I Break the Land Speed Record and New Zealand Punches Uganda Right In the Face

Great news, dear readers! The race for the Memorial Anthony of Egypt National Most Hermitly Award has really started to heat up. After jumping out to a commanding lead, Uganda has now fallen behind after a very strong showing by New Zealand yesterday. South Africa has signs of life, but remains a distant third. The official standings for the Memorial Anthony of Egypt National Most Hermitly Award look like this:

New Zealand- 15
Uganda- 13
South Africa- 6

There are a couple of countries farther down the line. So stir your stumps, foreigners! The race is on!

Last night Sancho acted like he was tired, he played like he was going to sleep, but he was lying. He was a mass of neurotic psycho dog energy quivering just beneath the surface, and it all came boiling out just after I sat down, stoked the fire, and got myself comfortable. So we had to go for a walk. On an aside, I find Sancho's standing pose hilarious because of his front feet. Observe.

I admit, I half assed the ski yesterday. I took the early cutoff on the trail and we weren't out too long, but it was thirty degrees below zero, for chrissake! I had to get all layered up again and venture out into the cold, dark vacuum that is known as the Alaskan Night. The moon, my best friend, was out but the clouds were also out. The light was hazy at best. It hasn't snowed since I have been here, and there is no snow on any of the trees because of the freakish warm weather we had earlier, and it was very dark. Snow on the trees makes the forest look like a winter wonderland covered in delicious cream cheese frosting, and it reflects the moonlight, making everything sparkly and bright. Plain old spruce boughs are dark, darker than deepest cave in the deepest depths of the ocean on the darkest part of the planet at midnight, where all the horrible things with teeth live. Lame.

In an effort not to repeat my journey through the Alaskan Night, I thought I would tire out Sancho good and proper the first time today. So I busted out the snowmachine (I have heard them described as snowmobiles by heathens and illiterates). I have sort of surprised myself by not using the snowmachine up until this point, because usually when somebody tells me to get anything done out here, my first question is "Can we use the snowmachine for that?". We have a swanky new snowmachine with a speedometer that goes to 200 miles an hour, and I bet it has never gone faster than forty, so I thought today would be the perfect day to at least get some highway speeds.

The problem is that all the trees, as I have mentioned elsewhere, are very close together. The only place to go fast is on a lake. The lake right next to the cabin has no snow on it, so I decided to journey to another one several miles away. This would also tire out the dog, and everything would be peachy keen. On my journey I wondered if Thoreau would count riding a machine capable of Mach 2 through the forest while armed to the teeth as a viable method of communing with the Oversoul.

The Crystalline Hills!

I made it to the lake, no problem. I slowly putted my way to one end, lined myself up, and shot out of the gates. My hat, a colossally warm beaver-fur number belonging to my dad, immediately came flying off, but I thought "Haha, the wind in my hair, boy this is great!" and managed to get going about 50 miles an hour before I realized that hat was an integral part of my existence. You see, it had warmed from 30 below to 20 below which inspired my confidence, but it turns out 20 below is still very cold when you are traveling at 50 miles an hour with no hat on. It took my ears some time to forgive me. I convinced myself that 50 mph could be construed as highway speeds by some people, even if they would most likely be in their eighth decade of life and driving a car in its fifth decade of life. So instead of trying again, I chose to lead Sancho on long, looping windsprints up and down the lake at 20 miles an hour (a speed he seems capable of maintaining until Armageddon or boredom stop him) until I was satisfied that he would be tired enough to endure an evening by the fire. All told I think we covered about 9 miles today, much of it at a dead run in Sancho's case, and he is passed out hard on the floor. Didn't even bother to find his bed. Victory is mine, and it is good.

Another view from the lake