I have until the beginning of April in Salcha, Alaska. For posterity, I will write what I've done so far since I got here in December:
- Cleared out a 3-mile sled dog trail that goes along the Tanana River, right off the Old Valdez Trail.
- Currently working on a 5-mile section that I will hopefully complete by the time I leave.
- Worked as a dog handler for a local musher, helping to set up the line during training, practice, and races; I also fed the sled dogs, and help rehabilitate them when they were injured or sick.
- Served as the operator of the the Raitto Kennels and Pet Resort, checking in pet dogs and making sure they are fed and go outside to play (when it's not too cold!).
- Repainted and repaired the kennel walls and fencing structures.
I write all of this because I will most likely forget, and I will leave Alaska thinking I had fucked around the entire time because when you're doing this stuff every day, you feel like you're putting out fires. Some client's dog is going to vomit, a sled dog is going to look near-death, and there's always something you should have taken care of already but didn't add it to your growing list of "gotta-do-thats".
I'm not good with animals. I love them and enjoy being around them, but when they become my responsibility, I turn into a nervous wreck. Every moment that I'm not around the dogs, I feel like I'm failing them in some way, and this constant feeling of failure appears justified when a dog gets sick or some task was ignored. There's no way out of this feeling until I leave.
This does not mean I didn't have a good time. I have a good time when I'm done with challenges—I rather hate the time during.
I tended to a backed up sewage line after it flooded half the kennel from the base of the toilet. I was so lucky to see no escaped shit floating around. It took three days to clean up the water, and the toilet seal was trashed. Mari, the owner of the kennel, purchased a new toilet for me to install. As a person who is determined to not have to work anywhere related to the lavatory industry, this was a mental challenge. I was lucky that the water line was either fixed by using a 40-foot snake line or due to some emergency sewage steaming services, which appears to be a standard need for Alaskans. When I pulled the toilet from the floor, I saw the abyss, and it's stare back at me wasn't half bad.
Two dogs went through near-death experiences with some kind of illness that swept through them over a few days each: First they didn't eat, then they barely moved. Both times I was told that these dogs would have to be put down soon. It made sense, but when this news occurred for the first dog, Nala, I still had a guttural emotional feeling of pure sadness—primarily because I didn't know her that well, and the first time I'm alone with her she nearly keeled over. A month later, Jay, an older but spritely dog, was attacked by one of the younger sled dogs and for several days could barely walk—I had to drag him outside so he could stare off into the distance, confused about where he was, and upon realizing, peeing where he stood.
I was told that he would most likely need to be put down. This made sense, except that the owner was willing to do it almost ranch-style: Have a mobile veterinarian come over and put him down, and put him in a blanket outside (it was consistently -10 through -25 in this part of February, so he wouldn't smell). I, raised as a poor urban schmuck, could not picture myself having to walk by a corpse every day as I scooped dog poop. Especially when I really enjoyed the company of Jay, as he would follow me around as I scooped the poop. I asked Mari if she would look into a veterinary clinic that would do both jobs at once: Euthanasia and cremation. Luckily, she did find it. I would just need to drive Jay to the clinic to get it done.
A few days later, Jay got better. He appears to have stiffer back legs, but overall he is energetic and happy to eat anything he can get.
I've never been more uncomfortable in my life. As a psycho-masochist, I like being uncomfortable, but as I said before: It really sucks in the moment. This isn't physical un-comfortability: Even at -40 degrees Fahrenheit, I had fun hiking and working outside. But the circumstances I've experienced, dealing with sewage water taking over a whole building, mentally processing two near-fatal dog illnesses....
... And then the dog races, where hundreds of dogs are all screaming and yelling in pain, frustration, excitement, anger, and all other manic emotions an animal in controlled duress will express. I drag the dogs to the line to set them up, and once they are tethered in, they go apeshit. When I have to hold them down so they don't chew the line or attack the dog to their side, they decide to attack me. Not viciously, mind you, and I'm lucky that my winter jacket was thick enough that I just got a bruise and barely pierced flesh. These dogs are in fight-or-flight mode—that's how they're raised and trained—and the only way to get it out of their system is to run it out of them.
