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Journals from a first-year dog musher
A fan of extreme sports like rock climbing and white-water rafting, Georgia resident dannynosleeves delights in off-the-beaten-path adventures. Don't miss his wallet-friendly travel journal about Nicaragua, Budget travel at its best.
From Journals from a first-year dog musher
My first-ever dogsledding run happened on my second day in Alaska. I had eight dogs to lead me, and all of them were amazing—probably some of the best in the kennel. They knew the trail system remarkably well and probably could have run it even without my commands.
Alaskan huskies are not a breed of dog that commands respect, but it's impossible not to give it to them. The way they memorize hundreds of miles of trails, dart around trees and shrubs, and work as a team is absolutely remarkable. It’s like watching a well-oiled engine run right before your eyes—48 pistons of muscle moving rapidly, pumping blood through their veins, and switching gears for the terrain ahead.
By Alaskan standards, it was a great day for running the dogs: clear skies, no wind, and temperatures around 7º F (-14ºC). The trailhead was about 45 minutes from the town of Kasilof; to the north were two snow-capped volcanoes, and to the south the trail wound down valleys, over plateaus, and past breathtaking views.
The excitement I felt right before we unhooked the dogs was like nothing I've ever experienced. Most seasoned dogsledders describe a feeling of huge anticipation right before they jump on the sled each day; I've even heard some relate it to a space-shuttle launch. But was different for me—
I didn't have the slightest bit of fear or hesitation. I was as eager and ready as the dogs were to hit the trail.
It's hard to say how I felt during that first run. "Sublime" is the first word that comes to mind. There was no tension or awkwardness involved—only calm and serenity. I never once felt fear—not when the ride escalated to a bumpy frenzy, nor when I fell off the sled for the first time.
Now that I've experienced a few trails measuring 50+ miles, I understand why sledders are such systematic, meticulous people. They wear certain clothes for certain tasks. They pack their gear into their sleds in the same way every time. You could ask a sledder what's in any of his pockets, and he would remember everything, down to the last dog biscuit. You're out on the trail for so long that you don't want to have to wonder where your gloves are after you've broken up a dogfight. You want every task, no matter how mundane, to be as mindless as possible.
