Freedom In The Silence

by Christina Zealey (Canada)

A leap into the unknown USA

I still remember the freedom in the silence. The way the wind rushed over us, we were streamlining across a vast frozen lake and gracefully flying around corners as fast as lightning. You never actually see the wind, only what it ebbs or flows against. It’s the first time I ever heard silence make a sound, and that sound had me deliriously hooked in an instant. The sky was bluebird bright, sunlight bounced through the ice crystals forming on the sleepy branches of evergreens, the paws of the eight Alaskan Huskies racing along kicking up glitter. I inhaled calmly; it didn’t matter to me that it was minus thirty-eight degrees; that breath of crisp Alaskan air was more fresh and filled with clarity than any I had known before. I had travelled a fair bit by the time I was twenty-eight years old, but with Alaska I had no idea what to imagine. The entire state is 663,268 square miles, comparatively; my home of England is 50,301 squared. My knowledge about Alaska, up until the point of planning my trip, was that it was big, cold, full of bears and that if you were lucky, you’d see the Aurora Borealis. The latter is what drew me there. I arrived into Anchorage, home of the infamous Iditarod Sled Dog Race. The natural phenomenon known to many as ‘Lady Aurora’ would draw me north to Fairbanks; I was spoilt by her presence every night of the stay, for hours on end. She danced and weaved her way across the clear dark sky, ever twisting, ever changing; truthfully I wondered how I would ever appreciate stars again. On the third day I arranged to go dogsledding. Jameson, the owner, greeted me warmly, introducing me to the team and answering my plethora of questions and inquiries enthusiastically. I had put on all the winter gear I owned yet he layered me up further in fur jackets, thick snow boots and beaver mittens. He chortled, explaining heartily, “Trust me-- you’ll need these out there.” I met the dog team. They were happy, healthy, and ready to be fed breakfast, which was --Jameson explained, my job; it would give the dogs a moment to know I was here to work with them. Their stomachs content, they got hooked up to the line, yelling with anticipation, ready to run. I jumped at the chance to join Jameson on the back runners. Sled loaded and ready to go he released the snow hook, the dogs immediately ceased their excited barking, tugged in one fluid motion and we took off down a small slope, immediately curving into an s-bend and raced down the trail. Snow was piled high by this time in March and the dogs tracked their way, branches brushing them and sprinkling snow through the air as we dashed along the edge of a forest. Through a bracket of trees, the sunlight twinkled revealing an expansive frozen lake; then it was just us and the wild, stretching endlessly out ahead of us. As we settled into a steady speed the dogs listened attentively and eagerly to Jameson’s calls, “Gee” to turn right, “Haw” to turn left. Occasionally we would stop, allowing the dogs to roll around in the fresh powder to cool off. I continued to pepper Jameson with questions and in the months that followed, he became somewhat of a mentor to me -- recognising the sparkle in my eye that I’ve now identified time and time again amongst mushers with a pure love for the sport. It felt like flying, this leap into the unknown. My journey began in Alaska and continues all over North America to this day. Dogs have a way of looking straight into your heart, and they give nothing but truth when you look straight back into their eyes. You have these crystal clear frosted moments, where the silence is absolute, interrupted only by the swish of the runners across the dusted slick ice and the gentle thud of paws on powder. I will never forget the freedom in the silence, and I hope that sound rings in my ears for eternity.