by Karen Land

I am a “dabbler” in endurance sports. But not until 3 months ago when my mother was diagnosed with Uterine Carcinosarcoma, did I really begin to understand the true meaning of endurance.

When I was a little girl, Mom and I often watched all of the big marathons - Boston, New York City, Olympic - on television. From the starting line to the finish, we marveled at the runners, especially the women, who could cover such distances with amazing speed and focus and desire. Track and Field sprints didn’t interest us - it was the people who go FAR who captivated and excited us. “How can they do that?” we’d say to each other, inspired by such endurance.

by Karen Land

Inside my journal, an old, overexposed, black and white photograph of five beautiful dogs, all lounging in the grass and looking up at the camera, acts as a bookmark. Every time I look at the picture, I’m so thankful that my longtime girlfriends and I decided to pause our hike that day for the quick family photo.

In the snapshot, Kirby, my Catahoula-mutt; Kara, Shannon’s German Shepard; Cami and Pero, Shelly’s two Italian Spinone’s; and Alex, Brenda’s Corgi all lay and stay, waiting for the “free dog” cue. That was over 15 years ago, a long dog’s life; all five have since passed on. We still speak of them like they’ll come running out of the woods at any moment.

When I study this dark photo, I don’t just see the sparkling brown eyes and goofy expressions and wagging tails of the dogs we adored.

by Karen Land

 A cold, wet Montana spring always brings back a memory - a bone-chilling one.

In the early 1990’s, I moved from Indianapolis to Missoula to attend the University of Montana. After my first winter in the west, I couldn’t wait to partake in the delights of spring in the mountains. Eventually, the daylight hours grew longer, the rain subsided, and the angry rivers calmed.

It was 80-some degrees, blue skies, and sunny the June day my friends and I rented giant rubber inner-tubes from a local gas station. Ian, David, and I strapped the awkward vessels down to the back of my little red pickup and headed to the Blackfoot River.

All three of us slathered our skin with the first sun block of the season.

As I settled into my inner-tube, the blistering black rubber burned the backs of my bare legs and arms. I welcomed the sweltering midday heat - it had been a long winter.

by Karen Land

When I was young, we use to drive. And drive. And drive.

My parents always took the “scenic route.” Often times as an outing, my mom and I would take a spin through the country, admiring farms and barns, woods and wildlife.

Just north of Indianapolis was horse country.

Mom wound the blue ‘69 Rebel station wagon around the twisty, narrow roads that bordered one horse farm after another. Arabians, Standardbreds, Quarter horses, Shetland ponies all grazed on the brilliant bluegrass. Fresh white fencing squared off each pasture like a picture frame. Giant dairy barns - some 50 to 100 years old - were the biggest buildings for miles. I daydreamed about all of the animals that had passed through those huge double doors. Someday, I would have my own farm nearby.

Fast forward to 2010.

By Karen Land

When was the last time you made a snowman?

Last week as I drove through Georgetown, Texas in a blinding snowstorm, I wasn’t thinking about stopping to play in the snow. Actually, I was shocked, disoriented, and a little bit grumpy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to my friend sitting in the passenger seat. “SERIOUS SNOW IN AUSTIN?”

Goosebumps covered my bare skin. I flipped the heat onto high; suddenly, my tee-shirt and cotton khakis seemed all wrong.

Snow has been tagging right on my rear wheels sInce mid-January. No matter where I drive across this country, clouds follow, the sun disappears, temperatures drop, and the white stuff starts to fall.

By Karen Land

I remember the days when watching television was a special occasion.

Every year, my horse-loving girlfriends and I counted down the weeks and days until Velvet Brown and The Pie (from the 1944 film “National Velvet) would finally grace our home screens.

No matter if it was a long-awaited movie, a new nature show, or a rare sporting event such as the Olympics, the ritual was always the same. We popped popcorn (the old fashioned way - shaking a greased pan over a flame), flipped the caps off glass bottles of Coca-Cola, and positioned ourselves on the davenport directly in front of the black and white set. During the pre-VCR era, television was a one shot deal - watch it now, or miss it all.

By Karen Land

When I realized this column would be published on Thanksgiving Day, I knew it was time to write about Pig.

Some feelings and memories are so easy to pour into words; others stick inside the head and the heart like honey at the bottom of a jar taking its own slow, sweet time to finally make its way to the lip.

I still can’t speak of my beloved Iditarod lead dog without tears, but when I think of Pig and her life and all of the places we explored together and the people I met with her - because of her - I am filled with thanks.

I might not be able to find the exact words just yet, but I need to start somewhere.

By Karen Land

I once had a boyfriend who would say, “Now, there’s a house for you…” every time we’d drive past an old, abandoned farmhouse, half-sunken into the sagebrush and missing every pane of glass from its warped window-frames.

