Dog sledding, -36 C

It is -36 C with the wind chill, and Juls and I are going dog sledding at Sainte Catherine de La Jacques Cartier, north of Quebec City.

Juls has done this before. I'm a bit nervous about being nervous, because I think dogs can smell fear and inadequacy. The dogs look eager for the smell of newcomers and they stand watchful beside their wooden kennels on the snow in the open air. Each kennel bears a name, adding a small, but noticeable, homely touch. I have a great deal of respect for animals who can thrive in extreme weather. I feel rather out of place. Beneath my layers, any healthy colour to betray the sun and Antipodean roots has long gone, yet I know that these dogs know that I know that I don't belong here.

I really am very cold.

Juls has taught me a neat trick to keep my hands warm, but standing among the kennels with arms outstretched swinging in wide alternate circles, although forcing blood to fingertips, our 'windmills' do not help us fit in.

These dogs are on to us.

* * * * *

I'm in the sled under a thick woolen rug and Juls, the first to drive, is standing on the skis behind me. Our five beautiful dogs paw enthusiastically at the snow and nip one another playfully in readiness for a run. But do not be fooled by the youthful demeanor of our mixed mongrel Alaskan husky and malamute pack. At the battle cry "allez allez allez!", our all at once energetic team lurches forward, heaving our sled into action, handles a sharp bend into the forest (Juls' railing the corner with authority), and then, not 20 metres into the thicket, promptly halt, sniff about a bit and take a pee.

“Allez allez allez!!!”, we yell, stifling our hysterics and attempting to command some respect.

I suspect my accent confuses them. French-speaking dogs play their French card.

On losing sight of the convoy ahead, it is only with the resounding sense of urgency in our combined voices, now dropped an octave and yelling, “ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ!!!”, that they take up the trail again.

It's my turn to drive. Our erratic team are clearly out to play. Although I've picked up their tendency to bolt down hills and ease into a casual trot (do dogs trot?) on the level ground, I can't help but feel we're being taken for a ride in more ways than one.

Do I have any control whatsoever?

When I brake, I push one or both feet on the ice grate at the back of the sled, and I maneuver by throwing weight from side to side. All the exertion is in the upper body, it is absolutely freezing and at some stage I lose feeling in my feet.

I have never been so damn cold in my life.