Just over a year ago, I left my job to work with huskies in the Arctic Circle in the far north of Finland. At 26, I was restless. I was dreaming of Arctic landscapes, cold and bleak expanses, perhaps in reaction to the noise and crowded living of London. So I found a small company run by Anna McCormack, and her husband, Pasi Ikonen, deep in Finnish Lapland. They agreed to take me on as a husky dog handler for a busy winter season. From December to February, there is plenty of business taking tourists out on sled rides pulled by huskies across the ice and snow (for anything from an hour to a five-day stretch). They started with six dogs, which rapidly expanded to more than 100 Recently, they took over a second property the 'wilderness farm', which they wrote was a picturesque but basic outpost with untrustworthy electrics and no running water. I could join the team for three months, they told me, if I knew what I was letting myself in for. The hours are long, the conditions tough and the work very physical.' I started packing straight away. November 6, London On my flight out I look out of the window. It is said that spring marches north at a rate of about 26 km per day, a tidal wave of opening flowers and leaves. I think what I am seeing, however, is the opposite movement, with winter marching south, and the rivers freezing over November 7, Helsinki and Hetta We drive north by bus through endless dark forest - thin conifers, welghed down by snow-stopping occasionally to let reindeer lumber out of the way. I arrive at the farm after dark, and am barely through the door when I'm handed a pair of boots and turned out into (line 41) the cold. 'Do you want to be thrown in at the deep end? Anna asks. It's a rhetorical question. | I follow the sound of barking, which grows to a wall of noise by the time I reach the dogsheds. Three figures are running back and forth up the lines of huskies, pulling them out and harnessing them to sleds. The dogs are almost hysterical with excitement, straining against the ropes in their desperation to be off. I can barely hear to introduce (line 51) myself, but the others are too harried to stop and talk much anyway. I hover on the sidelines and rub the forehead of one of the quieter dogs. Someone gestures at me impatiently - 'Get in!'- and I almost fall into the nearest sled. A command rings out, and with a jerk we are off into the dark, with only a head torch for light. November 15, Hetta It does not take long to be initiated into the ranks of the husky guides. 'Are you useful?' Anna asks. I'm stumped. I don't know. Am 1? Further questioning reveals that no, 1 am not: 1 have never driven a snowmobile, haven't done woodwork since school and have never chopped anything with an axe. 'You do have a driving licence?' someone asks finally. I nod, relieved. The basics of dog-sledding can be picked up very quickly: lean into the corners, put both feet on the brake to stop, and, whatever happens, don't let go of the handlebar. But everything else seems to be very complicated. Simple tasks such as feeding and watering the dogs become very difficult in sub-zero conditions. A bowl of water will freeze solid while you watch, so we must make a 'soup' of meat in hot water for the dos. By the end of my first week my head is going round and round after so many instructions and my muscles ache from dragging heavy sleds - and from being dragged around myself by over enthusiastic huskies. But I am triumphant. 'I can chop with an axe, hammer a nail, and use a circular saw,' I email friends excitedly. 'In the snow. |