"I'm lying on the trail somewhere deep in the pine forests of Lapland, having lost the sled and the dogs. The wolves have chewed off my legs up to the knees, but it doesn't matter--they were frozen and useless. I've been drinking my own bodily fluids for as long as I can remember . . . my fingers have gangrene to the second knuckle . . . only a matter of minutes . . . until . . . my eyeballs freeze solid in their sockets--" This was the sort of journal entry predicted by a friend prior to my trip to Finland for a try at dogsledding. "You have to take a journal. They always look for them when they find the frozen body," he said.
Everyone who knew me reminded me that I layer three sweatshirts in a movie theater to keep from freezing. A trip to Arctic temperatures wouldn't seem to be the best bet. However, in seeking further understanding of the world, I've become more adventurous the older I get--scuba diving, sailing, skydiving. Cold weather was my last frontier, possibly a frontier of limitless suffering.
Buz Donahoo of Winter Park, Florida, organized the trip through his company Condor Adventures, which evolved years ago from his love of adventure. I'd traveled with him before, to Guatemala and Greece--"Buz trips," they're referred to by the initiated, those who are willing to carry their own luggage and risk a bit of the unknown. Stories from the past include people being touched by wild gorillas, as well as confronting human guerrillas.
One of my best friends, Mary Anne, had signed on for the first dogsled expedition, which was planned for March. The final sentence of the brochure, "This trip is not for everyone," sold me--that and the thought of all those furry, licking dogs. I had already paid my money before I remembered that any amount of clothing had never been enough to keep me warm growing up in Cincinnati, a place much farther south than our destination at the edge of the Arctic Circle.
We met at the Icelandair ticket counter in the Orlando airport, a mixed group of eleven--mostly retired doctors and businessmen, a kindergarten teacher, as well as Sarah, a geologist; and my friend Mary Anne, a Project Manager in construction, on her ninth Buz trip. Of course, Buz, architect and tour guide, was there, and I, writer and Broward Community College instructor. We all toted immense duffel bags on wheels, filled with expensive layering, from innermost silk underwear to thick moosehide boots called mukluks. Sarah, having worked on oil rigs off the coast of Norway, had emailed the suggestion to buy mukluks and "Smartwool" socks--the socks that know when to keep you warm and when to wick away the moisture. I had already acquired what appeared to be "dumbwool" socks.
I had many reasons to be apprehensive. I was told: "The worst thing you can do is sweat inside your clothes." Also, from research I had already learned: "The worst thing you can do is let go of the sled," meaning that the dogs don't stop running--ever. Nevertheless, I bought myself a journal covered in leopard faux fur and figured whatever happened would make a good story, and the fur journal would look nice on the trail.
On the first morning of the adventure, the mini-bus made its way slowly through a foot of new-fallen snow, amazingly without sliding or getting stuck, taking us to Aittokoski, the former lumberjack camp in North Karelia, now privately operated for the use of dogsledders. We hadn't seen a sign of civilization nor another vehicle all morning. There was a hush in the van as Tepa, our amicable Finnish guide, pointed out the signs on fence posts that indicated the border of Russia. Everyone strained to see, as if there would be something different in the fir trees or the color of the snow on the other side. Of course, it was the same, all sparkle and serenity, the slant of heavy snow softening the lines of trees, a landscape that I had learned to love, its unforgiving temperature and vastness no threat from the comfortable seat in the well-heated vehicle.
As if to remind us of our frailty amidst the elements, there was some hesitancy on the part of the woman bus driver as we passed a road with a sign thickly covered with snow. To their credit, none of the men remarked on her sense of direction. Perhaps the country of 60% women and a woman president was having its effect, or else they just had good sense. Being seasoned travelers, we were all accustomed to being taken to places unknown, by people we automatically trusted, but the ensuing Finnish conversation between our guide and our bus driver had an ominous tone.
"I hope we have plenty of gas," said one of the men.
"Good thing we saved that licorice," said another, referring to a large box of horribly salty licorice that someone had given us as a gesture of good will.
"I have Grand Marnier and trail mix with M&M's," said Mary Anne.
