The Fan Hitch Volume 1, Number 1, July 1998

Newsletter of the Inuit Sled Dog

Table of Contents

From the Editor
Why We Got into Inuit Dogs
Know the Dog, the Land and its People
Confessions of a Malamute Breeder
Giving Credit Where it is Due
Poem: Lost and Found
IMHO: El Nino, et al.

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Editor's/Publisher's Statement
              Editor: Sue Hamilton
              Webmaster: Mark Hamilton
The Fan Hitch Website and Publications of the Inuit Sled Dog– the quarterly Journal (retired in 2018) and PostScript – are dedicated to the aboriginal landrace traditional Inuit Sled Dog as well as related Inuit culture and traditions. 

PostScript is published intermittently as material becomes available. Online access is free at:  PostScript welcomes your letters, stories, comments and The editorial staff reserves the right to edit submissions used for publication.

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                                                    artwork: Sylvia Feder

Lost and Found

by Janice Dougherty

Just temporarily disoriented,
Maybe a little turned around -
I searched the sky for the sun,
I backtracked our prints on the ground.
But the clouds, they kept their secrets,
Only solid gray front presented
With a slow but ominous dimming -
Threat of snow I easily scented.
The tracks, they told me nothing,
Adding panic to my confusion:
We had been here twice already,
Foot prints radiating in great profusion.
"I think it's time to go HOME now!"
(I suggested to the team)
Trying hard to sound confident,
"Let's go HOME!" (before I scream).
Old dog arced her nose high in the air,
Then focused on one narrow trail.
The years had dimmed her eyes and strength,
Yet still you could not call her frail.
That compass in her forehead
Had never failed me yet,
And as the others firmly agreed,
I knew I had a safe bet.
"Okay, let's go!" I nodded assent:
I had only to say it once
As they plunged headlong through the trees,
Whipping 'round turns, hidden bumps.
This was fresh trail, untouched so far,
And I doubted them just for a second,
But the resolve of their stride and purposefulness
Was a force with which to reckon.
Soon there appeared a great clearing ahead,
And at the far side of that meadow
Was our transportation home, waiting,
And a smile of relief - wave hello!
What laser beam, what sonar sense,
What gyroscope, what compass, what odor,
What satellite dish, what magnetic field
Guides them from one place to another?
Anachronisms, out of time,
Modern day misfits it seems
The only thing left to trust in
Is those primitive pleistocene genes!

Reprinted with permission of the author.
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