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"The first rule of husky sledding is: You do not let go of the sled . . . even if you fall off." Now, as an Australian, some very specific lessons were instilled in me from an early age, such as which native animals could kill versus merely maim you. Something we Australians aren't taught as a matter of course is how to drive a dog sled across an untamed Finnish wilderness. So, this was new, and I was understandably thankful for a lesson on the basics of "mushing" (transportation powered by dogs). I refused to be distracted by the fact that the lesson was courtesy of a tall, blond version of Brad Pitt. By God, the resemblance - the hair, those eyes, that chiselled jawline. Anyway, as I said - I refused to be distracted. This was my debut husky sledding experience. Huddled around the handsome instructor was our group of budding mushers. A dozen of us - men, women, and children - were kitted out in company-issued attire: blue and black thermal onesies and matching sheepskin-lined mittens. We were about an hour outside Rovaniemi, the "official" home of Santa Claus. A vast, open field encircled by hills, everything was pristine and magical, blanketed in white and shrouded in fog as far as the eye could see. It was the Winter Wonderland Crosby, Sinatra and Buble all crooned about, given the Pinocchio treatment, and made real. Some of the huskies were already to the side, lined up in their harnesses. They looked genuinely happy at the prospect of running, bouncing around in their harnesses with doggy smiles, in good shape with healthy fur coats, enjoying the attention and affections of the passing staff. The other huskies roamed around the kennels, standing atop their shelters, stretching their heads up to the grey sky, howling. Kiwi Pitt explained why we mustn't, under any circumstances, let go of the sled. Without the weight of our body, when the dogs were finally made to stop, the sled could smash into the back of the pack. Not only could this hurt the dogs; they could be so traumatised that they'd never run with the sled again. My travel companion, Alexandra, and I were the token Australians in this troop of mushers. In my world travels, I found that you could find us Aussies just about anywhere you went. The Finnish wilderness was no exception. Kiwi Pitt put Alex and me in the front sled. This meant we had Frost - a jet-black alpha male, who was so badass, he was the only husky out of more than a hundred who refused to run with another dog next to him. Alex took a deep breath and then rushed out with, "I'm not sure if I'm up for driving first, in the front sled, but if you don't want to either, I can put on my big girl pants and do it." In my friendship group, whenever an awkward moment would present itself, many of my friends shrank into the background. One of them once said to me, "Rauch, anytime I have to go anywhere awkward, I'm taking you with me." So, I offered to be the first to drive our sled. I took my place on the back of the sled - feet planted firmly on the two parallel planes of wood, legs forming a V, ready to stamp down on the brake - and grasped hold of the handlebar, which was at an odd height and did no favours for my lower back. Alex nestled into the front bay, wrapped herself in the blanket provided, and got the cameras ready. We looked like Anna and Elsa from Frozen. We both had long, thick, bouncy hair and big eyes set into our animated faces - I was the blonde Elsa to Alex's redheaded Anna. Just before we shot off, the five huskies huddled around us. They were getting themselves woefully tangled, which I overlooked given how adorable they were in that fierce, powerful, I-could-rip-your-arm-off kind of way. It was a special moment. We untangled the dogs; Kiwi Pitt waved his hand to start… and then they let fly.