Here we go again; dragged through the snow on my belly behind my dog sled, holding on for grim death and yelling “STOP!” to the six dogs up front who clearly have no wish to do anything of the sort. It’s not the first time today and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last, but these things happen, particularly when you’re a novice musher like me.
Once I manage to apply one of the snow brakes on the back of the sled – not easy when you’re sliding across the snow face down – my team slow to a halt. I gather my wits, get to my feet, remove snow from places I’d rather it not be, and we set off again across the magnificent snowbound landscapes of the Vindelfjällen Nature Reserve.
At 5,628 square kilometres this one of the largest protected areas in Europe, a truly wild region where birch and conifer taiga and wetlands in the east rise up into alpine tundra and mountains in the west. The highest peaks top out at more than 1,700 metres, located hard up against Sweden’s border with Norway.
The ancestral home of the reindeer herding Sami people, Vindelfjällen is also home to arctic foxes (one of the symbols of the reserve), brown bears, moose, elk, beavers, wolverines – and very few humans.
At the moment I’m one of those few humans, along with two other novice mushers, Karin and Heinrich from Germany, plus our guides Marie-Lise and Kaya. Oh, and thirty super-fit Alaskan husky sled dogs.
I’d been drawn to the adventure and romance of dog sledding ever since reading Call of the Wild as a kid. I grew up with dogs, and in recent years had my own border collie Finn, but my best mate and constant companion died recently, which gave me the notion to remember him by heading off on this little adventure with Swedish outfit Cold Nose Huskies, based in Lapland.
Why Cold Nose Huskies? Well, not only are owners Lars Hoffman and Malin Strid top level sled dog racers (Malin has twice been the Swedish champion), their care for the sixty or so Alaskan huskies they race is second to none, which was also important to me.
It was a selection of these magnificent animals that I’d be travelling with. And let’s be honest, if you’re going to be pulled across the snow by dogs, why not do so with some of the finest of their kind? It did occur to me at one point that mushing with Lars’ and Malin’s dogs was the canine equivalent of a learner driver turning up at Silverstone and having Lewis Hamilton offer them a few laps in his new F1 Ferrari. Still, in for a penny, in for a Swedish krone…
After flying into the town of Arvidsjaur, famous for being the location for winter vehicle testing by the likes of Volvo, BMW and Mercedes, a 1.5-hour road trip took me to the Cold Nose base at Gargnäs, not far south of the Arctic Circle – which means lots of snow and sub-zero temperatures for much of the year, exactly what a sled dog requires for a happy and contented life.
Here I met Lars, our guides (the above-mentioned Marie-Lise and Kaya, who also work at Cold Nose Huskies looking after and training the dogs) and, of course, the dogs.
Cold Nose Huskies race and breed Alaskan huskies exclusively – the breed originates, as the name suggests, in the far north of the American continent, where the consistent cross breeding of Nordic dogs with other working breeds such as hunting dogs has resulted in a highly efficient and hardy breed of sled dog. Alaskan huskies are considerably faster and possess more stamina than pure-bred Nordic sled dogs like the Siberian husky.
They have a dense coat and robust paws – essential for long sled dog races – and come in a variety of colours. In fact, some look very similar to my old pal Finn the border collie, whilst others have more of the appearance of a traditional sled dog, all fur, sticky-up ears and those amazing ice blue eyes that make them look cooler than James Bond.
I was also surprised to discover just how people-friendly Alaskan huskies are. I’d been expecting them to be a little wild, maybe even aggressive, but not a bit of it – they love being with people and appreciate a scratch behind the ears as much as any lap dog.
Lars told me that these highly intelligent animals “…respond well to training, although despite their sociable and easy-going nature they’re also ingenious and have a mind and a will of their own, which means that training them takes time and experience. But all Alaskan huskies have one thing in common – their incredible will to run”.
Our first meeting with the Cold Nose crew consisted of being shown how a dog sled works. This would be carrying all our personal gear, some of the dogs’ supplies, and, of course, myself at the back.
Essentially there are two foot-operated brakes at the back between the runners, on which you stand, two additional ‘snow hooks’, or anchors, for holding the sled in place against the pulling dogs when you’re not on the sled, and one thing you must never forget – DON’T LET GO! Because if you do, the dogs will just carry on running, over the horizon and off into the great white beyond.
