don’t prepare any of the meat just yet, but cover it up with a tarp so the ravens don’t scatter it, gather up an armload of wood, build a fire in the cabin and settle in for the night. As I lay there, I can see the silent silhouettes of the mountains that show themselves through my window – a breathtaking real-life painting.
            In the morning my dogs begin singing to wake me up at dawn. I dress quickly in arctic gear because it’s cold in the cabin and I’ll be outside at least fourteen hours. I start a fire in this large old barrel, take an ax to break apart the frozen meat, put it into a large metal pot, add snow and attend to my dogs, rubbing feet, brushing, cleaning the lot. I maul wood while the meat is cooking and stack it for later. I have to keep a fire going eight hours a day. This process for me, although physically challenging at fifty, in theory is quite simple…I often think how truly simple the cycle is…I mean, I use a tree to keep warm leaving the earth to harvest another; I melt snow to stay hydrated, then squat and give it back to the earth. A designer once said, “Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are”. Interesting concept, isn’t it?
            After morning chores are as complete as I have time for – work is never done. I get ready for a run. At the start of the season I was given sixteen dog houses and sixteen dogs and told, “welp, there you go!” I was on my own to try to emulate what I had seen the year before, that’s it. Nothing like being completely immersed in situations that force me to think. But it had to be that way so I’d learn independence with my team and instinctive techniques that would become routine so when I was exhausted, dehydrated and sleep deprived, I could still survive and take care of my dogs. The Barrons were there to answer questions, but most of the time I felt I did not know enough to ask questions. So anyway, I make a path through the snow to a shed I use to keep kindling dry, store harnesses, line and tools, and I take my harnesses and lines over to my sled. I dump the sled over to get the snow out of my sled bag, check the drag, a piece of snowmobile tread I have below the break, and secure my line with a carabineer, then continue the process of hooking up. My dogs at this point, having seen their gear are screaming and jumping in crazed anticipation. Boy, how do I paint this picture with words? I have a strategy for which dogs I get first depending on their personality. One of my most shy dogs for instance who seems like she startles when a snowflake hits her nose, turns into this Hulk-like creature when I start hooking her up. The closer I get to pulling the hook and leaving, the more extreme they get. I take my coat off before I start harnessing because I work up such a sweat, especially if I have to put booties on. I leave it on the driving bow because when I’m ready to let loose of the coupler that holds my leaders, I better be ready to grab and hang on tight. I yank the rip chord, pull the snow hook and I’m literally propelled out of the lot.
            I was out on the trail early one morning, the snow was particularly heavy and we were breaking trail most of the way. I have great leaders who can maneuver the mightiest of cornices, drifts so high I can’t even see my wheel dogs, they’re the dogs that are tethered closest to the sled. Dodging trees I try to get them to slow down by standing on the break and giving a verbal command to ‘easy, easy’ – it works some of the time! We gee and haw about five miles at the beginning of the season until we’ve built up to about ninety miles a day. They’re incredible, these athletes; when they’re in top condition they love to run like this, at a joyful pace and never want to stop. When I do take a break, they start popping up like popcorn, pulling and tugging to go more.
            So, we’re still on our run, tree branches occasionally whipping me in the face, getting snow down my back, but somehow it’s fun and addicting. Often I see deer tracks and once in an area that looks like the Black Forest, a large horned buck jumped right in front of me; I turned my head, and there was an entire herd like statues in the trees. Once before the snow, there were grizzly bear paw prints, and a moose sauntering his way through the sage brush. Down a steep ravine I notice the dogs seem distracted, I'm always alert to the slightest change in gate or demeanor. One of my dogs darts. I instinctively grab the snow hook and drop it while simultaneously stomping on the break , pulling up on the driving bow and giving the verbal command to “whoa”. But in this instance it was too late. I was smack dab in the middle of an elk herd. Every day is a new story. I used to wonder when I’d get good enough to have an uneventful run, but I counseled myself not to look for that day, because in dog mushing that day will never come. The dogs make it look easy.
            I continue on my run with the all-too-familiar hairpin turn and my dogs cut it too close. I’m up to my chest in a snowdrift and I can’t get out. I can’t let go of my team either. I tore my rotator cuff that day, and while my body was draped over the sled I’m thinking I’m too stupid to run Iditarod. Then I laugh to myself thinking, ‘ah, stupidity is probably a prerequisite’! The dogs on the uphill finally stop, looking back at me with eyes that seem to say, “You’re pathetic”. But you see, at this moment I pause and realize that all of life is made significant just by the struggle. There is beauty all around me, and I take those moments to cherish it. The scent of the pine greets the mountain air and I swear I am lifted halfway to heaven. I say, take a chance and howl at the moon. So beautiful, the symbiotic relationship I have with my dogs in that we both love what we do and need each other to do it. It feels good being part of something wild and free; it’s what makes us human beings, I think. It speaks to the deepest need of the human heart – the sense of belonging and mystery and dreaming dreams.
            Being raised in the Northwoods, I have been coronated with a love for the great outdoors, a part of me that cries out to be one with it. As a descendant of William H. Seward, I’ve always had a fascination about the Alaskan wilderness and the brave explorers who through their ‘pioneering spirit’ embarked on journeys that would change our future. I think all of us affect social awareness and change. I believe it’s all about what you do with what you’ve been given. Through words and deeds we can give hope and direction to the world. That’s why I’ve chosen to separate my race into seven frontier divides, each honoring individuals who have moved and inspired others to a better place. I believe when you are on a journey, it’s never easy, but if the focus is on something outside of yourself, wonderful things can happen.
            There are many challenges I’ll face running Iditarod, but I’m driven to complete my mission. I celebrate this great land of ours, ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave’. I can express who I am and I’m free! Hope, faith and love are what I’m about. My strength is my compassion. I get my ‘iron will’ from my parents, my hope from the faces of children, and the love in my heart from God. Good luck on all of your journeys. Happy trails! Love, Deb “Danny” Glenn.