I flew out of Atlanta in the afternoon and was met that evening by a man a little shorter than me, with bushy eyebrows and a thick Scottish accent. It was Colin, John’s diving supervisor on the oil rigs in the North Sea. He was going to be handling dogs for John in Alaska.
Tuesday, Feb.2, 2010
The weather was mild, by Montana standards. It had been above freezing for much of the time I was gone and there had been some rain. The ground was still covered by several inches of hard packed snow and the circles around the dog houses were iced over in spots, making walking in them treacherous.
I spent the day getting reacquainted with the dogs and working around the house with Colin. There was much to do, feeding the horses twice a day, feeding, watering and cleaning in the puppy pens, and taking care of the dogs in the dog yard. The dogs were genuinely happy to see me, and I was glad to be back. Walking up to the yard, I was struck by the idea that this was how men were supposed to live, hard physical work, outside. I had gone soft. It felt good to be alive. I felt more alive out here.