KAREN LAND

Mushing, Running, and the Great Outdoors!

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Outdoors

The Island

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As a child, I loved watching reruns of the 60’s television comedy, “Gilligan’s Island.” The idea of becoming one of seven castaways on an uncharted, previously uninhabited island was oddly romantic to me. Of course, it was easy for me to relate to Gilligan, the bumbling and accident-prone crewman of the S.S. Minnow. But it wasn’t just one character that did it for me, it was the hodge-podge of pasts, personalities, interests and hang-ups of all the ill-fated passengers – the Skipper, Thurston Howell III, Lovey Howell, Ginger Grant, the Professor, and Mary Ann – that made the Island seem like a home.

A person can still feel alone living in a bustling city surrounded by millions of other people; when you live on an island, you don’t take your neighbors for granted, even if they are downright strange.

And then in the 90’s along came “Northern Exposure” – now, there was an addiction of mine. Residing in a tiny town in backcountry Alaska is pretty much the same as squatting on a spot of dry land amidst the immense Pacific Ocean – give or take a few or 6 feet of snow.

I was not only intrigued by a diverse handful of people gathered in a remote location just for the purpose of living, but I adored the vast space between these humans… and the next town… and the town after that.


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A Once-Wild Winnie

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Shelly and WinnieStanding at just under 13 hands, Winnie is a little mustang with a big history and an even bigger heart.

“She seemed grateful,” Shelly Henss, a longtime friend, explained. “After all she’s been through, she really appreciated the attention.”

For almost 20 years now, I’ve enjoyed watching Shelly professionally groom, train, and show dogs. When I heard about her most recent four-legged project, I was curious to see what she’d done with a 4-year old wild horse from Utah.

“I just treated her like a dog,” Shelly said.

And it shows. When I first met Winnie at a small backyard boarding stable in Martinsville, Indiana, the portly bay pony with an unruly mane carefully poked at my pockets with her rigid muzzle. The government wild horse freeze mark on her neck was the only indication that I was feeding stale marshmallows to a mustang who had once freely roamed the mountains of Utah.

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My Flying Tent

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My Flying TentI was exhausted when I arrived at the Chief Joseph Campground in Harlowton, MT, last Saturday just after dark. I’d been driving since 7 am; it was time to stop and sleep. A pleasant breeze whistled through the cottonwoods as I staked down all four corners of my tent, snapped the poles together, popped up the body, threw the fly over the top and anchored it all down. I tossed a sleeping pad and bag, pillow, book, headlight, gallon jug of water, and a can of Pringles through the door.

My little dogs opted to sleep on their plush beds in the truck. Borage, my husky, decided to start out the night with me – eventually, he gets too hot and scratches lightly on the screen, wanting back outside to sleep in the cool grass.

I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

An hour later I woke up in a disoriented stupor, pushing up in a panic on whatever was now plastered to my face.

“What the…” I said wrestling with the thin fabric like I was a fly caught in a web.

And then my foggy brain put it together – my tent was shrink-wrapped to my face, my entire body, by a fierce, roaring wind.


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Into the Walmart Wild

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Every time I drive by a Walmart, I glance towards the back of the lot to see who might be parked there. Like many other giant box stores, truck stops, and restaurants, Walmart - loved by some and despised by others - allows weary travelers to use their extra blacktop as a place to camp overnight.

Usually I see at least a few massive, half million-dollar RV’s, towing cars and boats and motorcycles, taking up at least a dozen of the seldom-used spots along the far edge of the lot.

Other times I’m delighted to catch a hippie bus or VW van tucked away under one of the few small trees that dot the expansive pavement with a lick of cool shade.

Traveling alone like I do, I realize car camping can be dangerous. A single woman sleeping in a tent or vehicle along a public road can be a target for troublemakers. If I don’t plan to hike into the backcountry so far out of reach that lazy thugs lose their ambition to mess with me, I chose to camp in designated or pay campgrounds with other (fairly normal-looking) people nearby. My dogs, a honking can of bear spray, and a firearm (where legal) never hurt either.


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Holes

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Borage, an Alaskan Husky, is my right hand man when I travel the country giving Iditarod Sled Dog Race presentations in schools and libraries. Off and on over the last four months, my parents have been grand-dog sitting Jigs, my German Jagd Terrier, and Chloe, my corgi/springer mutt; when I venture south, it’s just too hot for the little terrors to hang out in the car chewing on bones while Borage and I work.

I always feel miserable leaving Jigs and Chloe behind, but seeing them fly across my parents’ lush Kentucky Bluegrass lawn in hot pursuit of a chattering squirrel, as it leaps overhead from the gutters to a maple tree to a power line, is the perfect reminder that they’ll hardly know I’m gone.

 


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