These sonic and physical excrements of the dog-as-tool—it made me uncomfortable, makes me uncomfortable. I love that I have seen this culture first-hand, or else I would never have known a more visceral feeling of anguish. But it's like holding on to an electrified fence: It was a weird, painful, and interesting experience, but you have to let go some time.
Everyone I met around the interior of Alaska have been wonderful. 90% of them have been dog mushers, and dog mushing is their life during the winters: One person shared with me that from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., they are either performing sled dog tours or taking care of their thirty or more dogs. I personally go from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., but with seven to twenty dogs, so it's a degree less. The difference, however, is that they enjoy this activity—at least, they appear to, and I hope that they would drop it if they don't like it—and I don't.
In other words, there is absolutely no malice in the hearts of dog mushers, and they do it purely because they grew up in a culture—or were attracted to a culture—in which this activity is normal, they continue the tradition. The mental suffering that I experienced while working as a dog handler and dog kennel operator is purely because of my personal principles and ethics around people and Nature. I also have a history with adopted animals that cause me to have mixed feelings on animal ownership and exploitation.
In the end, what you have to understand is that I got something real from Alaska. I experienced small traumas and mental challenges that reminded me that I'm still here. I found guttural reactions to events—when's the last time I cried a whole night? I found minor victories in installing a new toilet or painting the whole kennel or getting these dogs back to health. I got to live with dogs and only dogs for weeks on end. I made friends with a couple of them, and I'm always happy to see them. I don't have enough reunions in my life, even if it's with animals. When it comes to the dogs, I never had a dull moment.
I never knew what to expect: Life? Death? Pain? Excitement? What each day held for me and the dogs was unpredictable, and makes me appreciate them all the more. I live most of my life based on systems and technologies and policies and theories and sciences—but when I go to the dogs, everything is back up in the air. Life feels better when you're floating in the air—up or down or left or right or forward or back? Choose, and enjoy feeling the response of Nature.
P.S. This experience has reinforced my kibosh of animals-as-pets. I love animals to a fault, and would rather that they exist for themselves than for me. It sets my mind at ease if and when they don't rely on me.
I thank everyone in Salcha, Fairbanks, and Tok for a warm welcome and interesting conversations. I might not like your hobby, but very much enjoyed your styles and your homes.
- Cleared out a 3-mile sled dog trail that goes along the Tanana River, right off the Old Valdez Trail.
- Currently working on a 5-mile section that I will hopefully complete by the time I leave.
- Worked as a dog handler for a local musher, helping to set up the line during training, practice, and races; I also fed the sled dogs, and help rehabilitate them when they were injured or sick.
- Served as the operator of the the Raitto Kennels and Pet Resort, checking in pet dogs and making sure they are fed and go outside to play (when it's not too cold!).
- Repainted and repaired the kennel walls and fencing structures.
I write all of this because I will most likely forget, and I will leave Alaska thinking I had fucked around the entire time because when you're doing this stuff every day, you feel like you're putting out fires. Some client's dog is going to vomit, a sled dog is going to look near-death, and there's always something you should have taken care of already but didn't add it to your growing list of "gotta-do-thats".
I'm not good with animals. I love them and enjoy being around them, but when they become my responsibility, I turn into a nervous wreck. Every moment that I'm not around the dogs, I feel like I'm failing them in some way, and this constant feeling of failure appears justified when a dog gets sick or some task was ignored. There's no way out of this feeling until I leave.
This does not mean I didn't have a good time. I have a good time when I'm done with challenges—I rather hate the time during.
I tended to a backed up sewage line after it flooded half the kennel from the base of the toilet. I was so lucky to see no escaped shit floating around. It took three days to clean up the water, and the toilet seal was trashed. Mari, the owner of the kennel, purchased a new toilet for me to install. As a person who is determined to not have to work anywhere related to the lavatory industry, this was a mental challenge. I was lucky that the water line was either fixed by using a 40-foot snake line or due to some emergency sewage steaming services, which appears to be a standard need for Alaskans. When I pulled the toilet from the floor, I saw the abyss, and it's stare back at me wasn't half bad.