Then it was time to meet the dogs, the moment Karin, Heinrich and I had all been waiting for. When I visited, Lars and Malin had some sixty dogs in all, including two litters of puppies with another on the way. All are trained for racing, including taking part in Europe’s two main sled dog races, the Finnmarksløpet, in which Malin has placed third, and the Femundløpet, the world’s biggest sled dog race, in which Malin – who was away on a dog physiotherapy course on my visit – has placed second.
We were given the basic instructions for controlling them – “OK” to run (not, as I’d expected, “Mush”) and “Stop” to – well, that’s pretty obvious. Then we were shown how to harness the dogs and put them in their traces before a short introductory ride on the sleds through the local forests.
This seemed straightforward enough. Indeed, dogsledding is straightforward enough on the kind of short, smooth, easy trails we encountered at this point, but things get a little more interesting when the terrain and the snow conditions become more challenging, as I would discover.
The next day we drove west with the dogs for two hours to the edge of the Vindelfjällen Nature Reserve and the settlement of Danasjön, so small and remote it hardly passed muster as a hamlet. This would be the starting point for our adventure.
The three of us were each assigned a team of six dogs, which we would then work with over the following four days. My lead dogs were the surprisingly diminutive Lava and the ever vigilant Chipper; behind these two were Chipper’s brothers Maverick and Viper, both cool blue eyed dependables happy to pull without complaint all day long. At the back were little Wenonah, who had her own stylish bespoke t-shirt to protect from harness rubs, and the relentlessly enthusiastic Lakota, with her cute oversize ears which seemed to have been borrowed from a dog a size bigger. I probably wasn’t supposed to have a favourite, but Lakota nevertheless took up that role and soon became the first dog I’d scratch behind the ears when we stopped.
Since we didn’t get started until early afternoon the first day was to be a short one of just 30km to a remote riverside cabin called Flottar Koja located on the edge of the forest. Departing was a moment of high anxiety for me (and I dare say Karin and Heinrich) as by now the dogs, harnessed and ready to run, were absolutely desperate to be off, as the deafening howling and barking indicated.
Each team left one by one with a gap of maybe a minute between them; lead guide Marie-Lise would stop a kilometre or so up the trail, where we would all regather and continue in line, with maybe just a hundred metres or so between each dog team from there on.
I was fourth to go, and by this stage Lava, Chipper and co, having seen so many of their canine companions head off into the wild white yonder already were beside themselves to get moving.
Lars, who would be following us later on a snowmobile, shouted above the din “Use the brake when you start – they’ll go too fast otherwise!”, I released the snow hooks, stood on the brake, yelled “OK!” and, with only the slightest release of said brake we were off like a rocket, as Lars had predicted.
Applying more force to the brake I managed to slow the dogs down to a manageable pace, and now they were running their barking and howling ceased as we whisked across a snowbound meadow to join the other teams. Leaving Danasjön, we would now travel for almost 200km without seeing another settlement and, other than three other dog teams and the occasional snowmobiler/ice fisherman, no other humans – a rare experience in Europe.
Our introduction to travelling through Vindelfjällen on a dog sled was probably as easy as it comes. The terrain was generally flat, alternating between forest and frozen marshland where we were able to move easily over icebound lakes. The warm sun of ‘spring-winter’ (or ‘gidádálvve’ as the Sami call this brief hiatus between the dark, cold days of winter and the long, bright days of summer) meant the insulated musher’s overalls I was wearing were almost too warm.
It didn’t seem long before out of nowhere appeared Flottar Koja cabin. The dogs were released from their harnesses, fed and then bedded down on straw (this, the dogs’ food and various other supplies were carried by Lars on a trailer behind his snowmobile – each day he would set off after us, overtake at some point on the trail and then continue on to set up our overnight stop).
Back amongst the humans, after the dogs had been seen to, chores were divvied out – chopping firewood and lighting the stove, collecting drinking water from the river running by, making tea and preparing the evening meal before we all settled in for the night.
Our cabin was a basic but cosy timber building with bunks, a large and, when lit, very warm stove and an outside toilet. Obviously, there was no electricity or running water this far off the grid, but it was all we needed.
This late in the winter season the night time temperature didn’t dip far below zero, but Lars told me that the dogs were able to sleep outside in temperatures as low as minus 40; if it was snowing they would simply allow the snow to settle over them, so that the following morning rather than a team of huskies you might find several snowy mounds, with maybe an ear or two sticking up out of the snow.
