It ’ s when I hear the hairs-on-end howl of the huskies that I realize I ’ ve properly arrived in the Arctic . I ’ ve only been on the island of Spitsbergen in Svalbard for a few hours and already I ’ m learning the mushing ropes . Even bundled up in thermals , the cold hits me like a crisp left hook : it ’ s -13F and an icy wind is picking up , filling the air with frosty glitter . At 3pm on a January afternoon , the final flare of a would-be sunset streaks the sky pink and violet . The dog sled swerves suddenly to one side and we nearly topple right into a snowdrift . Panic kicks in as I grip the handlebar tighter , my foot hovering warily above the break . “ Trust yourself . Trust the dogs ,” my guide Nico Mookhoek tells me , with a casual grin . “ But whatever you do , don ’ t let go — once they ’ re off , these dogs never stop ,” he chuckles . The red-bearded Dutchman
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fell hard for Svalbard years ago and has made it his adopted home . Being a dog sled guide here is , he confesses , “ a dream come true .”
I get it . It ’ s like a dream to me , too . Buckled mountains rise above the valley , glowing pearl white as twilight creeps in . Tapping into some deeper primal nature , I take Nico ’ s advice , relaxing into the rhythmic swish and glide and letting the six yapping , howling huskies roped to my sled do what they ’ re born to do — run . And run we do , swooping down powdery slopes , cresting a rise , picking up speed . I feel as if we ’ ll take flight any second .
The first smudge of stars appears as darkness falls . Frozen wisps of hair escape from my hat , as if I ’ ve prematurely aged . I ’ ve been mushing for almost three hours and have lost all sensation in my extremities . Then it happens . The lights .
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Clockwise from above : Huskies ; thick-billed murres nesting on high sea cliffs |
images : getty ; awl images |