SLED DOG DWIGHT, HERO, AGE 5

travelarium at shutterstock

White Snow

I met Dwight on a Sunday. He, his family and their dogs were at our sled dog races, on a beautiful day in Colorado’s high country under a cobalt-blue sky. Pure white snow, pure white Samoyeds, there’s nothing better.

Colorado mushers usually set up a racecourse somewhere, and they'd get insurance and arrange a safe place for their campers full of dogs and sleds. They’d flag the course, time the races and, late on Sunday, tear it all down and return to their homes and kennels.

If you were a kid and your mom and dad had a dozen Siberians, imagine how much you’d look forward to your first race. Just you on your sled, out there in a snowy forest. With a few fast dogs who could run like the wind.

CC0 @ pxfuel

Our Town

In 1995, the little town where my wife and I lived held an annual sled dog race of our own to attract winter business. We did everything. The mushers only had to show up. Of course, they loved that and brought their families and lots of adorable puppies.

Ours was a “sprint” race, only a couple of miles long. We advertised the heck out of it, and local citizens packed the venue all weekend, buying our hotdogs, chili, hot cocoa, and sled bibs. The mushers liked the laidback atmosphere and short course, where their kids could practice their sport and have lots of easy fun.

The Starting Line

My wife was one of the timers and another local, Jeff, and I were the announcers. All Saturday and Sunday, the timers released adult heats every two minutes, shouting out the remaining seconds, “10, 9, 8, 7, 6...” We and the crowd joined in and I’m convinced the dogs recognized the last five numbers because you could see them lean into their traces.

When everyone screamed “Go!” the musher would step off his brake and let the dogs explode off the starting line, curving around the snow fence separating them from the crowd and accelerate into the snowy forest. Two minutes later the next team would do the same.

My pal, Bruce, had a walkie-talkie a quarter-mile up the trail from the finish line and he’d alert us when a team was on its way. Ten minutes after starting, a team would appear through the willows above a long, downhill meadow. The dogs knew the drill. They could see food, water, and a loving pack waiting below, so they’d pour on the gas.

Tierkunst @ pixabay

The Finish Line

As an added twist for the mushers, just before the finish line, they had to make a slight turn to the right then, quickly, a reverse-crowned turn to the left. The dogs would come smoking down the meadow, through the curves, the cheering crowd, and the finish line.

Finally, on Sunday afternoon, it was the young kids’ turn. They and their dogs always started at the finish line, went up the meadow into the forest for a little bit, turned around and came right back. Before the countdown, we had each kid holler their name so the crowd would know who they were.

pixabay

Dwight

The last, tiny musher looked, maybe, 5 and, with Mom and Dad’s help, he got two dogs and his sled up to the line. He was wearing a huge, blue bubble-ski jacket and a gigantic orange helmet with orange goggles. The kid looked like a bobble-headed toy. At the starting line, his tiny voice yelled, “I’m Dwight!”

Dwight’s sled was just his size. Instead of the usual six or eight dogs the adults used, he had only two but, we knew, they were his parents’ most trustworthy two. According to his mom, this was his very first time racing.

The timers counted Dwight out of the gate. At “Go!” he and his dogs were gone in a heartbeat. I told Bruce that Dwight was on his way, and his mom stood nearby, so she could hear my radio.

Chris, who ran the local stables, had his snowmobile handy, just in case. A couple of minutes later, Bruce came on the walkie, saying, “We got dogs, but no Dwight.”

Chris snapped his sled to life, Dwight’s mom jumped on the back, and they disappeared up the meadow under a roostertail of snow. Bruce again: “Dwight just ran up. I think the dogs actually stopped to wait for him. They’re all happy to see him, for sure.”

A minute passed, “We got him and his dogs turned around. Here comes Chris.” A few seconds later, “OK, the kid’s on his way.”

We’d been keeping the crowd updated on all these dramatic events, so there was some real suspense as everyone waited for Dwight to appear.

The Finish

Gillian Floyd @ flickr

Jeff had his binoculars pegged on the willows and said “I see an orange helmet. He’s coming big-time.“ A moment later, two dogs appeared, heads down, running hard, Dwight leaning into the curves. He knew his business now.

Of course, the crowd was going wild, cheering the kid on. “Come on, Dwight!!”

Now, sled dog racing rules being what they are, the timer’s stopwatch clicks when the lead dog’s nose crosses the finish line. That's if the musher is attached to the sled.

If the musher becomes separated from the sled, the stopwatch runs until the musher's nose crosses the finish line. Our crowd was made up of musher families and Redstoners who knew these rules.

Dwight’s dogs had run the course several times that day on his dad’s team, so they fast-tracked down the trail they knew. They whipped around the first curve, the second curve and across the finish line with the sled. But no Dwight.

Face Plant

At the reverse crown, he came off his sled, did a flying swan dive and made a perfect face plant into the soft, deep powder. The crowd was stunned. Instant silence.

That ever happen to you? You’re flying along, everything looks swell, the crowd is going wild and there’s a big smile on your face? Then fate intervenes. Suddenly you’re buried in a snowdrift, right in front of everybody. At the age of 5? Me? I’d have been crying for my mommy.

Kamira @ shuteterstock

Dwight’s orange helmet slowly emerged from the snow. He struggled to his feet, not quite sure what had happened. The crowd began screaming, “Dwight, run to the finish line! Run to the finish line!” His goggles were packed with snow, and he pulled them down so he could see.

Everyone was pointing to the finish line, “Dwight, run! The finish line! It’s right there!”

He looked where they were pointing, and saw his dad holding his dogs, there at the finish line. The kid instantly got it. He plowed through what was, for him, waist-deep snow, over to the packed racecourse. Then, in boots, gaiters, waterproof pants, forearm gloves, blue bubble ski jacket, orange helmet and goggles, Dwight charged the finish line.

The Hero

I’m 73 years old now. I've known a few people with grit. But Dwight? I still see him, frozen in time, as he flashed across that finish line with my wife clicking her stopwatch. He'd been propelled by a worshipful crowd, like a painting on a Greek vase. Dwight, their hero, the kid with grit.

Stay tuned, Ron

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