Sarah mentioned her flask of B&B, and at that point, the lighthearted litany of rations subsided as the driver started backing up. My lifetime of reading is always waiting to snap back on me; thus, the scene in Alive where the survivors of the plane crash slice matchstick-sized strips of flesh from the frozen buttocks of their departed friends and relatives flashed clearly across my brain.
The foolish fear was short-lived, however, as we made the turn that we had passed, and the driver looked confidently ahead into the opaque whiteness. It wasn't long until we came to our home for the next two nights, a rough-hewn cabin with a two-foot layer of snow incredibly hanging off the eaves. We were greeted as we stepped from the van by our instructors and guides for the next four days of sledding, including, Carita, Karli, and Make (pronounced like Spanish), and a college girl Sanna.
The cabin was well-heated, had indoor toilets and sinks--rather than the expected outhouses--comfortable bunks with curtains, a long trestle table with benches completely dividing the room, a blazing stove, and a homey reindeer fur-covered rocking chair. Finnish country cooking awaited us, a potato and fish casserole, tiny sour cranberries, and traditional rice bread with a hard-boiled egg and butter mixture spread thickly in the middle.
After dinner Karli told us that the sauna was hot and ready any time we wanted to use it. In Finland the statistic is one sauna for every 4.5 people, and we all wanted to experience the tradition. The women in the group took the first shift, along with our guide Sanna. It was a fifty yard walk on a path that had once been shovelled, beautiful in the dark by the glow of lanterns catching light snow flurries. The guides had set out candles along the way, which burned down, melting the snow to sculpt perfect snow lanterns of flickering fairy light.
The five of us hurriedly stripped off our clothes in the cold outer room of the rough wooden sauna and opened the door to hot, steamy dimness, the smell of a wood fire, three tiers of wooden benches, and an array of metal pots, washbasins, and large, plastic garbage cans filled with water, just visible by lamplight from outside the window. Sanna had been sent to help us, but she was a woman of so few words--a traditional Finn, we were told later--that we didn't realize at this point that she spoke English. We sat there dumb and naked for quite a while, sweating correctly, but not sure how we were supposed to wash.
Finally Sanna stood up without a word and began filling pans of water from a tall coffee percolator on the wood stove to mix with the cold water in one of the buckets. When she had the temperature right to the touch, she wet her head, took her shampoo from the windowsill, and began to lather her dark, waist-length hair, her slender body shining sleek and smooth in the dim lantern light, a surreal and beautiful vision, of which she seemed unaware as she washed. She filled and refilled a saucepan, dousing her hair and body, until she was rinsed clean, water and suds disappearing through the planks of the floor. We each took our turn, the dim light and the soap transforming us into magical nymphs. The feeling was of wonder that such a place existed, not the physical place alone, but the light, the smell, the company--the silent understanding--an experience that we could never share, could never repeat in exactly the same way.
We were driven the short distance to the dog farm the next morning and waited our turn to get dogs. Each dog was walked from the fenced area wheelbarrow-style, held by the collar or supported by the chest, depending on the level of cooperation, with front paws in the air.There were some thin-coated, unrecognizable mixed breeds, along with Alaskan huskies, Siberian huskies, and wolf huskies. The wolf brothers, Max and Mole, seemed a little more skittish than the rest, with bite marks on their faces, but neither of them ever made a move to bite a human. In all, there were 125 dogs at the farm, and when they began to howl for whatever reasons they had in their dog brains, it was a hollow but joyful sound, full of energy.
Carita, the owner, gave a us quick lesson in Finnish dog commands--no English-speaking dogs. Sanna tied my sled to a tree, with a slipknot for quick release, and told me to hold my dogs so they wouldn't tangle as she hooked them up, three females, Hilma, Farah, Kurttu, and a male, Tiusku, meaning snowstorm. He was known as the king, but only for his size and looks. The guide Make told me that handsome Tiusku was big and dumb, and that the small smart females made better lead dogs. However, I had no problem with Tiusku. The problems were all mine.
Sanna called "Ready," and I was off in a white blur, wildly out of control, impossibly clinging to the sled as the dogs tore to catch up to the group in front. The sled's runners were two inches wide and caked with snow, and my mukluks had smooth bottoms, allowing no grip whatsoever. The sled was small and light, the aluminum handle at waist height when I felt I needed it chest high for better security. It became necessary to balance on one foot much of the time, due to the difficulty of finding the brake fast enough to avoid a collision with the sled in front of me. Not running into the hind legs of the wheel dogs or barrelling too fast on a steep downhill curve and being dumped also required quick use of the brakes. It was a crazy ride, like hanging onto the back of a shopping cart going down a mountain.
