Here it is. Wickersham Creek trail shelter. Built by BLM for you and me in 1975. Floor tilts to the south (sleep with your head pointing north), but is a fine, and free, spot to spend the night in the White Mountains.

Kristen gave me 24 hours on the loose, so I skated out to Moose Creek cabin, rented by Carolyn and Craig, who had borrowed Poops for their cabin trip.

I stopped, filled up water, grabbed Poops, and skied over to the trail shelter, which was occupied by Iris and A.J., two dog mushers who were resting after feeding their dogs, and getting ready for the 45-mile run home.

A.J. and Iris left the shelter at 9, leaving us some salmon strips dripping with Omega 3s in a can. T’was the second gift of food that Iris has left me. In 1997, she and her Mom Ann tied a bag of brownies to the pipeline for my dog Jane and I.

After a hot and cold night in the tiny shelter, Poops and I headed back to the car to complete a 30-mile journey. New snow this morning, and not a fresh animal track in the seven miles we covered today. Hungry country up here. I thought there was a moose behind every tree when I came up in 1982.

No moose here.

Here’s my buddy Poops, who, like all dogs, loves the White Mountains.

And here’s me after skiing back to the car. As my dad said often, upon seeing his reflection in a mirror after a few unwashed days at our camp in NY: “If I saw that in the woods, I’d shoot it.”