This is part of Travel Firsts, a series featuring trips that required a leap of faith or marked a major life milestone.
Five ecstatic huskies are pulling me through an icy white landscape, tongues lolling out of their mouths and legs pumping like pistons. Technically I’m driving a dog-powered rig, but my speeding, wedge-shaped sled feels more like a 300-horsepower sports car. As the four-legged engines strain to go faster, I press my foot onto the studded metal plate that serves as a brake, trying to slow their cadence.
It’s hard to believe that I’m in Swedish Lapland, some 120 miles above the Arctic Circle, mushing a team through hushed, snow-covered forests and over frozen lakes. I live in Texas, after all, where we’re used to horses and heatwaves but can barely drive pickup trucks in sleet.
Fueled by a reindeer-and-cheese sandwich and wearing a parka trimmed in fake fur, I’m fulfilling a life-long dream. Growing up, I loved the story of Balto, the dog that famously pulled a sled loaded with medicine to Nome, Alaska, preventing a diphtheria outbreak in 1925. I have since fantasized about gliding through a chilly, blue-white landscape behind a team of yipping huskies like him.
The way I got here was a bit of a dream as well: Each year, the Swedish outdoor company Fjallraven hosts a free, 5-day trip for 20 adventure-loving people, chosen from thousands of applicants who send in videos. I was one of several journalists invited on a 3-day, 2-night version of the experience. The goal of the trip is to show that regular people can experience extraordinary adventures, given the right instruction and gear—but in my late 50s, I’m a good 30 years older than most of the people in my group. I’ve always loved pushing myself outdoors, whether it’s backpacking, scuba diving, or paddling, so joining this trip is also my way of saying I’m nowhere near ready to give up on adventuring.
Our group begins the journey by flying from Stockholm to Kiruna, in the far north of the country. From there it’s a 20 minute-drive to the Fjellborg kennels, where we met our canine teammates, who are instantly howling with excitement. After some basic instruction by our guides—for example, “don’t let go of the sled”—we released our “anchors,” which are hand-sized metal claws set in the snow to stop the dogs from dashing off before their musher is ready. Once unleashed, I was off: Alone on a sled, driving a team of five dogs on a path beneath skies the color of dryer lint.
