Traveling Beau

By Donald F. Smith, Cornell University

As we travel through life, we often segment our journey with reference points: our years growing up, our time at college, our retirement years, or our years with a certain pet.  For my wife, Doris, and our three children, we recently closed the chapter on an 18-year segment of our lives with a happy and gentle dog named Beau.

From his earliest puppy days Beau was a traveller. Born on election day in November 1996, Beau’s first long trip (with his littermate, Belle), was from our home in Ithaca to Doris’s parents’ home near North Bay, Ontario.  Adorned with a cute Christmas bow, and his sister with a bell around her neck, the two balls of fluff played in the powdery snow 200 miles north of Toronto. Because we always encouraged them to be outdoors, the puppies grew to love being outside whenever possible.

Beau enjoying a fresh March snowfall at home in Ithaca (2008)
(all photos by the author)

It was only in his waning months this past winter that there were days when Beau, having lost 14 pounds from the 41.5-pound frame that he carried his entire adult life, began to shun being outside on cold and rainy days. But if it was snowing, he continued to happily make his way slowly through the soft snow on all but the coldest of days.

Beau and Belle were English Cocker Spaniels, not purebred, and with full tails that were as much their trademark as their long and floppy ears. They were bred by my brother and his wife and we got the pick from a litter of six.  We had only intended to adopt one for our five-person family: two sons, Darryl (18) and Dennis (13), and a daughter, Debra (15).  Our older son, Darryl, had selected the male puppy from the litter, but before we could leave with our little prize bundle, the runt of the litter (a petite female) slid across the slippery floor after her brother.  She would not let him leave without her, so we arrived home that early December afternoon 18 years ago with the obeisant Beau, and his alpha sibling, Belle. 

The two were raised together with regular twice-daily walks and free-choice Eukanuba dry food. They made occasional visits to Cornell where Darryl and later Debra went to college.  Between 2002 and 2006, Beau and Belle made frequent weekend trips to the University of Delaware to see Dennis when he was playing lacrosse. 

When Darryl relocated to southern Florida after his graduation from Cornell, and later, while he studied law at the University of Florida, the dogs would join us on long drives south. On one occasion, the family car was loaded with four adults, two dogs and Christmas parcels packed to the roof.  No pet-friendly hotel stops on that holiday trip.  We left Ithaca after the Christmas Eve service and, with multiple drivers, drove straight through, arriving in Gainesville mid-afternoon on Christmas day. 

After a long and painful illness in late summer 2006, Belle left us. Though Beau missed his companion his mourning was eclipsed by a new lease on life because his sister no longer dominated his every action as she had since they had been puppies.

Our family, now reduced in size with our children having establishing their own lives, and with only one dog, Doris and I settled into a new routine. Our trips continued, visiting our children and occasional regional vacations, often accompanied by Beau.

Upon completion of my ten-year dean position at Cornell in 2007, I had the good fortune to have my portrait photographed with Beau. Though the college tradition had been to have a painted portrait, Doris suggested that a photograph with Beau would be more interesting.  Not only would it present a more engaging image, but Beau had been with me throughout my entire deanship, and had been such a frequent visitor to the college that many staff and students knew him well.

We made a trip to New York City, staying in the pet-friendly Hilton hotel on 6^th Avenue. Early the following morning, a Saturday in July, we met our good friend and photographer, George Kalinsky, in Central Park adjacent to the bridge that looked similar to the bridge at Beebe Lake on Cornell’s campus. The photo shoot lasted over two hours, with the result now hanging in the atrium of the veterinary college. Some months later, I discovered our picture on Mr. Kalinsky’s web site, on the same page as several presidents and other dignitaries.  Beau was the only dog on that particular page of portraits (though he featured animals elsewhere on his web site).  As of this writing, Beau’s image with me is positioned between those of businessman Carl Icahn and Pope John Paul II. (1)

That fall, Beau and I took an epic journey by Jeep to Alaska. Chronicled elsewhere in this blog, (2) we crossed the northern states to North Dakota, then headed through Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia where we joined the Alaska Highway. We progressed through the glorious Yukon, arriving in Anchorage in late August. There we met Doris, who had flown in to spend a week with us, then man and dog departed for the 4,000 mile return to upstate New York.

