After my dog died, I turned to Sweden's huskies for my next holiday

Telegraph

07-04-2025

I got the same call to action every morning – 30 Alaskan huskies howling at full volume after gulping down their breakfasts, ready to run through the wilds of northern Sweden.
Such a racket is hardly high on most people's holiday wish list, but I'd decided to go on a dog sledding adventure after the death of my beloved border collie Finn. It had long been on my bucket list, and it would give me the chance to interact with dogs again, something I badly missed.
But this was not to be the kind of cutesy outing you see advertised in holiday brochures. Following some basic training in how to handle the dogs from our host at Cold Nose Huskies, and surveying a sled laden down with everything my fellow budding 'mushers' and I would need for several days in the wilderness, we set off from the hamlet of Danasjön, the last settlement we'd see for four days, into Vindelfjällen Nature Reserve.
The Cold Nose Huskies team – Lars Hoffman and Malin Strid, their three assistant guides Kaya, Marie-Lise and Therese and 60 racing sled dogs – are based in the small town of Gargnäs in Swedish Lapland. When not racing with their dogs (Malin is a former Swedish long-distance dog sled racing champion), they guide dog lovers like myself and my German companions Karin and Heinrich on wilderness tours.
One of the largest protected areas in Europe, Vindelfjällen is 2,172 square miles of mountains, fells and snow-draped sub-Arctic wilderness butting up against the Norwegian border. The region is home to arctic foxes, brown bears, moose, elk, beavers, wolverines and very few humans.
It was emphasised from the start that the dogs come first at all times. They were fed and watered morning and evening before we were, and their harnesses and snow boots removed, feet checked for possible cuts and beds assigned (a patch of straw-covered snow) at day's end before we settled down for the night. Why? If your dogs are not well looked after, you won't be going anywhere fast.
We were each assigned a team of six animals to form a two-two-two formation – in my case the dependable Chipper and Lava up front, cool, blue-eyed Maverick and his sturdy brother Viper in the middle and ever-eager, big-eared Lakota and laid-back Wenonah at the back.
Each day the same orderly (kind of) procession would head off into the wild – Marie-Lise leading, Karin, Heinrich and myself following and Kaya bringing up the rear, whilst Lars would come along later on a snowmobile, overtaking us to go ahead and start setting up our overnight camp.
Driving a dog sled is a very steep learning curve: 'Keep the brake on when you set off!' advised Lars. The dogs were born and bred to run and were desperate to get away each day, always setting off at full throttle; judicious use of the brake was the only way to keep things under control.
Speed is not the only factor to manage. It's easy for the sled to turn over when you're crossing uneven snow at speed, since you only have the two runners to balance on in big, insulated boots: 'Don't let go of the sled!' said Lars. All of us – guides included – upended our sleds several times over the four days, when you soon discover you have a grip of iron, since letting go will see dogs and sled disappearing towards the snowy horizon without you.
Fortunately, the dogs settled into a more leisurely pace after burning off their excess energy over the first couple of miles, after which it was possible to enjoy the experience, as opposed to simply clinging on for dear life.
Our expedition took us through remote conifer and birch forests, past snowy, frozen wetlands and across the ice-bound waters of Överst-Juktan lake, almost twice the size of Windermere, before a 984ft climb up and over the shoulders of 3,200ft Ruvsátjåhkka mountain, following ancient trails used by the native Sami to move their reindeer.
The dogs never flagged, however steep or rugged the trail, covering distances of up to 37 miles a day, and happy to enjoy a meaty treat and a scratch behind the ears when we stopped for lunch. I was expecting there to be a certain wildness about them, but Alaskan huskies are as people friendly as my old pal Finn was.
The weather varied from occasional bursts of dazzling sunshine to heavy sleet and snow, but a combination of insulated overalls and exercise kept us warm, especially on uphill gradients where it was necessary to hop off the sled and help the dogs by pushing. By the end of each day I was exhausted, but had a satisfying sense of achievement having negotiated this harsh environment with my very own dog team.
After the dogs had been fed, watered and bedded down there was firewood to cut, a stove to light and drinking water to collect before we could eat and then snuggle into our sleeping bags for the night.
For me, the dog sledding experience all came together as we crossed the fells in the south-eastern corner of Vindelfjällen on the final day of our expedition. A snowstorm had set in so that it was often difficult to see the dog teams ahead of and behind me, but I knew I could rely on my lead dogs Lava and Chipper to find the trail.
I was able to revel in the experience of my canine team contentedly padding along, the only sound that of the runners hissing on the snow. My faith in the dogs was absolute, and it was apparent why a sled dog team remains one of the most efficient and rewarding ways of travelling through these wild, Arctic landscapes.
I departed Sweden missing Lakota, Maverick and their cohort, but sure of one thing – I'd definitely be getting another dog when I got home.
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