Two days ago after an emotionally rough day I got home to find a letter from my baby sister waiting for me. It wasn’t just a few lines on a card kind of letter either (although I do love those as well!), but a pages long epistle that detailed all her stories and adventures in school and life over the last several months. The last paragraph though was dedicated to me.
“You are strong! Don’t let that voice in your head tell you otherwise. It won’t be easy and you might end up taking a couple steps back at times. But just think about dog mushing. If you lose your team, what do you do? Do you give up? Nope, you get up and start walking down the trail after your team. Sometimes you find your team tangled on the trail, sometimes another musher stops your team for you, and sometimes a snowmachiner gives you a ride. So long as you keep fighting, you will beat this!”
Last winter on my last night home Tori took me out on a midnight mushing run. I mushed for years when I was younger, but in all that time I'd never been on the trails at night. A few months before going home I got it into my mind that a night run was an experience I had to make happen. I could tell Tori wasn't thrilled with the idea, she agreed we could do it and I am so unbelievably grateful that she did. It was so cool seeing my baby sister in her element; how she so effortlessly handled the dogs, the lines and the sled. I loved her complete ease out on the trail steering and calling out commands like she's done it all her life (which she almost has).
In the heart of winter, Alaska is one of the most magical places on earth. The snow hangs off the trees differently than anywhere else, the mountains stand tall and glow in the sunset, and at night the deep woods offer promises of fairytales come to life. It was dark that night, and the time of the new moon, so stars were our only natural light. We both had headlamps though, which allowed us to navigate the trails just fine. As we flew down the trail, we raced past tall trees and curtains of snows that sparkled in the light of our lamps. It was like the world was made of diamonds. The cold night air kissed my face, filled my breath, and made me feel freer and alive in a way few things ever have.
Overall we went about 18 miles and stopped to rest about halfway through. We checked all the dogs feet for cuts, put jackets on them, and gave them some frozen meat to eat. Once they were taken care of, we settled into the basket of the sled with a down sleeping bag over us and our lead dog Screamer curled up between us. We talked about life, and watched the night clouds fade in an out. I'd brought my camera and we spent a good 5-10 minutes trying to get a half decent picture of us (we somewhat succeeded). I was so warm, and comfortable, and happy that I felt I could stay there forever. I did actually almost fall asleep a couple of times, but eventually we did decide it was time to head home.
At one point on our way back we left the safety of the trees and ran along the frozen lake. The clouds that night couldn't quite make up their mind on whether they should be there or not, and had temporarily disappeared yet again. I looked up to see the Big Dipper bigger, brighter and closer than I’d ever seen it before and was completely overcome by the beauty of that moment, my life, and the world. That night will forever be one of my favorite memories.
I love, I so love, this new way Tori has given me to viewing my recovery. Right now it’s tough. My dogs are new to me, new to mushing, young, untrained, and kind of hate each other. We are making our way down the trail at a pace so slow it’s painful. Sometimes I have to get off the sled and walk; other times I need to just stop and take a break. Every once in a while I tip over and get dragged on my face for 3 miles. The trail itself is a mess, almost no snow, and full of rocks and ice. Trees stick out all over. Here and there a moose stands in the way. Most days feel like torture. There are times I do want to give up.
But when mushing you can't just give up and stop. Sure someone might come along and help you out, but they might not, and if you just sit there and wait well that's just an invitation to freeze to death, or starve to death, or get chased down by a moose and trampled to death etc... So you push on, and you keep practicing, keep training, and slowly - sometimes ridiculously at snail's pace slowly - the dogs start to get the hang of things. You start to find a smoother flow, the movements come easier, and the dogs become teammates instead of enemies. Your pace gets a little faster, you can go longer distances in one stretch, there are less tangles, less fights, less falling off the sled and losing your team all together. And then winter comes, snow falls, and the trail turns from hell into magic and before you know it you're flying.
Right now my recovery is like the early stages of a new dog team. The trail is my disorder trying to stop me at every turn. The dogs are the skills and coping methods I am trying so hard to develop. They do sometimes get tangled, the trail does often trip them up, so far I haven't fallen off and lost them completely (something I have actually done in real life with a dog sled team); hopefully, I never will but you never know. Right now I am still practicing and as long as I keep at it and don't give up, those dogs (my skills) will become strong enough to fly over any obstacle. And with time the disorder will become quieter, maybe even disappear completely, leading to a smooth, easy trail of dreams.
There is something else I get by being able to look at my recovery like I'm just out on another mushing run. I know from experience that some days you go out on the trail and everything about that run is perfect, and others you go out and nothing goes right. That is recovery. There are days that feel like hell, and others that are actually kind of ok. Now whenever I do tip the sled over or have to stop to break up another fight or come around a curve to find myself facing a moose (figuratively speaking that is), I can just think of that night a year ago and the happiness I felt then. I can remember how complete I felt, who whole I was, and know that I can find my way back to that again. I just have to keep treking down that trail!