Beau in the Yukon with the Kluane mountain range
and the Alaskan Highway in the background (2007)

During the 34-day trip, Beau and I made a myriad of human and animal friends, slept in a tent, under the stars and in a four-star hotel. It was the defining experience that solidified our friendship.

It also fortified our relationship in ways that only became apparent in the days following Beau’s departure two months ago.  It didn’t make the separation less painful, but it added depth and substance, as well as balance, to memories that may fade, but will never be extinguished.

Even last spring at age 17, Beau was still enjoying his regular morning walks
and craving the freedom of being temporarily off-leash (2014)

If I have one piece of advice for others who share their lives with their pets, it is this: give them their space to create memories. Our pets make the present more vibrant, and they enrich your future when you must go on without them.

Compared to people, our pets have limited life spans. Regardless of whether they share eight years with us, or 18, they come into our lives for a defined period of time, helping us navigate our own journey and fulfill special needs in that particular season of our life. When we move on without them, perhaps to have another pet and perhaps not, we will remember them for providing one of our greatest blessings through that special relationship we call the human-animal bond. 

(1) From the Lens of George Kalinsky, Portraits.

(2)  Smith, Donald F. Traveling with Beau: My 34-day Trip to a Deeper Understanding of One Health, Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, September 9, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. Returning to my Canadian Roots: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, Sept 11, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. From Ontario to Wisconsin: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, October 16, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. A Lesson in Humility: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, October 17, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. The Canadian Prairie: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, October 21, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. The Texas of Canada: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, October 29, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. The Alaska Highway: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, October 31, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. Lake Kluane: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, November 6, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. Arriving at Anchorage: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, November 7, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. The Long Journey Home: Traveling with Beau. Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, November 12, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. Rethinking One Health, Part 1, Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, November 18, 2014.

Smith, Donald F. Rethinking One Health, Part 2, Perspectives in Veterinary Medicine, November 19, 2014

Driving with my Dog to Alaska: The Road Home

By Donald F. Smith, Cornell University

Posted November 27, 2012

Five years ago my dog, Beau, and I drove from our home in upstate New York to Alaska and back. The first 15  installments can be found by clicking the "Traveling with Beau" link on the upper right-hand corner of the Home Page.  My wife, Doris, flew into Anchorage and joined us for 10 days. 

Doris flew out of Anchorage on September 3rd, on the last direct Chicago flight of the season. The following day, American Airlines would be rerouting its Chicago plane to San Juan, yet another indication that the north is ephemeral and relatively isolated especially in the winter months.

After leaving the airport, Beau and I retraced our path from Anchorage through Palmer and the Wrangell Mountains to Tok, where we spent our last night in Alaska. We had barely reached Tok when my daughter called with the news that my 89-year-old mother had fallen at a bus stop in Toronto and broken her hip. My plans for a circuitous trip back through the northern Yukon and then south through British Columbia changed, and we headed home by a more direct route, even including the interstate after we reached the United States south of Winnipeg, Manitoba four days later.

We left Tok very early on our second morning and soon crossed the border back into Canada. Though much of the scenery was familiar, the days are much shorter now and the higher elevations in the Yukon were snow-covered. 

On our way through Beaver Creek ten days earlier, I had noticed more than the usual roadside advertising for Buckshot Betty's Restaurant and Cabins. Though I'm not one for silly local fork lore, we were both in need of a breakfast break, so I pulled onto the spacious gravel apron and parked between two large RV's, each with miniature dogs barking at Beau through the closed windows.

I entered a cozy breakfast nook already inhabited by a large table overflowing with a dozen or more people with plates spilling over with pancakes, eggs and sausage. I patiently waited by the door for at least five minutes -- I didn't want to sit down until invited to do so -- when from the kitchen burst a larger than life person who could only be Betty herself, balancing another half dozen plates in one hand and two coffee pots in the other. She ordered me to sit down in the most colorful language I"d heard all trip, and reinforced her admonition with something about her not being my mother. When I told her I wanted takeout because a had my dog in the car, she replied without hesitation to "bring the mutt inside." 