Tangling was the worst, the helpless feeling standing behind the sled unable to let go, yelling ei, ei, meaning stop, stop, to have absolutely no effect as the dogs jumped on top of each other and tied themselves together, face to tail. We traveled only fifteen kilometers that day, transporting the sleds and dogs from the farm to our camp, but it took us three hours with everyone's tangles, compared to less than an hour's run back on the last day.
The big surprise came when we were nearing our cabin. I was feeling bold and skillful, not having fallen or been dragged. There appeared a five-foot, 60-degree slope with a hard right turn onto the icey road below it. The dogs didn't wait for the sled to hit the road. They took the turn midway on the hill, and pulled hard, knowing their dog food was only a short trot away. They ran even faster with their cargo dumped in the road. The fall was nothing. I was up without feeling it, running, knowing I would never catch the dogs. But it was handled. Karli was waiting short way down the road, ready to grab the sled, knowing that each of us would bite it--one worst fear, surpassed.
The next day was the big one, our first full day of sledding. We were told to make a sandwich to take for lunch and to bring a bottle of water, along with our overnight packs for staying at the free, government-owned cabin that was our destination. Our dinner would be shipped by sled and snowmobile. We were also told that we wouldn't be able to use a bathroom all day, because there weren't any, and the snow was too deep to get off the trail. That meant about seven hours of holding time, a cut back of coffee that morning.
I hooked up my dogs, having observed the simple but efficient rigging the day before. Kurttu, the scrawny, loud, bow-legged, thin-coated gray and black mix was quickly becoming my favorite. Later that day when the group stopped for lunch on the trail, Kurttu solidified our relationship by mouthing my sandwich and not eating it. Her teeth closed cleanly over the small pieces of bread with cheese and bologna and sprang back off without leaving a dent. I ate it, sharing one edge, a reward for self-control, but was afraid to give more since I had slathered on hot mustard.
The trail became more interesting than the short trip the day before. The hills were steeper, the curves sharper. Moguls, humps of about six feet high, broke the hard running behind the sled uphill and added thrills downhill. I noticed that my dogs were becoming spoiled, not a surprise. I was helping them, by pushing with one leg, or running behind the sled, up grades that were not very steep. Sanna, ahead of me, often kept her feet on the runners, but if I didn't push, Farah and Hilma would look back at me with a "What the hell is this?" expression until I took the hint. I finally realized that all they needed was the sound of pushing. If I stuck my toe into the snow at a regular pace, they were happy and could pull me anywhere, faster than when I was "helping." I didn't realize the trick until I was already sweaty, but I never had enough resting time for the sweat to become cold inside the heavy snowsuit I had been given.
There were long smooth runs over the lakes, where relaxing and taking pictures was possible--wiping the nose became a simple pleasure. At times there was nobody else in sight, and no sound except for the dogs' rhythmic breathing, the sled swishing over the packed snow, maybe a slight howl of breeze through pine boughs. I tried to take it all in, to keep it, not only for the writing--the search for the right images to recreate the moment--but to store the experience as part of myself, never to go back to the pre-Finland, freezing person I was. These are the benefits of travel that outweigh the cost, transformations of the soul and memories that gain intensity, as they do now, while I write.
We arrived at the cabin around five, having had many less tangles and stops that day. We were each responsible to unharness our dogs and hook them in pairs to the line of chain strung from tree to tree. It was another pure and peaceful setting, on a hill just above a frozen lake, with peeling birch trees and clean white snow drifts. The snow would soon turn to yellow and brown, but it didn't change the feeling of the place. We were already engaged in the process, locked in spirit to the dogs. When it had been necessary to take off a glove and untangle a harness that had been caught under a dog's tail, we had done it. Soiled hands were easily wiped in the snow. It wasn't disgusting; it wasn't cold. It was all part of the job that had to be done for the loyal, marvelous, loveable dogs.
