Walked down to the valley with dogs Gill and Bibi to pick up provisions and post a friend had brought me, and passed neighbor G. on a run with his team.
Anybody who lives within ten miles is a neighbor.
G is a very competent and successful competitive long-distance musher, which takes the kind of dedication and mania you would need to invade a medium-sized country on a regular basis.
If he was a bicycling pro, I'd be the guy who uses a three-speed to get to work. But because mushers are so few, we still have some fat to chew when we cross paths.
This is all normal to me. Walking far to pick up mail. Chatting about mushing with other dog drivers on the way. Looking out for some nice mushrooms. Fifteen years ago, I would have thought this was either impossibly romantic, or the kind of life only other people, more clever and strong than I, could lead.
On one hand, this life is no big deal. On the other one, I feel blessed.