Beau and I had a delightful time with Betty, especially after the RV's left and it was just she and her assistant with the two of us. She is a legend in these parts and, as we left, she tucked a copy of the CD, "The Ballad of Buckshot Betty", under my arm. 

'Buckshot Betty' and Beau in Beaver Creek, Yukon.

Red fox along the Alaskan
highway in the Yukon.

People in the Yukon seemed to be either natives or newcomers. Betty was a native. But at one midnight rest stop in Teslin (Yukon), I found a newcomer when I inquired of her  if the northern lights were often visible during the fall. Looking at me as if she didn't understand the question, I repeated it and said we had seen them in Denali Park. "No," she answered authoritatively, "I've never seen them." 
As I walked back to the jeep, I saw the lights reaching from the expanse of the northwest and hovering almost above me. The multi-colored aurora was visible for the next two hours, so brilliant and beautiful that we stopped several times so I could marvel at the wonder of it all.

Proprietor of the Kluane Museum of Natural
History in Burwash Landing, with Beau

I met another long-timer at the 95-person hamlet of Burwash Landing at milepost 1093 on the Alaskan Highway. We were the sole patrons of the quaint Kluane Museum of Natural History with its interesting taxidermy collection complete with a standing polar bear that stretched to an imposing ten-feet in height. The proprietor, a caustic young man with long hair and beard told me he was originally from Toronto. "How did you get up here?", I asked. "By Greyhound!" was his curt answer, and the conversation deteriorated from there. 

An hour-long wait along the southern stretches of Kluane Lake
due to blasting associated with new construction.

Patience is a must requirement for travel on the Alaska Highway whether encountering long  sections of road with pot holes the size of boulders, or extensive delays due to construction and the never-ending maintenance associated with extreme frost upheaval that occurs during the long winter months. 

Almost two weeks earlier I had met truck-driver Jon at  near the beginning of the Alaskan Highway. He warned me to drive carefully, especially around wild animals. "Don't drive like dumb-shit", he had said. Jon's words were prophetic on the evening of my second return day when I encountered a black bear sow and three small cubs. One of the cardinal rules is to never leave your vehicle to approach wild animals, and to beware of oncoming traffic. 

Black Bear Sow and her Three Cubs
in Northern British Columbia

One of the three curious cubs
beside the Alaska Highway

As I was pulling over the right shoulder, facing east, a robust family of about eight tourists were piled out of a large van just ahead of me. Three of them spilled out onto the road, within ten yards of the sow, and incredulously, two more fumbled around in the back of the van pulling out tripods and cameras. Just as the pair with the cameras started across the road towards the bears, an enormous blast from a 28-wheeler erupted behind our jeep and an accelerating driver swept his rig past us, barreling down the middle of the road and barely missing the tourists. The sow kept on munching grass and inching her brood further down the ditch beside the road as the undeterred visitors set up their tripod and snapped pictures.

The remainder or the trip was relatively uneventful and I was visiting my mother -- she had returned to her assisted-care facility several days earlier -- ten days after leaving Anchorage. Beau and I stayed in Toronto two more days and then returned to Ithaca. 

Beau's behavior was no different from the many other times he had returned home from a long trip. As we neared our home, he sat up, started to whine and jiggle all over. His tail flapped loudly against the jeep's seat and he dashed from the driver's side as soon as I opened the door. Around and around the lawn he ran then bounded in the house as Doris opened the front door to greet him. After his hugs from her, he was back outside, sniffing new smells for deer and squirrels throughout the property. Then, as is his ritual, he raced around the house again, this time stopping at the water dish for a few noisy laps. Within half an hour, he was stretched out on his favorite chair, sound asleep and snoring softly.

After gassing and cleaning the jeep, I returned it to the Avis at the Ithaca airport the following morning. Thirty-five days and 10,049 miles after leaving Ithaca with my boy.