I didn’t dare ask if this oblique remark was a commentary on my bank account, my fondness for junky antiques, or my desire to live among many animals and spend a good portion of the day outside. Maybe his observation was a poke at my preference for solitude or my refusal to be tied to anything too sound or stationary.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid.

Either way, the people who know me well understand that I am a romantic. I wasn’t putting off purchasing a house because of a lack ability to commit (as one crazy ex insinuated). I was waiting until a place swept me off my feet. I was holding out until I fell in love with a house – the right one.

By Karen Land

I 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.

by Karen Land

One night, not long ago, at a hotel room in Lawrence, Kansas, I had a nightmare that my new, little house in Montana had been taken over by cats while I was away.

In the all-to-real dream, I returned home from my 3-month work trip to find felines in every corner, cabinet, and closet. The cats were all different colors and sizes, adults and kittens, domestic longhairs and shorthairs, Siamese and Abyssinian. There were cats crouched on the kitchen counters, lounging on my down bedspread, napping on the loveseat, davenport, rocker, and dining room table.

All night long I counted the cats like one counts sheep. Of course, I kept needing to start the tally over again because the purring intruders would not hold still. They moved here and there around the house like they owned the place, coming up to me and pressing their warm bodies back and forth across the legs of my jeans.

“I own three dogs that hate cats,” I thought as I stood in my doorway, suitcases still in hand. “I have no cat food. The baby is allergic to cats.”

Of course, I have no baby - this was a dream, after all.

By Karen Land

How many calories do you consume in a day?

How many calories do you burn in a day?

These are two simple and straightforward questions, right? Not for everyone.

For the last three months I have been traveling the country giving talks in schools and libraries about the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. At one point in my presentation, I explain that Iditarod sled dogs burn approximately 10,000 calories a day during the race.

I use to expect this astonishing statistic to wow the crowd of students and adults, but not anymore - amazement is rarely the response.

Most often, I am faced with blank stares, the students waiting for me to move on to some of the more exciting trail stories. Thankfully, there are always a few in the group that “get it” and want to know more about what the dogs eat to replace the massive calories lost, but the majority of people seem to have no idea what burning 10,000 calories really means.

Over my 10 years as a school presenter, I have watched our kids become heavier and heavier. The obesity epidemic among children, even toddlers and preschoolers, is horrifying.

Karen Land

Recently, Jigs (my German Jagd Terrier) discovered a fresh, hot passion.

In my new home, I have a small, antique woodstove that once was used on a train caboose. The stove body is tall and slender, standing several inches off the ground on four graceful legs.

Jigs took to the stove like Pooh to a honey hive. At first, he was reasonable and reclined on the rug just a few feet away. Over time though, Jigs inched closer and closer until finally he designated the hottest spot in the house – between the stove and the wall – as his and only his.

by Karen Land

So far this season, cows are helping to temper my longing for sled dogs.

Since I moved to Martinsdale, I've had the opportunity to help out on the Cameron Ranch. My friends, PJ and Spunky, work as cowhands on Gil's family spread just at the bottom of the Little Belts.

I have the best of both worlds. I get to go play cowgirl on a beautiful ranch whenever the whim arises, and I can pass on those days when thirsty, snow-encrusted cattle stand and stare at the water troughs - ice frozen hard as concrete.

A few weeks ago, I helped Gil and the girls to pregnancy test cows. I was nominated the official record keeper and all around go-get-it girl.

By Karen Land

Until recently, I had never owned an indoor plant. I was never in one place long enough to commit myself to a cactus even.

My new home came complete with 30 houseplants. At first, this was exciting to me. I always enjoyed stepping into my friends’ homes filled with foliage. There’s nothing like bringing a little of the green outdoors indoors, especially during the cold and gray winter months in Montana.

Even when my new house was empty and I was just moving in my belongings, greenery already graced every kitchen and living room window, adding an abundance of life to a hollow space and immediately making my new house feel like a home. Many of these plants have lived in this tiny abode for over 10 years. I thought it was best to let them remain in the exact spot where they are happy - in the sills and on the shelves where they’ve been thriving for so long.

By Karen Land

Standing 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.

By Karen Land

Recently, my mom and I were given an astonishing and generous gift - three thick, stale-smelling binders bulging with yellowed paper, torn newspaper clippings, and old photographs.

“You can take them home and read them and copy whatever you want,” Rita Maxfield, my newly discovered, distant relative offered. “Nobody else in my family is interested in this stuff.”

Two summers ago, I wrote a column about visiting the Wounded Knee massacre site and burial ground in South Dakota. I made a pilgrimage there, hoping to learn more about my great, great grandfather, Colonel Hugh Daniel Gallagher.