Dogs just want to have fun.
Nowhere is this more evident than in a kennel yard at an Alaska dog-sledding operation. All you need to do is walk through the compound and several dozen lean, lively canids will greet you like a long-lost savior. Are we going out on the trail? Yes? With the sled? Soon? Oh boy!
Effervescent joy suffuses the crystalline air of winter in the Alaska interior, and it’s hard to tell whether that evanescent quality is climatic or canine in origin. Probably both. The staccato crescendo of the sled-dog concerto rings through the birch woods, and the air is so clear, the light so crisp, the tree trunks so reflective in their ivory bark cloaks, that you imagine you can see the sound waves sluicing the morning calm.
Standing on the roofs of their dog houses, they politely endure introductions—this one’s Grumpy, here’s Patch, lead female, and that’s Icepick over there—as long as their newfound friend will be taking them out on the trail on this fine 10-below-zero Fairbanks morning.
“What’s the holdup? Let’s go now!”
“Yes, they get a little excited,” kennel owner Eleanor Wirts tells me. “They’re born to run.”
Soon enough, after a bit of rudimentary instruction, I am on the back of the sled behind eight of my new best friends and away we go into the Chena River boreal forest in midwinter. Barreling along an 8-foot-wide trail through the birches, with a 10 miles per hour breeze in my face bringing extra oxygen from the dense air, it’s hard to say what’s more invigorating… The speed? The surroundings? The contagious canine enthusiasm?
It’s all so exhilarating that I quickly develop a few key impressions:
Dog sledding is easier than you think, at least at this amateur visitor-attraction level. Get going with “Hike!” No, not “Mush.” The movies are wrong, surprise. Around bends, lean right or left with the sled. To slow the dogs, stomp on the brake, an iron bar at the back of the sled that operates like a sea anchor on a sailboat. “Stomp hard,” Wirts advises, information I discover to be entirely correct.
How do you know where to go? You don’t—the dogs do. They’re practicing their profession in their home arena.
So relax and enjoy the ride.
Sled dogs are strong. When they burst around a bend and spy a straightaway ahead, the torque as they accelerate would be worthy of internal combustion—and in a way, that’s exactly what it is, as most Alaska sled dogs are fed a diet of fat-rich chum salmon, the native food that has fueled them and their ancestors for thousands of years.
It's not the Iditarod; recreational dog-sledding is low-key and delightful. Vincent Ledvina/Travel Alaska
It's just you, the dogs, the wilderness, and the sound of sled runners on snow. Chris McLennan/Travel Alaska
Everybody’s having fun. Lots of it. Everyone. When I explain my fondness for this simple winter activity, outsiders unfamiliar with Alaska picture the dogs and drivers of the famous Iditarod—which might be better described as notorious. Long-distance sled dog races (there are a dozen or so major ones worldwide) are not fun, for people or dogs; last year, despite incessant vows that this thousand-mile trek is fine for everyone, three dogs died during the race, and five more in training beforehand. Simply put, sled dogs are not meant for mega-distance high speed wilderness races aimed at human glory.
In contrast, low-key recreational dogsledding is one of the most delightful activities I have ever enjoyed in the lands of the North; every piece of evidence indicates this recreation is considered a happy destiny by the dogs. And though you can encounter dogsledding around the world in snowy climes, Alaska is arguably the capital.
Sled dogs here are numerous—perhaps as many as 200,000—and dogsledding is as iconic as salmon and moose. Anthropologists figure these dogs have been key to sub-Arctic life for 9,000 years or more, and the reasons are obvious to anyone who has tried to cover any significant distance on snowshoes.
Most Alaska sled dogs (that’s an actual breed) are not the thickly coated Huskies that outsiders envision. Instead, they are lean, muscled acrobats, like ballet dancers, whose appearance is deceptive. How can they be so strong? How do they stay warm in sub-Arctic temperatures? The answers are breeding, exercise, and fat-laden salmon.
A sled dog perched on top of its doghouse. Brian Adams/State of Alaska
Anything authentic and iconic makes a great visitor attraction, and dogsled rides are ubiquitous tourist activities in the Great Land, in snowy woodlands, on glaciers in summer, and even on wheeled sleds when snow is lacking. Most of the time these rides are passive affairs, where the visitor is up front in the sled, wrapped in deep layers of down, while an experienced musher is in back guiding the ride. That’s a charming experience for anyone, and sufficient for most, but my discovery of kennels where you can drive the sled yourself opened a whole new window into midwinter frolic for me.
It’s just you and the dogs, for one thing, an undiluted excursion into the canine kingdom’s long, wonderful partnership with humanity. You'll finish your ride completely convinced the dogs want to take people around in the winter woods.
Secondly, the effect of solitude is subtle but significant. You’re out here by yourself. No sound but sled runners on snow. No psychic pressure from other people.
Third, it’s enticing to pretend you’re in charge. That’s not really true—what would you do if the dog team arbitrarily decided to head for the Arctic Circle rather than their home kennel? Inconceivable, but the solo effect is like making first tracks in a half-foot of fresh snow at Vail.
Fairbanks, the capital of Alaska’s northlands, has at least four kennel operators who will teach you and send you out on your own sled behind experienced dog teams. One operator, Arctic Dog, provides mushing lessons. Then you head out with guides, driving your own sled, to winter camps in cabin tents in the wilderness for an overnight stay. Sometimes the journey happens beneath the Northern Lights, an incomparable lifetime-memory experience.
Fairbanks, Alaska, is home to at least four operators who will teach and equip you to take a dog sledding tour. Chris McLennan/Travel Alaska
Most dogsled tours, guided or not, run an hour or so. Don’t worry about being cold—they'll bundle you up in an Arctic winter suit that makes you look like a puffy Gumby.
And when it’s all over, and you have passed through this winter wonderland in joy, there’s just one thing left to do: Thank the dogs who carried you out and back. Believe me, they'll appreciate it.
In fact, they'll ask if you can go again. … How about now?
Dogs just want to have fun.
