My last post garnered a pretty big response from friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. I wanted to thank everyone who checked on me—for the encouragement, suggestions, and support. Coming to terms with this decision has put me in a better place mentally, but check back when I start making moves. It will get harder.
After writing my April 15th post, Facebook’s “On This Day” reminded me of this entry from exactly one year before—when I had announced my decision to move to California. What the hell, man. (I think April 15th will be a personal holiday going forward.)
In that post and several since, I’ve explained why I thought California would work for me and the dogs. If you’ve been following along, you’ve heard my reasoning: low humidity, plenty of snow, close to my employer, cool in the summer, trails near the house, yada yada yada. I did leave something pretty major out: I’m here because Will wants to be in Los Angeles.
I don’t talk about relationships in this blog. In the past, boyfriends have had little impact on my mushing life. Most were supportive and interested, which is all I ask of them. But when you get up and move across the country with someone, that changes things.
I knew from day one that Will was destined for a warmer climate. He warned me early that he didn’t stick around for winter and wanted to make a permanent move out of New York City. I didn’t know, specifically, what that meant—but I figured we’d cross that bridge when we got there. And that bridge took us to southern California.
A mountain is the only ecosystem that could potentially sustain us. Will would have Los Angeles for warmth and city life and I’d be (roughly) two hours away and over a mile up. When we visited Big Bear in the winter of 2017, it was snow covered and full of potential. (We also ate donuts, which may have clouded my judgement.)
I had to give this a shot and I'm so grateful for everything Will has done to try and make this work for me. While he isn’t going to be up in the frosty, predawn hours to run dogs, he has been the most supportive fan of Blue Eyes and Spitfire thus far. When we were still in the Hudson Valley of New York, he put a fence up around his property so the dogs could run. He traveled with me when I got both Blitzen and Hubble from their breeders. He’s dealt with hair, poop, pee, muddy paw prints, and dead groundhogs throughout the house. And about a thousand chewed up socks.
He drove across the country twice—the second time so I wouldn’t have to do it alone. He bought this house so that I’d have somewhere to live with the dogs, since renting is not an option. He put up another fence out here, to keep our neighbor’s dog from mauling mine through the chainlink. He’s secretly purchased a tougher dryland rig and a metal sled to help me survive this rough terrain. I don’t think I could ever repay him for everything he’s done for me. And that’s just the dog-related stuff.
That’s all I want to write about this. I don’t like talking about relationships here (or, uh, at all) and I’m sure this will make him feel weird, too. Still, it’s a piece of the puzzle and part of this story. If you weren’t aware of it, you’d probably raise an eyebrow as to why I made the choice to move here.
So, there you have it.
