After about 48 hours spent in dog sledding command centers, Fort Kent restaurants, and remote checkpoints, I’ve learned quite a bit about dog sledding … and the people who share a passion for the sport.

First, a quick disclaimer. While I do consider myself a “dog person” – even though I’ve been dogless for a number of years now – I find the lengths these serious mushers go to for their sport nothing short of astounding.

Actually, “astounding” wasn’t my first word choice, but after proofreading the paragraph, I realized my initial selection might lead to “columnist” being added to the accepted flavors of Purina Dog Chow … and I changed it.

And since sled dogs seemingly love to eat raw, frozen beaver meat, among other unappetizing “treats,” I didn’t want to press my luck.

Just let me say this regarding the “astounding” nature of mushing, mushers, and the people who love both: Many of these dogsled racers have 20 or 30 or 50 dogs in their backyards, and they pick and choose the fastest, the most eager, or the smartest to put together racing teams that might be successful at an event like the Can-Am Crown 250.

Now, even though I love dogs, and I am a (dogless) dog person, that kind of information, gleaned from conversations with musher-folk in parking lots from Fort Kent to Allagash elicited a single (seemingly rational … but after not sleeping much, I’m not sure about that) thought:

The biggest difference between mushers and that odd old lady down the road with 50 cats living in, on, and under her mobile home is the fact that you can’t harness cats to a sled … or, even if you can, the resulting drivetrain won’t get you from Portage Lake to Maibec very darned quickly.

I know. Not too rational. But you’ve got to remember: It’s 4:30 a.m. I’m sitting in a ski lodge waiting for mushers to show up. I don’t think I slept too much last night … or the night before. And every time I close my eyes for a minute … I can still hear the huskies barking.

Now that my mindset is clear to one and all, I offer you a few more dog sledding observations, tidbits, and (as they say in the dog sledding biz) kibble that you might find amusing, amazing … or (if we’re lucky) even astounding.

Like this: You might have never seen a sled dog team at work. You might have a picture of happily yapping, yipping, barking pooches pulling a sleigh through powdery drifts.

You’d have the wrong picture for two reasons. As it turns out, dogs are more like us (or we’re more like dogs) than we’d like to believe. Have you ever tried to yip, yap, and bark while you’re puffing and panting around your local track? Of course not. As soon as you lace up your Nikes, you’re all business … and once you start running, you can’t find enough oxygen to bark … errr … talk.

Dogs do the same thing. Lash them to a sled and they’ll bark like crazy, eager to hit the trail. But as soon as you let them run … they all shut their yappers, yippers, and barkers and start running. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Graceful, even.

Oh … about the “powdery drifts” part. Dogs don’t like that any more than you would. They want a well-packed (and fast) track.

Another thing I learned was a word that kept cropping up: Punchy.

Of course, if you’ve read this far, you probably think I’m talking about myself again. Not so. Nope. Not me.

I’m not even talking about the dogs. Not really.

I’m talking about the snow. When the snow is “punchy,” it doesn’t mean it’s getting silly because it hasn’t slept much. It means a dog’s paws keep punching through the crust. That, of course, isn’t good. Just ask the dogs.

Lesson three: Dogs belch.

Now, as a former dog owner, I already knew that dogs burp. I didn’t realize their capabilities fully until I met Oscar, one of the huskies owned by Scott Smith of Dubois, Wyo.

Oscar ran 61 miles from Fort Kent to Portage Lake with 11 of his pals. He stopped. Rested a bit. Then he belched … louder and longer than Uncle Buford after a couple cans of Narragansett.

The reaction was amusing: All the dogsled fans (and there were several) first looked at their spouse, mate, or friend … then looked at Oscar. The unspoken question: Did a dog just do that? The answer: Just ask Oscar.

I learned that mushers aren’t all that chipper (nor friendly) after spending a couple days lashed to a herd of stampeding dogs. Of course, the fact that most of their “down” time is occupied by feeding, comforting, and otherwise tending to those tethered pooches (and not sleeping) might have something to do with that.

I learned that mushers are required to carry all kinds of survival gear when the head out onto the trail at these races. Among those items: snowshoes (for them, not the dogs), booties (for the dogs, not the mushers), a knife, firestarting material, and a one-day emergency supply of food for the driver and the dogs. The lesson: These mushers make things look pretty easy. It’s easy to forget that things can go pretty bad pretty quick in the Maine wilderness.

I learned that the Two Rivers Lunch in Allagash is the place to be on the Sunday night of Can-Am weekend.

I learned that you can fit 25 snowmobiles in front of Coffin’s General Store in Portage Lake, and that you’re much more apt to see a sled parked at the fuel island than you are to see a truck or a car.

I learned that the Can-Am Crown is, in fact, a well-oiled machine, and that the organizers have figured out how to put on a top-notch event. (You always hear things like that, but believe me … this time, it’s true).

And I learned that I need a dog … or two … or 20. (Sled and mushing gear optional).

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.