Reins of Winter

by Cam Bradley (Canada)

A leap into the unknown Chile

"Winter is coming." I grinned thinking back on the dire wolf crested sticker on Conrad’s four by four. My partner Melissa and I were in southern Chile to learn how to dog sled and the Stark’s words were perfect. Perched on a snowmobile we skimmed towards a small A-frame at the tree line. Around us, ridges of black rock rose from the snow like monolithic shark fins. Far above, smoke plumed from the summit; Mt. Villarrica is an active volcano after all. At the cabin Conrad dropped us off to go back for his partner and supplies. He was a German air force pilot turned expat after finding a passion for canines. A certified badass to be sure. “Why don’t you say hi to the dogs? I’ll be back soon.” He said, his accent thick and wonderful. We turned, ecstatic. Forty-two furry faces stared from beneath the trees, their stunning eyes framed within individual burrows. The huskies accompanied our approach with a chorus of howls; we were alone with a wolfpack. It would have been intimidating had they not been so unique and lovely, from shy peach Cheyenne and striking ghost Mikka to doe-eyed Orca. Once Conrad returned, we spent the morning learning how to operate a sled. It was an effectively simple set up. Shift your weight across metal ski’s to turn or break and deploy a metal hook when you really need to slow down. That and yell “hike!” or “hooooe!” to get your team to speed up or ease off. Crash course complete we grabbed the harnesses and the dogs went wild. Eager anticipation hung in the air like the moment before a favourite band arrives on stage. Huskies are born to run. That was readily apparent as the chosen dogs strained against their harnesses, even timid Cheyenne. The moment we started moving the dogs' anxious energy transformed. Tongues lolled and their gait resembled a happy tap dance as we slid onto the volcanic slope. They were in their element, and I was along for the ride. It felt similar to surfing, a force of nature in motion. During inclines I ran with them, sharing the weight of the sled. Slowly, I began to feel like part of their team. Between commands I occasionally had to shout “Nien! Nien Orca! Nien!” I had been warned that she and a few others liked to eat poop. Such noble stoic animals, but still dogs. Definitely still dogs. Sunlight danced off the snow as we climbed. Conrad called a stop at a windswept ridge and the huskies took to the snow, rolling on their backs to cool off. From our vista the countryside sprawled beneath us. Ancient araucaria trees holy to the Mapuches people lined the volcano's flanks. The trunks didn’t branch until the very top, giving them a giant toadstool-like quality. Beyond the lake, woodsmoke drifted lazily from the town. We were in a different world. Putting our skills to the test we crisscrossed our way down the slope. The hardest part was not letting the sled catch up to the dogs and hit their ankles. It was fast and it was exhilarating. Drenched in sweat, I unzipped my jacket letting the icy wind cool me. Once back at the cabin we settled the dogs. Huacho, a powerhouse from Melissa’s sled, was blind and kept bumping into things as he happily dragged her along. Dinnertime with the pack brought on another round of excitement and we dashed from den to den with bowls of gourmet kibble. I can only imagine how much they go through. Exhausted but feeling accomplished we relaxed on the porch with Conrad. Cloves and citrus wafted from mulled wine as he barbequed spanish chorizos. The stubby sausages sizzled deliciously while the rolling snowscape was bathed in vibrant hues of pink and orange. After dark we clambered from around the wood stove to the loft; the volcano’s summit a distant torch in the night sky. I closed my eyes and listened to the huskies, their dirge-like melodic howls lulling me to sleep. What an unreal experience. As the Stark's say, "winter is coming," and it is fantastically wild.