Running with dogs

MAIDSTONE, Vt. -- Here's the advice I get before I'm about to climb onto a sled tied to eight jumping, yipping dogs.

"We have three rules of dog sledding," says my guide, Tom Bartlett.

"What are they?" I ask.

"Don't let go, don't let go, don't ever let go," he says, breaking into a wheezy laugh.

I have to ask. "What happens if I let go?"

"You walk, the dogs run away," he answers, laughing some more.

Maybe the humor is meant to be relaxing. It's four miles to our first stop, Bartlett's camp in Maidstone State Park, and though I'm excited to try dog sledding, I'm also anxious about a few things -- falling off the sled and losing control being the top two.

I've already met my lead dogs, Nipper and Moya, and harnessed another, Timmy, whose namesake is the "South Park" character. Most of Bartlett's pack are retired race dogs, crosses of Alaskan huskies with hounds. Pointed muzzles and mask-like facial markings give hints of their husky heritage, but they've got short coats, like most hounds. Nipper also has pale, husky-like eyes, and beautiful liver-colored markings and nose.

After our run, Nipper and I will sit together on a couch in Bartlett's cabin, contentedly soaking up the heat from a wood stove while the crew cooks up a lunch of elk burgers, a rare treat. But right now, Nipper and her team are raising an intimidating racket. Each dog sets off another, until they are all barking and howling as they are harnessed to the sleds. Some are so excited they're quivering. If they're as strong as they are loud, I don't have a chance -- I'm beginning to see that taking a dog for a walk or rubbing its belly is vastly different from driving a team through the snow.

Luckily, there's no time to dwell.

Bartlett runs through the basic commands. Go is "hike." Stop is "whoa" or "easy." Left is "haw," right is "gee."

How loudly should I yell?

"It's not so much you have to yell loud, it's that they have to know you're the leader. And they probably won't catch onto you being the leader today," he says, smiling again.

The plan is for Bartlett to drive the first two miles, while I sit in front. Then I'll try driving. All ribbing aside, Bartlett promises I'll be driving on my own by the end of the day.

The dogs quiet down as soon as we start moving. Just as quickly, my nervousness melts away. We're gliding through the woods under snow laden-evergreens, snowflakes drifting gently down. To my right, a narrow brook cuts a path through the white bank.

It's peaceful, refreshing, and very, very quiet.

And it turns out I'm not too shabby at dog sledding, at least the mild version offered to tourists in northern New England. I steer like I'm skiing, with one foot on each runner, shifting my weight in the direction I want to go. The lightweight wooden sled is equipped with a drag pad and foot brake, and its flexible handle moves easily under my hands. On uphill terrain I move to one side -- and balancing one foot on a runner -- help push the sled with one foot. Very frontiers-womanly!

Driving dogs over trails through the Vermont woods -- under guided supervision -- is no Iditarod, the grueling annual race in Alaska, but it is a novel way to experience the outdoors in winter. With two people on board and a thin layer of new snow over the trail, the dogs move at a quick jog (Bartlett says their top speed is about 15 mph), giving plenty of time to take in the scenery and get a feel for the sled's movement.

Bartlett avoids the trails during weekends when they're congested with snowmobiles. We meet only two snowmobiles during our 25-mile trip on a weekday. During the weekends, he runs short tours for guests at resort hotels in the region. He says interest in dogsledding has increased steadily in the decade he's been running tours in New Hampshire and Vermont. Sledders can do as little or as much as they like -- they can ride in front or they can help harness and drive the dogs, running with them when the terrain gets tough. For spectators, the New England Sled Dog Club runs races from November through March.

After a few miles, Bartlett climbs into the front seat and I'm driving solo over gentle curves and dips.

I don't fall, much to the photographer's disappointment. But better than that, the dogs listen to me.