Downward Dog

Sharing the joy of skiing.

The sun continued its downward journey in the sky; the light at last waned—at least the light in the sky did. Pukka’s light, however, did not grow dimmer. For five years my life had been dogless, and now doglight was back in it, no matter how short the days. One afternoon, just after the winter solstice, we went to the trailhead and climbed the ridge. I wasn’t worried about the approaching evening. I had my headlamp, the sky was clear, and the full moon would soon rise.

At the top of the ridge, by a clump of whitebark pines, I ripped off the climbing skins from the bottoms of my skis. Pukka watched me with glowing eyes and a softly swishing tail, for he knew what was about to come: the downhill run, where steep slopes and several feet of airy snow allowed dogs to fly. I buckled my boots, tightened my pack, and said, “D’accord, monsieur, es-tu prêt?”

Wag-wag went his tail: “Been waiting for you, mon ami.” He grinned.

“Let’s go then!”

Over the edge we went, dropping like hawks through the gloaming, into the steep bowl that fell a thousand feet to the dark forest below. Much snow had fallen over the last few days and the bowl was smooth, deep, and trackless as we spiraled down into the dusk. With each turn, the snow flew over my shoulders and made hushing whispers against my knees. Over my shoulder I saw Pukka bounding behind me, arcing from the snow like a golden fish from the darkening sea.

Pukka beat his tail against his flanks, pressing himself against my thigh and laughing from a face covered with powder: “What a run!”

Where the slope momentarily eased back and he wallowed on the shallower ground, I snowplowed to let him catch up. Then the slope made its final plunge to the valley floor. Over the edge we went, swooping through snow so perfectly light, so perfectly smooth, so utterly diaphanous that it seemed the stuff of the first spinning creation.

Casting a look behind me, I saw Pukka, dipping and rising like a swallow, throwing up puffballs upon each landing. There was not a sound to be heard, not a light to be seen, as we flew down through the forest, down, down, down, on the long white nave of snow.

Then it was over and nearly dark.

“Ski dog!” I exclaimed at the bottom, applauding him as he bounded toward me.

He beat his tail against his flanks, pressing himself against my thigh and laughing from a face covered with powder: “What a run!”

“What a run!” I agreed, hooking an arm over his shoulders.

I put my skins back on and we climbed up through the trees on the opposite side of the narrow valley, up through the meadows, Pukka leading the way. By the time we reached the parking lot, it was perfectly dark and all the cars were gone except ours.

I stowed my gear and harnessed him into his seatbelt in the back of the Subaru. As I fastened the buckles, he pressed the top of his head against my chest, pushed hard, and wagged his tail with great feeling: “Thank you for that wonderful ski.”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging him. “What a skier you’ve become, Sir. Le meilleur!”

We drove down the snowpacked road, and as we did the full moon rose from behind the mountains, floated over a rim of clouds, and lit the world.

This is an excerpt from Pukka’s Promise: The Quest For Longer-Lived Dogs by Ted Kerasote.