The brittle cold of Dead Dog Flats is enough to make my parka crinkle as I ladle out the hot mixture of fat and tripe, chicken protein and kibble. One by one the dogs emerge from their houses and, by the time I have gone through the whole yard, a cloud of steam rises above us like a big, collective breath. All our warmth and exhalations are suspended above and around us, encased like a bubble in the -50 night air. Another day like this goes by and yet another. Too cold to run.Read more here: http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/science-dog-mushing-alaska?page=0,0
