what's in a name? everything

*Note, this post may contain some language offensive to some, nothing too out of the ordinary, maybe even mirth producing, but not fit for general consumption.

An update on the happenings of the life of a dogsledder, er… not quite a dogsledder.

For all the hype and photos I’ve gotten my four eyes on the UP surprisingly lacks snow, just some detritus being scratched out of a heavenly scalp so far. I will now stare up agape at the gray sky, in an open letter to weather deity sucking in biting cold air and cry, “a little help please”?

Aside from the lack of white stuff our training is going well, perhaps a blessing in disguise. We’ve been able to train much longer via four wheeler and now via Rhino. The Rhino, which its isn’t officially called, something about copywrite infringement, is a newly minted Chinese knock off, a two seated machine with small truck bed in back. Actually, the thing first got into Jim’s hands with “Big Muddy” emblazoned in several places across its red skin, he promptly scrubbed them off since he’s about forty years removed from being a teenage boy. Even with its identity stripped from it, the machine is still full of character, mainly by not being reliable. The list of things having gone wrong on the machine in the past six months since it was bought: four wheel drive case, the alternator, some wiring relays, and so on. A sample dialogue of Jim and I concerning the machine:

Me: I can’t get the thing started again, it was running fine, and I loaded a bedfull of wood and now it won’t start.

Jim: Hmm, well, that piece of shit, if you had seen those two hillbillies that assembled it, then you’d know what I’m talking about. I mean, it was a family outfit, ran out of a garage, or something. You wouldn’t believe it, missing teeth, beer cans, the whole nine yards. I can’t wait to haul the fucking thing back to Cincinatti and have them deal with it… have you tried hitting it?

Me: No….

Jim: Give ‘er a try

Me: (Grunting as I hit the offensive part on the machine). Presto! (it awakens from its mechanical torpor)

Jim: That’s my favorite way of fixing things (he then explains the merits hitting electrical relays. I nod because I know nothing on the subject, but enjoy learning)

Given its reputation for reliability, and the lone plastic badge still on the hood with “BM” on it, I say its name is pretty clear, to me it is simply “the BM”, or to put it more plainly, “the piece of shit”. Despite my best efforts the moniker hasn’t really caught on though, and the everpresent question spilling from Jim’s lips is, “What should we call this thing?” “Rhino…yes, Rhino, I should write it somewhere on it so I remember it” I keep expecting him to attack it, armed with a sharpie, but until he does, it’s still the BM to me.

The whole point of what I’ve written is, we’ve now started taking the Rhino/BM out on our now nightly runs. Given the extra weight, I attach 16 coworkers to the line and we thunder out of camp with decibels that compete with a preschool (plus the occasional poop, and fight). Altogether by my own eyeballing, our motley crew is nearly as long as a semi, or maybe a small moving truck. Likewise, the handling is dull and you need to be methodical when turning. Some dogs depend on the sense of touch, feeling the bank on the trail in dim light, and might turn erratically into the woods accidentally sending your outfit off the trail into a snarling mess. Thus far I have been able to avoid large canine tangles. The dogs curiously don’t enjoy doggie piles. So, many more things to worry about, and I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. Often I work up a cooling then freezing nervous dampness despite sitting.

So until the weather (or shall I say, Lake Superior) decides its time to get it in gear we’ll continue to watch sunsets in the BM, provided it continues to run. Hopefully it starts dumping, I’m eager to switch gears and hit the sled.


Goodday.