From the notebook:
“Today has been incredible! It was a late start, and a hearty breakfast — after feeding 70-something hungry huskies.
The dogs went off like a rocket; through the woods and down the trail — there’s no need to shout instructions or directions or “faster”, the dogs know the way and you just have to try and slow them down.
Down slopes, over humps — the sled takes off briefly, before landing with a thump — the dogs just want to go, just want to run, on and on and on.
We started the day in blue skies and sunshine — the day even felt quite warm when we had to help the dogs up hills — then before we knew it, it was cold and windy and we were having to make sure everything was covered and protected”
Reading back over the adventure’s itinerary, I’m wryly amused that this first real day of dog sledding from Gargia is described as follows “we are briefed on how a dog sleds works and how to use the ice brake and snow anchor. We then put the theory into practice and some time is spent getting used to the basics of sledding. This is followed by a session where we are introduced to the dogs”. This makes it sound a lot more…instructional than it was. First of all, how does a dog sled work? Four dogs pull the sled, you stand on the back and don’t fall off.
We’re not talking about driving a car, here — theoretically, if you shift your weight to one side you should be able to steer it. I don’t think I ever got the hang of this. The brake that was mentioned: to return to the car analogy, imagine if you had brakes that stood little to no chance of actually stopping the car.
You stand on the brake, which was a metal bar between the two runners and that dug hooks into the snow and ice to slow and stop the sled. I would typically use one or both feet, and with varying amounts of firmness, depending on how much I wanted to slow the dogs. But when the dogs wanted to run even standing on it with all my weight and both feet wouldn’t hold them back. Four eager and hyperactive huskies against a marketing nerd…
This leaves the snow anchor. It was described as looking like a medieval torture device — and, yeah, it did exactly what it said on the tin. It was a brutal-looking heavy hunk of metal on the end of a piece of rope — exactly a “snow anchor”. You would throw it down into the snow alongside the sled, stamp it forwards to dig it in, then let the dogs pull the sled tight. This anchor, and only this, would keep the sled stopped. This briefing on how the sled works and how to use the break and the snow anchor probably took less time than it took me to write that.
This was undoubtedly a good thing, as we reflected a few times: in the UK there would probably be hours of practice and health and safety briefings before being equipped with protective pads and helmets and gentle lopes around a circuit. In the Arctic they told you what you needed to know, and you’d pick up the finer details as you went along.
The dogs were a new experience for me. I mean, dogs in general are. I’d never had a dog, growing up. I’ve had friends and girlfriends with dogs, and always been a little nervous around them — the dogs, that is, not my friends. I’m generally OK with a dog once I’ve known it for a while and found them to be all bark and no bite, but faced with 70 huskies I felt a little uneasy. Especially at this time of day, first thing in the morning when the dogs have been fed and are eager to go — the sleds are all ready, and the dogs know that their day is about to start. These dogs love nothing more than to run, and they aren’t known for their patience.
70 dogs all barking and howling was a lot to take. We were shown how to harness our dogs, and how the two lead dogs always have to be put on to the sled first — with a chain between their collars, to stop them from running opposite sides of trees and posts — followed by our two back dogs. Before long we were ready to go, and I was feeling nervous — this was a completely new experience for me, and the familiar “What on earth were you thinking?” question was going round in my head.
I was glad to not be the first person to set off, just so I could see how other people were handling the speed and the first bend, off into the woods. With only 13 of us in total, it was quickly my turn — I took a big gulp, pulled the anchor out of the snow and before I had fully straightened up, the dogs were off. I don’t exaggerate when I say in my notebook they were like a rocket, I would affectionately call them my “rocket dogs” — it makes me smile now to remember how terrifying this first part was, and how I spent the first few minutes desperately trying to slow the dogs down, so I wouldn’t break my neck.
The accommodation for the night in Souluvombi was almost as good as the first: we all had beds, plus there was heating and electricity. The first day sledding was the perfect way to start the adventure — just enough difficulty and adversity, but not too long a day. It obviously was not an accident: they would want to break us in gently, but we were fortunate to have favourable weather conditions.
They weren’t to last.