That night it was our "chore" to feed the dogs. Karli stood with a garbage can full of Purina and warm water and measured out a few cups of it into each metal bowl, which we then placed two by two, in order, down the lines of dogs. It wasn't easy stumbling through drifts between rows of hungry, leaping animals while holding full bowls. My gloves were soaked in the soupy gravy and my boots smeared with excrement by the time we finished the feeding. No matter. I was winterized, dogisized, hypnotized--whatever you want to call a person who can stand, in 20 degree weather, tired and hungry, wearing sweat-soaked, smelly clothes and poopy boots, wiping a drip of snot from the end of her nose across a stinking, icey mitten, feeling great, and thinking with excitement, tomorrow will be exactly the same.
The next day I felt like an expert, harnessing my dogs and tying my line to the tree after Make's sled. I finished hooking up my dogs, and awaiting my turn to go, I bent to pet Kurttu. Just as Sanna motioned me to the sled, the dog jumped and popped me in the nose with her head. Perfect timing. I swiped across and there was no blood. Sanna yelled "Ready," and I was still grabbing for the sled and barely finding a runner when she yanked the quick-release. Somehow I hung on through the burst of speed and got both feet where they were supposed to be, although those furry locomotives showed no mercy. We caught up to Make in seconds, tearing across the lake to stop and wait.
When the other sledders caught up, we started off through the forest of winding turns and moguls, the dogs flying faster than ever and my sled catching several feet of air over each mogul. I had an extra dog, due to splitting up someone's team who couldn't sled that day. The next time we stopped, Make said that he was worried going through the forest, fearing that my dogs were too fast and I might hit my head on a tree so he'd have to take me to an ambulance. He laughed to put me at ease, and I laughed along, the once frightening vision of my frozen body on the trail left in the journal back with the luggage.
It was a much easier day for me than the one before, letting the dogs do the work, enjoying the soft sounds of their huffing and the crunch of snow. I was beginning to believe I should live in a camp in the forest, where this would be my daily recreation. Cooking and chopping wood, walking to the sauna through the sparkling snow, carrying and heating water, it was all so primal and romantic. I could exist on very little, no need for phone or email. Maybe I could learn to write with a pen and paper.
Of course, the plan was unrealistic and that's why I'm back in South Florida. But something in me falls in love with every place I go, even frozen, snow-covered land, for the possibility of discovering something completely unexpected, delving a little farther into myself and my relationship with the world, finding more questions.
Nevertheless, when we got back to camp late that afternoon and hooked up our dogs, I went straight for the indoor bathroom. I sat at the table and stuffed myself with delicious slices of warm flaky-crusted quiche and enjoyed the conveniences. Later I fed the dogs--missing a naked dip in the ice hole with some of the others--but I took a sauna, and that evening we demolished a dinner of fresh salmon that had been cooked on planks around a fire all day, the tender pink fish served with mashed potatoes and creamy mushroom gravy. The night's celebration was filled with comradery and swapping stories, and it included the invention of the "sled dog," cloudberry liquor mixed with vodka, the newly proclaimed Finnish Buz trip libation.
It was a memorable night--although a thought hung there all the while, the knowledge that we only had the short run back to the dog farm the next morning, and then we were finished, ready to fly back to Helsinki for sightseeing, shopping, and dining. The best part of the trip was over. All was conquered--the fear of cold, injury, ineptitude. Success wasn't fulfilling enough to replace the bond created with the dogs and the elements. I wanted more, as always, more dogs, more snowy trails--a chance to jump naked into the ice hole. I could only hope to recreate the finest moments from a few fuzzy phrases in my furry journal. The answers, as well as the questions, were still elusive, and time was gone. It had sped away, was torn from me--even faster than my dogs and I had run the frozen lake and charged the steep downhill curves."
Vicki Hendricks is a Miami-based crime writer whose two books to date, Miami Purity and Iguana Love, prove once and for all that yes, everyone, women CAN write violent sexy twisted crime books so perverse that they probably do a hell of a lot better on the Continent. She's like a blonde action-woman Jim Thompson, if such a thing is imaginable. Vicki scubadives and skydives and sharkdives and generall does a lot of diving-type things which exhaust most of us just thinking about them. She says the men she meets jumping out of and into things are generally really cute. Hmm. Maybe that's why Lauren's going skydiving with her in September... )