Two dogs went through near-death experiences with some kind of illness that swept through them over a few days each: First they didn't eat, then they barely moved. Both times I was told that these dogs would have to be put down soon. It made sense, but when this news occurred for the first dog, Nala, I still had a guttural emotional feeling of pure sadness—primarily because I didn't know her that well, and the first time I'm alone with her she nearly keeled over. A month later, Jay, an older but spritely dog, was attacked by one of the younger sled dogs and for several days could barely walk—I had to drag him outside so he could stare off into the distance, confused about where he was, and upon realizing, peeing where he stood.
I was told that he would most likely need to be put down. This made sense, except that the owner was willing to do it almost ranch-style: Have a mobile veterinarian come over and put him down, and put him in a blanket outside (it was consistently -10 through -25 in this part of February, so he wouldn't smell). I, raised as a poor urban schmuck, could not picture myself having to walk by a corpse every day as I scooped dog poop. Especially when I really enjoyed the company of Jay, as he would follow me around as I scooped the poop. I asked Mari if she would look into a veterinary clinic that would do both jobs at once: Euthanasia and cremation. Luckily, she did find it. I would just need to drive Jay to the clinic to get it done.
A few days later, Jay got better. He appears to have stiffer back legs, but overall he is energetic and happy to eat anything he can get.
I've never been more uncomfortable in my life. As a psycho-masochist, I like being uncomfortable, but as I said before: It really sucks in the moment. This isn't physical un-comfortability: Even at -40 degrees Fahrenheit, I had fun hiking and working outside. But the circumstances I've experienced, dealing with sewage water taking over a whole building, mentally processing two near-fatal dog illnesses....
... And then the dog races, where hundreds of dogs are all screaming and yelling in pain, frustration, excitement, anger, and all other manic emotions an animal in controlled duress will express. I drag the dogs to the line to set them up, and once they are tethered in, they go apeshit. When I have to hold them down so they don't chew the line or attack the dog to their side, they decide to attack me. Not viciously, mind you, and I'm lucky that my winter jacket was thick enough that I just got a bruise and barely pierced flesh. These dogs are in fight-or-flight mode—that's how they're raised and trained—and the only way to get it out of their system is to run it out of them.
These sonic and physical excrements of the dog-as-tool—it made me uncomfortable, makes me uncomfortable. I love that I have seen this culture first-hand, or else I would never have known a more visceral feeling of anguish. But it's like holding on to an electrified fence: It was a weird, painful, and interesting experience, but you have to let go some time.
Everyone I met around the interior of Alaska have been wonderful. 90% of them have been dog mushers, and dog mushing is their life during the winters: One person shared with me that from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., they are either performing sled dog tours or taking care of their thirty or more dogs. I personally go from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., but with seven to twenty dogs, so it's a degree less. The difference, however, is that they enjoy this activity—at least, they appear to, and I hope that they would drop it if they don't like it—and I don't.
In other words, there is absolutely no malice in the hearts of dog mushers, and they do it purely because they grew up in a culture—or were attracted to a culture—in which this activity is normal, they continue the tradition. The mental suffering that I experienced while working as a dog handler and dog kennel operator is purely because of my personal principles and ethics around people and Nature. I also have a history with adopted animals that cause me to have mixed feelings on animal ownership and exploitation.
In the end, what you have to understand is that I got something real from Alaska. I experienced small traumas and mental challenges that reminded me that I'm still here. I found guttural reactions to events—when's the last time I cried a whole night? I found minor victories in installing a new toilet or painting the whole kennel or getting these dogs back to health. I got to live with dogs and only dogs for weeks on end. I made friends with a couple of them, and I'm always happy to see them. I don't have enough reunions in my life, even if it's with animals. When it comes to the dogs, I never had a dull moment.
I never knew what to expect: Life? Death? Pain? Excitement? What each day held for me and the dogs was unpredictable, and makes me appreciate them all the more. I live most of my life based on systems and technologies and policies and theories and sciences—but when I go to the dogs, everything is back up in the air. Life feels better when you're floating in the air—up or down or left or right or forward or back? Choose, and enjoy feeling the response of Nature.
P.S. This experience has reinforced my kibosh of animals-as-pets. I love animals to a fault, and would rather that they exist for themselves than for me. It sets my mind at ease if and when they don't rely on me.
I thank everyone in Salcha, Fairbanks, and Tok for a warm welcome and interesting conversations. I might not like your hobby, but very much enjoyed your styles and your homes.