Run with the big dogs: specialized dogsled tours can turn almost anyone into a musher - Travel

Sunset, Feb, 2003 by Kurt Repanshek

There was no need, Nicolle Smith assured me, to command Aries, Gaiter, Loathing, and the rest of my sled dogs to "mush" to get them moving. After I double-checked my viselike grip on the sled and jumped on the runners, a simple "All right!" would shift these six 45- to 50- pound balls of muscle and fur from neutral to high gear in no time.

Before we headed off on a 10-mile trot toward Granite Hot Springs in Wyoming's Bridger-Teton National Forest, the 25-year-old guide gave me some solemn advice. "The most important thing is to hang onto the handlebar. Even if you fall over, hang onto the handlebar. If the sled gets lighter, the dogs want to go faster."

Just 10 minutes earlier, Smith had introduced me and a few other firs-time mushers to dogsledding, and now I found myself listening to the excited baying of my dogs, who obviously were more confident about dashing into the forest than I was.

Throughout the West, more than a dozen outfitters offer would-be mushers not just a ride but the chance to pilot their own sleds. Most of these trips run a half-day or full-day, some even longer. My choice was the day-long trip with Jackson Hole Iditarod Sled Dog Tours, a 22-year-old operation run by Frank Teasley, a veteran of eight Iditarod races in Alaska's rugged outback.

Teasley has nearly 200 dogs in his kennel and runs trips into mid-April. Despite the high-strung nature of Alaskan huskies, Teasley's are obedient enough to deliver just about any type of experience you want.

"These days, when people are going on adventures, they really want to participate," Teasley told me. "If you want a mellow experience, we can do that. If you want to rock and roll, we can do that too."

Rolling was far from Smith's mind as she drove out ahead of me with two other dogsledding newbies aboard, Jan and Jack Larimer. But even guides have bad days: while Smith's dogs easily negotiated a nicely sloping hill, moments later her sled rode up onto a snowbank and tipped over unceremoniously. Unfazed by the mishap, the Larimers hopped back onto the righted sled, but the incident made me more nervous.

Standing on the runners is tricky As we zipped off through the forest, it took me a while to find my balance--just a slight lean to the left or right would easily change the direction of the sled. Uphills required me to jog between the runners, helping to lighten the dogs' load; downhills let me hop back aboard and catch my breath, nervously keeping my foot poised just above the brake bar.

Unlike the noisy snowmobiles that occasionally passed us on the trail, our four-pawed engines were wonderfully quiet (the dogs only resort to yelping when it's time to get going after a break), minimally polluting, and suffered no mechanical breakdowns. We didn't cruise faster than 6 to 8 miles per hour, the mellow pace allowing plenty of time to savor the scenery. With the runners hissing gently as they skimmed across the snow, I kept a lookout for wildlife while feasting my eyes on the soaring, snowy cliffs of the Gros Ventre Range.

We enjoyed a soak at Granite Hot Springs, followed by a leisurely lunch. On our return trip we finally spotted a wild animal: a gangly young moose that was crossing the trail several hundred yards ahead. Seeing us, the moose stopped in the middle of the trail, forcing me to jump heavily onto the brake to prevent chaos. By now I felt like a musher with 150 miles under his belt, even though we'd only traveled a little more than 10.

Am I ready for the Iditarod? Not yet. But another day dogsledding in the woods? Definitely.

Mushing the West

Outfitters listed below teach people of all ages and abilities to mush a sled on trips that range from a half-day up to a week; shorter trips may be available. See www.dogsledrides.com for more outfitters and information.