After a good feed, and with darkness falling around 9.30pm, everyone retired to their bunks for a sound night’s sleep. The day had been mentally as well as physically challenging and tomorrow we had a 6am start, so bed was definitely the place to be. Outside, other than the occasional ‘yip’ from one of the dogs, all was silent, a quiet ‘spring-winter’ night on the edge of the Arctic Circle.
The following few days followed much the same pattern of waking around six (as far north as we were, the sun was already well above the horizon) after which the dogs would be fed by Lars, Kaya and Marie-Lise while Karin, Heinrich and I sorted our own breakfasts and prepared our kit for the day ahead.
Then it was time to prepare our dog teams. These gentle souls endured my incompetence at getting them into their harness and the traces with silent fortitude, perhaps occasionally giving me an encouraging lick on the face as I faffed about. However, once they realised we were about to set off all hell broke loose – howls, wails, barks and yelps rent the air and the dogs would leap and strain forward in their harnesses. The only thing preventing a high speed departure was a combination of snow hooks, sled brakes and the fact that the sled was also roped to a tree – even six desperate sled dogs aren’t capable of uprooting a pine tree.
Sled loaded, snow hooks stashed and rope released, I’d stand with all my weight on the brakes as first Marie-Lise, then Karin and Heinrich departed, my team howling like banshees to be off. If I was lucky I’d get out of the starting blocks and away with some modicum of control, but more than once the speed and enthusiasm of the dogs caught me off-guard and resulted in the sled toppling over. That one essential command “Don’t let go!” would light up in my brain like a neon sign before managing to stop the dogs, sort out the mess and get on my way again.
Over the next few days, we explored the harsh but beautiful northern wilderness of the Vindelfjällen, entirely reliant on our dog teams to get us around. Passing through cold, shady conifer and birch forests, crossing flat, white, frozen lakes or climbing up onto the bright whaleback fells, the dogs took it all in their stride and, once having burnt off the initial high voltage enthusiasm at the start of each day would settle into a harmonious padding across the snow. Once I had the hang of the basics of mushing, and if the terrain wasn’t too testing, it was a simple matter to drift into the moment and, like the dogs, become part of the landscape through which we were travelling.
It was on the third day that, for me, things really fell into place. Leaving our rustic cabin above Lake Överst-Juktan we travelled north over the fells beneath the elongated summit of 976-metre Ruvsátjåhkka, the dogs hauling slowly up the gradual 300-metre ascent with me occasionally hopping off the sled to provide a helping push on the steeper sections, until eventually we rose above the tree line to discover a panorama that seemed to stretch forever in all directions other than west, where the large, blocky peaks of the Norra Storfjället mountain range thrust up into a milky sky and drew our attention.
The highest point of the range is the 1,768-metre summit of Norra Sytertoppen, an altitude that’s relatively modest in comparison to, say, the Alps, yet this remote, unpopulated landscape felt wilder and far more primeval than Europe’s bigger and better-known mountain ranges. Discovering it with the help of my willing team of huskies was as fine and appropriate way of doing so as I could imagine; indeed, the only other way to travel such distances in winter in this remote part of Scandinavia is by snowmobile – easier and quicker, yes, but neither as harmonious nor as satisfying as doing it the old-fashioned way.
The following day, which became much longer than expected due to difficult terrain and the fact that the guides had to build snow bridges across a couple of streams so we could continue on our planned route, we found ourselves crossing low hills and frozen lakes in heavy snow and dwindling light as we made our way back to our start point in Danasjön.
The six guys up front padded along contentedly doing something they had literally been born for, and they gave me the confidence to feel quite at ease in this harsh but beautiful environment – however rubbish I may be as a musher, my dogs would get me where I wanted to go.
I became aware that dipping my toe into the sled dogging experience like this was a privilege – essentially, I was taking part in a traditional means of travelling through the snowbound Scandinavian wilds. And whilst I certainly hadn’t mastered it, I did feel increasingly comfortable, but that was only because I had a team of dogs I could trust implicitly.
And Formula One dogs at that.
Alf Alderson mushed with Cold Nose Huskies who offer multi-day dog sledding wilderness adventures in northern Sweden from 26000 SEK (approx. £1,900) per person.
Flights from London to Stockholm from £142 return with SAS.
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