Hope Springers Eternal
Racing down the Nordic trails.
For the past 12 winters, my springer spaniel, Seamus, has accompanied me on Nordic and “backcountry-light” ski trips to Hyalite, Sourdough, and other local ski tracks. The sight of layered ski clothing (non-Spandex, for the record) being put on, the sound of ski boots being zipped-up, and the clatter of skis being tossed into the back of my Subaru (of course) sends his nubby tail into a frenzy. He pants excitedly as we drive to the trailhead, often licking the kennel door and yelping in anticipation.
Over the years, Seamus has become the ideal skiing companion (aside from the winter when he decided to place a stick in the tracks, wait for me to ski over it, retrieve it, and then place it further up the trail and wait for me to ski over it). He has even learned commands like “move” and “stay close.” His perfection as a companion has one exception: Seamus never lets me win a downhill race.
Since Seamus was a puppy, whenever we approached a long, steep, downhill slope, I’d shout in a high voice, “It’s on! I’m gonna beat you! Here we go!” and start poling down the hill. Seamus somehow instinctively knew that he was being challenged to a race, and he would sprint past me to the bottom of the slope as I desperately tried to outrace him. No matter the temperature or snow conditions, his paws churning through snow or packed ice, tail wagging a mile a minute, he would gallop down the slope and beat me. Every damn time.
Eventually, Seamus started purposefully handicapping himself—starting slow, starting late, trotting easily by my side and then shifting into whatever gear was required to win.
It has reached the point where Seamus knows every downhill portion of the Hyalite and Sourdough ski trails. He waits at the top—often feigning lack of interest—until I shout, “I’m gonna beat you this time! Today’s the day!” at which point he’ll charge downhill. He has fully bought into the game. He relishes the competition, greeting me at the bottom of the hill with a big smile and playful nudge.
Eventually, having seemingly grown bored with merely beating me, Seamus started purposefully handicapping himself—starting slow, starting late, trotting easily by my side and then shifting into whatever gear was required to win. He frequently looks over his shoulder, taunting me to pick up the pace as I dig my poles in and curse his nonchalant approach to embarrassing me. Every damn time.
This year will be Seamus’ twelfth winter. His eyebrows have gone grey. He is losing his hearing, and he’s dealing with a case of laryngeal paralysis as well as a chronic throat condition (esophageal leiomyomatosis) so rare that it baffled veterinary specialists for years. It hasn’t seemed to slow him down one bit—or maybe I’m getting slower at a faster rate than Seamus is. Whatever the case, I look forward to another winter and dozens more races against my Nordic nemesis.
I’ve considered the possibility that one day, one year, I might actually beat Seamus down a slope. I wonder what that would that feel like? Don’t tell Seamus, but I hope I never have to find out.
