Ned's Pipeline Trek Page

She has been my silent partner through 10 summers, three pickup trucks, and seven girlfriends. Her velvet-soft ears soothe my hands every morning, and her sleeping form next to me keeps me secure at night. She is, of course, Jane, a 10-year old, 70-pound, chocolate-coated Labrador retriever. She also answers to Bones, or anything you want to call her if you are holding food.

Jane is a true Alaskan, born near the Chena River in Fairbanks. There, the Nashes, who sold me Jane for $200, called her "Wendy Whiner" in her first weeks.

Jane still whines, usually when she wants to get moving and I'm not. Before the trip, I worried she would be whining out here for different reasons. She's not a young dog. She's also rather fond of couches, beds, and other soft things.

She still dives for my sleeping bag when I let her in the tent first, but so far she's proven herself an excellent trail buddy.

My fears started fading as we both climbed Thompson Pass in the Chugach Range. It was a tough day-six hours to climb two miles-but Jane didn't notice. She was in Doggy Heaven, chasing every squeaking marmot. The bear bell on her backpack made it sound like Santa was coming that day.

She passed out quickly after devouring her Eagle Power Pack food (one of her two sponsors) that night. The next day, she played just as hard. She has every day since. Now, she quickens the heartbeat of snowshoe hares, who seem to intersect our path every 20 feet or so.

At first it angered me to hear her backpack dissolving as she dragged it through the brush. For a day, I called her back from running rabbits, using a tone that was less fun for me to use than it was for her to hear. I was also worried she'd bump into a porcupine. It's a real danger-we've seen five waddling porcupines in each of the past two days.

I still worry about a porky encounter, but I no longer call her out of the woods when she's chasing hares. I can always buy another dogpack: a needle and dental floss will keep it together until then. As long as she stays close enough that I can hear the bear bell on her pack, it's cool. We both have more fun this way.

If she ever emerges from the bushes with a facefull of quills, I'll have to dig into my doggy first-aid kit. Assembled and donated by Mark and Liz May of The May Clinic in Fairbanks, the kit contains a syringe with enough sedative to put Jane to sleep for a while. With her down, I can pull out quills with a pair of hemostats the Mays included. The kit also includes antibiotics and a dozen other items I hope we'll never have to use.

Jane's daily pursuits have her acting like a working sled dog; when we stop for a break, she paws at the ground once or twice and plops down for a snooze. Sometimes she enters an epileptic dream in which I imagine she probably catches the hare.

She's sleeping now, in the sun, occasionally stirred by a yelling squirrel whose forest we've temporarily invaded. Her once-brown head is now sun-bleached blond, and her body is now copper.

Sometimes I wish I could get inside her brain. When Jane sniffs at a pile of hairy manure, I wonder if she sees an image of the animal that made it. Sometimes at night, she'll perk her ears and growl at an unseen monster out there. It gives me chills at the same time it makes me grateful she's my companion.

Jane's not a morning dog. She sleeps while I break camp; she sleeps while I eat breakfast; she wakes up to help me wash dishes, then goes back to sleep until it's time to hike.

Sometimes I carry her pack for a quarter mile or so, to ease her into the day. After I buckle the seven-pound load to her back, she walks slowly and stiffly, trailing behind, until she sights or scents a hare, duck, sharptail grouse, or other game animal. Then, she breaks into a wrist-bending trot in which she seems not to touch the ground, her tail a happy rudder cutting the air behind. It's a pleasure to watch.

As a friend pointed out, Jane adds an innocence to the trip, a let's-just-see-what's-out-here-and-react-to-it purity that I sometimes lose touch with while striving to roll my tarp to the ideal tightness.

I hope this is Jane's best summer ever. There surely won't be another like it for her, nor for me. Someday, in perhaps 10 or 20 years, I'll look back at photos from this trip and remember Jane, who will by then be in real Doggy Heaven.

I'll think of a wonderful summer in which a good dog got to be with her master 24 hours a day. And, lucky me, I got to be with her.

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