Barkin’ up the Wrong Tree

Face-off: ski-touring with dogs.

Dogs and backcountry skiing: two of Bozeman’s most emblematic icons in their own right, but do they mix? We rounded up two local skiers to argue the issue. Turns out, aside from the consensus that dogs almost always tire out before their human counterparts, the pair didn’t agree on much. And with that, we bring you one of Bozeman’s biggest winter debates. Let the battle begin.

Backcountry Besties
by Sam Van De Velde

Imagine you’ve just skied fresh tracks all day with your mates, then capped it off with a bubbly beverage and the last of your trail mix before heading home. Your stomach rumbles with hunger on the windy drive down-canyon. Finally, the front door swings open and your layers begin to peel off one-by-one, wet from sweat and powder shots. But before you can get to your long-johns, a cooped-up pup jumps with excitement; her rapid wiggles echoing, Let’s run! Let’s run!

Next time, instead of leaving Lucky Loo inside all day, why not take her on the mountain? Dogs do increase the responsibilities and inherent risks of backcountry skiing, but there are a few circumstances where bringing a dog on the tour will surely increase the stoke meter—statistically speaking. But first, there are parameters to abide by: all parties must be on board with the invitation. The angle of the slope should be kept low, and the dog should be properly trained not to approach a descending skier. She should have her own food and water; and for heaven’s sake, pet owners, make sure you have the motivation and means to remove feces from the skintrack. Believe me, if I even once had to fondle my skins after sliding through dog shit, I’d be on team “No Dogs Allowed.”

Your dog is the most reliable touring partner you’ll ever have. She’s never late to the trailhead, never forgets something, never whines about anything, never takes too long to transition, and never asks to borrow sunscreen when it’s buried at the bottom of your pack.

But here’s another scenario: you’ve just had an exhausting week, and you regrettably agreed to go on a “small tour” with your over-eager neighbor who thinks he’s the next Kilian Jornet. For the third time, he asks, “Wanna do another one?” Well, since Lucky Loo is here, you can unclick your boots and simply state, “I’d love to, but Lucky Loo is looking pretty beat. I should probably call it a day for her sake.” Phew!

Now for the facts. Lucky Loo is the most reliable touring partner you’ll ever have. She’s never late to the trailhead, never forgets something, never whines about anything, never takes too long to transition, and never asks to borrow sunscreen when it’s buried at the bottom of your pack. She never stops to adjust layers, nor ever has to bail early for a work meeting. She only communicates in the language of pure joy, even in the worst of conditions. Personally, I could not deprive my dog of that joy, nor do I want to miss out on it myself.

Bringing up dogs and skiing is like bringing up politics and religion.

Two years ago, I was skiing in Yellowstone (without my dog) and I saw two wolves bounding along in a regal stride on the same slope that I was about to descend upon. It was a beautiful sight. Although my dog is less mentally mature—more of a second-grader at recess who has fun annoying other kids—the experience further solidified my opinion to take my dog along for the ride when appropriate. All things considered, though, bringing up dogs and skiing is like bringing up politics and religion, and should probably be avoided in the workplace or at the dinner table. Regardless, every powder weekend this winter, you’ll hear me say, “Lucky Loo, load up!”

Dog Gone Tired
by Jack Taylor

Dogs are great to bring on all kinds of adventures. Whether it’s sharing the trail on a long run, dashing around corners on a bike ride, or flushing pheasants out of golden grass, the camaraderie shared with a canine companion makes every outing that much sweeter.

With one exception: backcountry skiing. My opinion stems from many experiences that mimic the following story.

Lucy (whose name has been changed for anonymity) is a great dog. She’s my best friend’s dog. Border collie, tons of energy, friendly as hell, well-behaved. You get the picture. We’d taken Lucy up Blackmore before in the summer, and she ran circles around us the entire time. Back at the car, she gave us a wily grin as if to say, That’s all you got?

Lucy is collapsed in the snow, heaving. Her long fur is caked in icy mats of refrozen snow, and she’s preoccupied with trying to remove them.

Okay Lucy, let’s try winter. Sure enough, as soon as we leave the parking lot, she’s bolting up and down the trail like a bat out of hell. Typical. She continues bounding to and fro until we reach the meadow below Blackmore’s east face. We’ve skinned five miles at a leisurely pace, and Lucy has already sprinted a half-marathon. Again, nothing to marvel at.

As we skin up the face, Lucy slows down a bit. She’s giving it all she’s got, but there’s two feet of fresh snow (epic!) and she’s post-holing up to her chest. Nonetheless, her excitement burgeons. She keeps pace all the way to the ridgeline. We rip off our skins and ski an awesome run, while Lucy follows giddily—though tiredly.

It’s time for another lap, but now, something is off. Lucy is collapsed in the snow, heaving. Her long fur is caked in icy mats of refrozen snow, and she’s preoccupied with trying to remove them. It seems that in her haste to run three times the required distance of the approach, she’s exhausted herself prematurely. Dog-tired, one might say.

Next time we ski, buddy, leave Lucy at home.

“Think she’s good for another one?” I ask my friend. “Umm... I’ll carry her,” he replies. And he does carry her, right up the skin track. Until he gets too tired, and then I have to carry her. Until I get too tired, and I give her back to him. We take turns carrying her at every switchback, and by the time we hit the ridge, we’re exhausted, too. And we haven’t even done two laps!

Our day is done. We leave behind loads of untracked powder and hit the luge—treacherous enough without carrying a dog; with one, near suicidal. I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t biff it.

There may be a time and place for skiing with dogs. I think it’d be great to team up with a pup at spots around town like Goose Creek and Bear Canyon. Where the snow is never deep, the car is always close, and there’s plenty of other dog shit for her to sniff out.

But that’s not my cup of tea. So next time we ski, buddy, leave Lucy at home. You can take ’er up Little Ellis tomorrow.

Have your own opinion, or think these two missed the mark? Send us a note at [email protected].