Epilogue:
It has been five years since our Alaska trip. Beau turned 16 on election day, 2012, and is still a wonderful and easy traveler. My days as veterinary dean behind me, I rejoined the faculty and continue to teach and now do research and write on the history of veterinary medicine and its impact on the future of the profession. I have given several talks about our trip to various groups, encouraging people to be more attuned to the human-animal bond and more receptive to exploring life and this great country with our dogs and other pets.

Dr. Smith invites comments at dfs6@cornell.edu

Driving With my Dog to Alaska: Yukon

Donald F. Smith, Cornell University

Posted September 4, 2012

Five years ago my dog, Beau, and I drove from our home in upstate New York to Alaska and back. The first eight installments can be found by clicking the "Traveling with Beau" link on the upper right-hand corner of the Home Page. In the last blog, Beau and I traveled through the province of British Columbia. We are soon to enter the Yukon.

This would be our longest day and we started it at 4:30 when we went for our morning walk in the dark. Dark, that is, except for the zillion stars that fenestrated the inky sky. Beau ate nothing and neither did I. Excitement, perhaps.

Beau's mood improved as we pulled into the Fort Nelson gas station alongside a huge tractor trailer with 'Lydan' written on its side. Driver Jon-without-an-h, a big man with a gregarious smile for such an early start, told me what to expect on this most challenging portion of the Alaska Highway, then we both went inside for coffee. We were the first customers of the day so the coffee was free; in reality, the women knew Jon, and I was in his shadow. 

As I watched Jon ascend the steep stairs and center his gravity in the massive cockpit, he turned back to me, “Just stay alert for animals, some days you see none and other days, you roll around a corner going too fast, and find a bull moose standing in the middle of the road staring at you. And be careful in the mountains. They are treacherous if you take the corners too quickly, especially Suicide Hill." Then he delivered a final memorable admonition, "Don't drive like dumb-shit, and maybe I’ll see you two at the hot springs for breakfast.”

So off we went, headlights focused on the big rig ahead of us.  That worked well for the first 60 km, until we entered the mountains and Jon pulled off at a truck turnout to test his brakes.  We were on our own now, peering into the black morning as the caution signs for moose and other animals reminded us that we were not alone.

At our second pit stop of the morning, the stillness of the mountain air was sharply punctuated by a blast of a truck horn as a massive beast roared by. I was about to grumble about the evil monster when I caught the hearty wave and bright smile of Jon as he leap-frogged us. I wanted to jump in the jeep and race after him, but we both knew we would be foolish to move at his speed.  He would have to have breakfast without us. Sadly, we never saw Jon again, but whenever we saw a Lydan truck, or witnessed a driver doing “dumb shit”, I thought of our friend.

We had been traveling alone in the mountains for over an hour with the sun now shining brightly when I spotted two caribou walking down the road towards us. Beau saw them, too, and he sat up straight and peered intently through the windshield. I’m not sure which of us was more excited as Beau started to whine and jiggle all over, and I pulled over onto the shoulder and grabbed the camera. 

Bull caribou and yearling beside the Alaska Highway

We spent the next 20 minutes watching a bull and a yearling graze beside the road, periodically returning to the road to advance a few yards, then ambling into the brush once again.  I would like to have stayed with the gangly pair all day, but we were almost 800 km from Whitehorse, so we moved back onto the road and began to accelerate. Almost on cue, the mature caribou strolled out into the road just in front of us and proceeded to walk right down its center, not more than 10 feet from our bumper.  For the next 10 minutes, we inched forward as the bull moved to the side of the road, only to cross back into our path. Time and time again, his game continued–-at least, it seemed to me like his little game--then we finally crested a hill and they dashed into the brush and were gone. Regardless what happened for the rest of the trip to Whitehorse, we had seen and photographed our first big animals.

The scenery along the road was breathtaking. We were traveling through the rugged Canadian Rockies, with large mountains and fast-moving rivers racing along the road beside us. 

The Alaska Highway (arcing along the left side of the photo),
followed the course that the river had cut  between the mountains.

