A Musher’s Journey

Frozen Trails and Fire in Their Veins

The cold bites through my gloves as I tighten the last tugline. My breath curls in the air, disappearing into the crisp silence of the trail ahead. The dogs, their muscles trembling with anticipation, are barely containing their excitement. Their breath comes in sharp, eager bursts, eyes locked forward, waiting for the word.

I plant my foot on the sled’s runner and take a deep breath.

“Hike!”

The world erupts.

Before the Sled: A Whisper of the Past

I wasn’t born into mushing. I didn’t grow up with a sled at my feet or dogs bred for the trail. But something about it has always pulled at me—this untamed, relentless call of the north. It’s the same call that once beckoned trappers, explorers, and mail carriers through lands untouched by roads.

For centuries, before planes or snowmobiles, dogs were the lifeline of the Arctic. Inuit and Indigenous peoples perfected the art of dog sledding long before the word “mushing” ever existed. These weren’t pets; they were partners, survival woven into the sinew of their bodies. Later, explorers and frontiersmen relied on sled dogs to chart the unknown, pushing further into the frozen abyss.

One of the most famous teams, led by Leonhard Seppala, carried the lifesaving diphtheria serum to Nome in 1925, racing against time and the elements. The relay covered nearly 700 miles in just over five days, with teams enduring whiteout blizzards, subzero temperatures, and exhaustion. It was more than a race—it was a testament to what these dogs were made of.

And somehow, all these years later, standing behind my own team, I feel that same fire burning in their veins.

Learning the Ropes: When the Trail Teaches You

No one tells you how humbling your first mushing experience will be.

I imagined myself as a natural—just me, my sled, and my dogs, gliding effortlessly across the snow. That was before I found myself face-first in a snowbank, my sled dragging behind an overexcited team, while I scrambled to get back on my feet.

Mushing isn’t just hopping on a sled and yelling commands. It’s a relationship, an understanding between musher and dog that can’t be forced, only earned. The first thing I learned? The dogs know way more than I do.

Each dog has a role. The lead dog is the brain of the operation, guiding the team and responding to every command. Wheel dogs, closest to the sled, take the brunt of the weight, their strength keeping everything moving. Swing dogs help guide turns, while the team dogs provide pure pulling power. It’s a living, breathing machine—one built on trust.

And trust? That takes miles.

The First Real Run: Finding the Rhythm

The first time I really felt it—that moment where everything clicked—I was deep in the woods, just me and my dogs. The sound of paws hitting snow, the whisper of the sled runners gliding over ice, my breath in the cold—it was the kind of quiet that hums in your bones.

For the first time, I wasn’t just riding behind them. I was with them.

It’s an addicting feeling. The rhythm of the team, the way they move as one, the way the lead dog flicks an ear back, waiting for my next command—it’s a conversation without words.

And then there’s the speed.

People think dog sledding is a slow, meandering ride through the snow. It’s not. When a team is running at full power, you fly. The sled bounces over uneven ground, snow sprays up in a fine mist, and the wind stings your face. You don’t just hold on—you become part of it, every muscle tuned to the energy of the team.

That’s when you understand.

This isn’t about control. It’s about trust.

The Road Ahead: Chasing the Call of the Wild

Mushing has changed since the early days of survival and exploration. Today, it’s a sport, a passion, and for some, a way of life. Races like the Iditarod and Yukon Quest still push mushers and dogs to their limits, carrying on the legacy of the teams that came before them.

For me, it’s not about medals or records. It’s about the journey. It’s about watching my dogs do what they were born to do, feeling that same call of the wild that drove generations before me.

There’s something ancient in their eyes when they run—something untamed, something fierce. It’s the same fire that burned in Togo and Balto, in every sled dog that’s ever pulled a musher through the ice and wind.

It’s the reason I’ll keep stepping onto the sled, gripping the handlebar, and whispering the words that will send us flying into the unknown.

“Hike.”

Final Thoughts: Mushing Is More Than a Sport

Mushing is a history lesson, a connection to something wilder than ourselves. It’s a bond that can’t be replicated by anything else. Whether you’re training a team for the first time or setting out on a midnight run under the northern lights, the trail is always waiting.

And if you listen closely, you’ll hear it—the whisper of paws on snow, the sharp breath of eager dogs, and the distant echo of every musher who came before you.