TraceysTrek

Our first morning began at a surprisingly leisurely pace. There was even time for a proper cup of tea before the serious business of Arctic dressing commenced. Snow suits were tried on, swapped, and exchanged like we were backstage at a winter fashion show. Boots were tested, rejected, and reclaimed. Some of us needed two pairs of socks to achieve that perfect, snug fit. Once satisfied we resembled a slightly over-padded expedition team, we made our way to join the rest of the group for a hearty breakfast.

A quick apology to my lovely roomies — but I do wish Lisa had been in our lodge. Yes, she woke everyone at 6am, but she did so bearing tea like a domestic angel. She had even made everyone’s bed the night before! We, meanwhile, failed to make even one between us. Standards were clearly slipping.

After breakfast, Anton gave us an introduction to Finland, the facilities, and the local wildlife — wolves, lynx and bears. Thankfully the bears are currently hibernating. Phew. We then shared our names and, rather painfully, our very limited knowledge of Finnish facts. The collective report card would read: Must try much harder.

And then it was time. Onto the bus for an hour’s journey to what many believed would be the highlight of the trip — husky dog sledding.

We heard them before we saw them.

As we stepped off the bus, the air was filled with barking — 53 huskies, all leaping and yelping in their enclosures, desperate to run. The energy was electric. They were incredibly friendly too — some jumping up for attention, others offering enthusiastic doggy kisses. We gave out plenty of cuddles, but it was clear affection was secondary. These dogs wanted to work.

They all had names and the year of their birth on their enclosures.

After a short briefing, we split into two groups. One person would sit on the sled wrapped in an animal skin and blanket; the other would stand behind as driver. The sleds looked surprisingly delicate — thin wood, small fittings, what appeared to be string holding it all together. It felt wonderfully old-school.

The scene had a dramatic, slow-motion quality to it — like an Arctic episode of Top Gear. Goggles were adjusted. Gloves clapped together. Drivers mounted the skis and leaned into the brake. Six dogs per sled were already pulling, barking impatiently.

Then — release.

Each sled jolted forward with a sharp tug. Whoops of exhilaration, or fear, pierced the air as teams sped off one by one, spraying snow behind them. Almost instantly, the barking stopped. The dogs were in full flight.

We had been warned: some dogs poo while running, others stop mid-route. At up to 30mph, that could present… hazards. I pulled my balaclava higher and thanked goodness for snow goggles. Evasive manoeuvres were not high on my list of novice skills.

The first group returned glowing, breathless and raving about how incredible it was. Some dogs rolled joyfully in the snow to cool down, yet were barking to go again almost immediately.

Then it was my turn.

I was paired with Steve, who had done this before and generously encouraged me to drive first. Standing on the narrow skis, feet poised on the brake, I wondered how on earth I was meant to stay upright. We’d been told to keep tight hold and lean into corners. Simple enough in theory.

Then suddenly — we were off.

It truly felt like being fired from a gun. I kept my weight firmly on the brake at first, then slowly eased off. We surged forward, quickly catching the sled ahead. Snow-covered trees blurred past; low branches demanded the occasional duck. Cold air rushed at my face. As my confidence grew, so did our speed. Cornering improved. I became meticulous about placing my foot securely back on the ski each time I lifted it from the brake.

Our dog team were magnificent. The two lead dogs were having a mild territorial disagreement — the one on the left clearly fancied the right-hand position and persistently nudged his partner into deeper snow. Meanwhile, one of our back dogs had the most extraordinary hip swagger, as though he were strolling casually rather than pulling a sled at speed. We promptly christened him Swagger Jagger.

The full route was 10km. At the halfway point we stopped and swapped. Steve took over driving while I nestled into the passenger seat. Let me just say: there is absolutely no suspension on a sled. Every bump was felt. The faster we went, the more enthusiastic the jolting. My internal organs may never forgive me.

And then, just like that, it was over.

We thanked our dog team with generous pats and grateful cuddles, relieved to have avoided any major catastrophe. Not everyone could say the same. One member of our group had slipped from the skis but heroically held on, being dragged along behind while attempting to keep her legs running beneath her. It must have looked like a cartoon sketch. The guides shouted for her to let go, which she eventually did — leaving her passenger sled briefly driverless and moving like a runaway train. Thankfully, the dogs eventually stopped, allowing dignity (mostly) to be restored.

As far as I am aware no one suffered an incident with anything else, well not that they are admitting anyway.

Rosy-cheeked and buzzing, we gathered in the main hut for a welcome lunch. The carnivores enjoyed rich reindeer soup; the vegetarians and vegans tucked into mushroom. Rolls and hot tea completed the revival.

Then it was back on the bus for the afternoon’s activities — sauna… and the much-feared ice dipping.

But that’s a story for another post.