“You are strong! Don’t let that voice in your head tell you otherwise. It won’t be easy and you might end up taking a couple steps back at times. But just think about dog mushing. If you lose your team, what do you do? Do you give up? Nope, you get up and start walking down the trail after your team. Sometimes you find your team tangled on the trail, sometimes another musher stops your team for you, and sometimes a snowmachiner gives you a ride. So long as you keep fighting, you will beat this!”
~~*~~*~~
Last winter on my last night home Tori took me out on a midnight mushing run. I mushed for years when I was younger, but in all that time I'd never been on the trails at night. A few months before going home I got it into my mind that a night run was an experience I had to make happen. I could tell Tori wasn't thrilled with the idea, she agreed we could do it and I am so unbelievably grateful that she did. It was so cool seeing my baby sister in her element; how she so effortlessly handled the dogs, the lines and the sled. I loved her complete ease out on the trail steering and calling out commands like she's done it all her life (which she almost has).
In the heart of winter, Alaska is one of the most magical places on earth. The snow hangs off the trees differently than anywhere else, the mountains stand tall and glow in the sunset, and at night the deep woods offer promises of fairytales come to life. It was dark that night, and the time of the new moon, so stars were our only natural light. We both had headlamps though, which allowed us to navigate the trails just fine. As we flew down the trail, we raced past tall trees and curtains of snows that sparkled in the light of our lamps. It was like the world was made of diamonds. The cold night air kissed my face, filled my breath, and made me feel freer and alive in a way few things ever have.
Overall we went about 18 miles and stopped to rest about halfway through. We checked all the dogs feet for cuts, put jackets on them, and gave them some frozen meat to eat. Once they were taken care of, we settled into the basket of the sled with a down sleeping bag over us and our lead dog Screamer curled up between us. We talked about life, and watched the night clouds fade in an out. I'd brought my camera and we spent a good 5-10 minutes trying to get a half decent picture of us (we somewhat succeeded). I was so warm, and comfortable, and happy that I felt I could stay there forever. I did actually almost fall asleep a couple of times, but eventually we did decide it was time to head home.
At one point on our way back we left the safety of the trees and ran along the frozen lake. The clouds that night couldn't quite make up their mind on whether they should be there or not, and had temporarily disappeared yet again. I looked up to see the Big Dipper bigger, brighter and closer than I’d ever seen it before and was completely overcome by the beauty of that moment, my life, and the world. That night will forever be one of my favorite memories.
~~*~~*~~
I love, I so love, this new way Tori has given me to viewing my recovery. Right now it’s tough. My dogs are new to me, new to mushing, young, untrained, and kind of hate each other. We are making our way down the trail at a pace so slow it’s painful. Sometimes I have to get off the sled and walk; other times I need to just stop and take a break. Every once in a while I tip over and get dragged on my face for 3 miles. The trail itself is a mess, almost no snow, and full of rocks and ice. Trees stick out all over. Here and there a moose stands in the way. Most days feel like torture. There are times I do want to give up.
But when mushing you can't just give up and stop. Sure someone might come along and help you out, but they might not, and if you just sit there and wait well that's just an invitation to freeze to death, or starve to death, or get chased down by a moose and trampled to death etc... So you push on, and you keep practicing, keep training, and slowly - sometimes ridiculously at snail's pace slowly - the dogs start to get the hang of things. You start to find a smoother flow, the movements come easier, and the dogs become teammates instead of enemies. Your pace gets a little faster, you can go longer distances in one stretch, there are less tangles, less fights, less falling off the sled and losing your team all together. And then winter comes, snow falls, and the trail turns from hell into magic and before you know it you're flying.
Right now my recovery is like the early stages of a new dog team. The trail is my disorder trying to stop me at every turn. The dogs are the skills and coping methods I am trying so hard to develop. They do sometimes get tangled, the trail does often trip them up, so far I haven't fallen off and lost them completely (something I have actually done in real life with a dog sled team); hopefully, I never will but you never know. Right now I am still practicing and as long as I keep at it and don't give up, those dogs (my skills) will become strong enough to fly over any obstacle. And with time the disorder will become quieter, maybe even disappear completely, leading to a smooth, easy trail of dreams.
There is something else I get by being able to look at my recovery like I'm just out on another mushing run. I know from experience that some days you go out on the trail and everything about that run is perfect, and others you go out and nothing goes right. That is recovery. There are days that feel like hell, and others that are actually kind of ok. Now whenever I do tip the sled over or have to stop to break up another fight or come around a curve to find myself facing a moose (figuratively speaking that is), I can just think of that night a year ago and the happiness I felt then. I can remember how complete I felt, who whole I was, and know that I can find my way back to that again. I just have to keep treking down that trail!
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