On that quiet morning, the reflection in the water was as clear
as the view above the surface.

Periodically we would come to a large lake, with vistas reflecting scenery below the surface as stunning as those above.

Stone sheep ram high on a ridge 
overlooking the Alaska Highway. 

For the most part, the road was in good condition. However, pot holes and deep trenches carved by shifting winter ice caught us unawares too often and we tempered our speed accordingly. We were also on the constant lookout for animals, and our slower-than-average speed made it difficult for the locals who barreled through in their large double-wheeled trucks, or the RV drivers who were more interested in getting to their park for the night than savoring the views.       

Suicide Hill was impressive with its tight curves and precipitous descent. On its shoulder stood two sets of  floral wreaths bearing testament to those who had been unable to control their vehicle on an icey morning. One of the wreaths contained in its circle the picture of a double-long rig that apparently went over the edge carrying a good-looking young man who was pictured beside his truck on a happier day. 

By midmorning, we had seen over 20 Stone sheep: ewes with sharp points on the horns and flat-headed calves still waiting for the first buds to appear. Males with ruggedly-built curved horns stood watch beside the road or perched in the rocky ledges high above.                                                                

Stone sheep ewe and lamb in the Rockies

We arrived at the Liard River Hot Springs about noon. Jon was nowhere to be found though other truckers had taken his place. Because the hot springs were popular with tourists, everyone seemed relaxed and in a jovial mood. Some were warmer than others, but I had a good excuse to decline the invitation to take a dip in the hot springs with an overly-friendly Minnesota woman because dogs were not allowed in the pool area. Instead, I gathered a hearty feast of chicken and vegetables from the convenience store and Beau and I had a lazy lunch and a well-deserved nap.

A large bison herd is frequently sighted near the Liard Hot Springs and Beau and I were not disappointed. Part of the herd was grazing on a hillside far from the road, but several of the cows and calves, and two massive bulls, were near the highway. Though they appeared to be resting comfortably, they were not chewing their cuds as I would have expected and when a boisterous tourist party got too close, they jumped up and disappeared into the bush. 

Wood Bison near Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park.

After crossing and recrossing the British Columbia-Yukon border, we were finally beyond the midpoint of our day's journey. Eight miles from Watson Lake we stopped at Sign Post Forest. Locals call it "the world's largest collection of stolen property" as there are signs from hometowns around the world. The first sign was placed in 1942 by a homesick U.S. Army G.I. who was one of the thousands of Americans sent north to build the Alaska Highway. He erected a sign pointing towards his hometown of Danville, Illinois. Watson Lake now maintains the site which allegedly contains over 10,000 signs. One could spend a full afternoon walking among the rows and rows of names and observing the clever ways tourists have celebrated their favorite places.  

Sign Post Forest near Watson Lake dates to 1942 and contains the world's 
"largest collection of stolen property".

It was a blazing hot afternoon and I could not leave Beau in the jeep to watch the historical movie at the adjacent Information Center. It tells the story of how the highway had been built by the American military in response to concerns of a Japanese land invasion following Pearl Harbor. Sensing my disappointment, the overtly friendly staff invited Beau as a VIP guest and we watched the movie together, then gathered outside for pictures and cold water.

Situated almost equidistant between
New York City and Tokyo, Japan,
Sign Post Forest lies a few miles from Watson Lake in the Yukon.

It was late in the afternoon when we finally said goodbye to our friends in Watson Lake, promising to visit them on our return trip. The Rocky mountains and the day's large animals behind us, we hurried on the last 440 km towards Whitehorse. 

The entrance to Teslin Bridge, approximately two hours
from Whitehorse, Yukon.

Stopping at the Teslin River crossing for dinner, we had a relaxing visit with a couple from Montana whom we had met at a rest stop earlier in the day. Driving the Alaska Highway can be like that: long stretches of nothing and no one, then you can be surprised by the joy of seeing a person you met earlier and it is as if you are reunited with a close friend. A friendly, helpful close friend. 

Dr. Smith invites comments at dfs6@cornell.edu