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 20 furry dogs. 5 theoretical pigs. 4 chickens. 2 kids. 1 temporarily imported English/Australian boyfriend. Water that runs only when I carry the buckets fast enough. Power that works only when the sun is shining or I remember to fill the gas can. Put this all together in a raw setting in Yukon, Canada. This is me and this is the life I have chosen to create around me. My name is Moe Boksa and yes, I am dogsled girl. I am dogsled girl because from the time I was twenty, my love for sled dogs has been shaping the course of my life. I grew up in Montreal, Quebec with a toy poodle named Daisy O’Day. Contrary to the impression the breed name instills, she was a living, breathing creature. She had a big attitude in that curly haired, little black body. She was my constant companion, regularly getting dressed in doll clothes and being coerced into negotiating the miniature horse jumping courses I would set up for her. Although far from being a sled dog, Daisy instilled the love of dogs deep within me. We spent hours together, reading about the adventures of big dogs in the North, adventures of the Gold Rush era. I moved away from Montreal as soon as I turned eighteen, to pursue the only thing in life, besides dogs, which has ever held my focus for more than an instant. I did a one year apprenticeship in the land of maple syrup, or the place more commonly known as Vermont, having some fine Morgan show horses teach me the art of agility. Agility because my feet seemed to easily end up under those of the horses, theirs being much harder and heavier than mine. I greatly enjoyed the ongoing challenges of dodging their knashing teeth or trying to stay on their leaping bodies. I was extremely excited to pursue my lifelong horse dream, but sad to leave my aging canine companion at home. I ended up staying in Vermont for much longer than the prescribed year. I made regular visits back to Montreal, but felt more and more drawn to my new American home. On one of my trips to my childhood home, my Daisy passed away. She had reached the ripe age of fourteen, but let me tell you she fought her demise. Her spirit was strong, despite her body having become quite frail. I moved to Colorado briefly, to take an instructor’s course for handicapped horseback riding. There I found my first sled dog initiate, a Siberian Husky I re-named Rasta. Colorado was a fine place, but I found myself unable to stay away from Syrup-Land. I returned, and through a series of events and meetings, began my days as an addicted musher. I spent several years enjoying some casual racing on the New England circuit. I carefully bred a disappearing line of Siberian and somehow managed to whelp a couple of humans, Finn and Maible respectively, during this time. I supported these habits and expanding sets of mouths by working at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op. During a decade of rewarding work, I learned that I had a great passion for food and the people who grow it, eat it, and cook it. I had a wonderful community of farmers and artists around me, a group of people who lived what they believed and believed what they lived. After a time, restlessness struck and life needed to move on. Dogs and trailer in tow, I headed west with my family, the call of adventure too strong to resist. I had traveled to Alaska to see the Yukon Quest firsthand, and couldn’t let go of the idea of getting in on the big show. The Yukon Quest is a dog sled race spanning over a thousand miles, run between Whitehorse, Yukon and Fairbanks, Alaska. We initially planned to live in Alaska, but ended up choosing the Yukon, a place of 186,660 square miles and 34,157 people; Alaska just seemed too busy with 626,932 people crowded into 656,425 square miles. We became efficient movers, shuffling our goods five times in two years, but finally ended up with a beautiful property on Annie Lake Road. Life was lovely and content. Then one night I found myself outside in the frozen, snowy, darkness. By the light of my trusty headlamp and perhaps a speck of moonlight, I found myself chopping the trunk of a large tree with my hand axe, sweating with the exertion. The tree hit the snow and my life changed. I now had a house, a kennel, and a life all to myself. My kids only lived with me part time and all my decisions were my own. Not one to sit in shock for too long, I pitched myself forward into a new life, a life filled with joy and new experiences. I am now the slumlord of Moetown, the small community of cabins nestled in the woods around me. I grow chickens and vegetables and pigs ( most of the time, except this year I was waylaid in Costa Rica feeding bananas to the monkeys, and returned home too late to acquire my porkers) . I spend a great deal of time corrupting my children. I have imported an infamous Australian man, who has graduated from lover to summer live-in boyfriend. I am writing a highly consequential book about the intricacies of Moetown and life in the North. I still run dogs. | | |||||
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The book:-
is now on sale at
Amazon sites worldwide
and at other online retailers.
Links here
.... and ....
.... there is $100,000
on offer in a monster
"What is your #1 Goal?"
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