The Common Seal, Phoca vitulina, (also called the Harbour Seal in North America), is one of three seal species found around the Swedish coast, the other two being the Grey Seal and Ringed Seal. Worldwide, they are the most widely-distributed seal species, found in the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean, the North Sea and the Baltic Sea. Current global population is estimated to be 400-500,000, though certain populations have been seriously affected by disease epidemics in recent years. In some cases the cause of the decline in some populations remains unknown. For example, a 2007 survey of the shores of the Orkney and Shetland islands showed that around 5,000 common seals had mysteriously “disappeared”.

Common Seals can vary in colour from brown to grey, and are easily recognisable by their V-shaped nostrils. They have very appealing features, with large eyes and “puppy-like” faces, making them irresistible to animal lovers. Coupled with an intelligent and inquisitive nature, this makes Common Seals wonderful subjects for wildlife photography! They have a preference for particular resting spots, often a piece of rock protruding from the water where they can feel safe from predators or human disturbance.

Adult Common Seals can weigh up to 130 kg and females can live up to 35 years (males have a lifespan of only 20-25 years). One possible explanation of the shorter life expectancy of male Common Seals is the considerable stresses they are subjected to during the breeding season, when they will compete for mates in underwater battles with rival males. Female Common Seals give birth to a single pup, which can swim within hours of its birth, fattening quickly on a diet of exceptionally rich milk.

Around the Swedish coast, Common Seals are found in the Baltic Sea in the east as well as in west coast waters. Nature Travels has recently added an exciting new experience giving you the opportunity to visit the Common Seal colony in the area around the Koster Islands in Sweden’s western archipelago by sea kayak – Kayaking with Seals and Koster Island Cycling. The photos in this article were taken during a recent visit to the Koster Island colony.

Sea kayaking is an ideal way to see the beauty of Sweden’s archipelago landscape. A quiet, low-impact mode of transportation, sea kayaking allows you access to remote locations and intimate contact with marine life - a marvellous way to get a seal’s eye view of the world!

Common Seals are a particular attraction for visitors to Swedish archipelago waters, but the Swedish archipelagos are also rich in many other species of wildlife, including some very impressive birds of prey. The Osprey and White-tailed Sea Eagle are both making a strong comeback in the eastern archipelago. While taking a stroll on one of the thousands of forested islands, you may encounter elk, deer, or even a pine marten scurrying from tree to tree about its business.

The archipelagos of Sweden’s east and west coast are a stunning landscape, rich in wildlife and steeped in history. For more information on the Stockholm Archipelago, please see our blog article on the subject here. As well as the Koster Island experience, Nature Travels offers a range of guided sea kayaking tours in both the east and west coast archipelagos. For further details see our website at www.naturetravels.co.uk/category-water.htm

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

The UK has seen an enormous increase in interest in bushcraft skills in recent years, largely thanks to the popular series of television programmes by Ray Mears. But you do not have to be an experienced wilderness adventurer like Ray to enjoy and practise the art of bushcraft – the skills and techniques are accessible to all ages and levels of experience. It’s the journey of discovery that counts!

Sweden is an excellent place in which to learn and practise bushcraft skills. Its vast areas of sparsely-populated mountains, lakes and forests provide an ideal environment for the bushcraft enthusiast. The forests are rich in edible plants and berries for foraging, while the clean lakes and rivers make for excellent fishing.

Perhaps even more importantly, Sweden’s Right of Public Access (see our previous blog article on this subject here) allows a unique freedom of access to the countryside, including the opportunity to camp wild. This means that extended expeditions into the wilderness with wild camping are possible and that bushcraft skills can be practised in precisely the environment they were intended for!

Nature Travels offers a range of experiences which give you the opportunity to learn and practise bushcraft in Sweden.

Our popular self-guided Canadian canoeing experiences are ideal for those wishing to develop their bushcraft skills in a natural wild setting. Ranging in length from 4 to 14 days, we offer canoe tours suitable for families with young children and more challenging expeditions aimed at those seeking an extended wilderness experience. These longer tours are also particularly suitable for groups, such as University Armed Forces and scout groups. Whichever tour you choose, all the canoe tours allow wild camping for the length of the route and fishing licence can be purchased to cover all of part of the route (depending on the tour).

For those wishing to combine a tour in the wilds with tuition in bushcraft skills and a chance to put into practice what you are taught, we have recently added an exciting new dedicated bushcraft experience. Bushcraft Canoe Tour on Revsund is suitable both for active families (minimum age 12 years) and for small groups. A 6-day private guided canoe tour with your own bushcraft guide and instructor! With accommodation in Laplandic tents or self-build shelters along the way, Bushcraft Canoe Tour on Revsund is the ideal way to learn and implement basic bushcraft skills. You will also have the chance to soothe your tired muscles with a session in a wood-heated sauna and lakeside “bathing barrel”!

Finally, for a real adventure in construction using only natural materials, why not try Timber Rafting on Klarälven? You will be taught how to build your very own raft using nothing but logs and rope, before taking to the river for 5 to 8 days of wild camping and Huckleberry Finn-style adventures! Not only a great chance to practise bushcraft skills, but an unbeatable exercise in teamwork!

For anyone interested in bushcraft and the outdoors, Sweden offers a range of opportunities hard to find anywhere else in Europe. For more details on our range of outdoor experiences in Sweden particularly suited to the practice of bushcraft skills, please see our website at www.naturetravels.co.uk/category-water.htm

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

As the light began to dim we struggled up a small rise to find ourselves in the middle of a wooded glade – a perfect camping spot for the night. We took off our packs (I always love that few seconds’ flying sensation when you take off a backpack), and the first task was to flatten down an area of snow for each tent,to ensure the surface was level and comfortable and pack down the snow to prevent sudden disappearances of stray limbs into the depths.

This, like almost everything done in snowshoes, was a comical sight. Five Englishfolk and a Swede tramping round in circles in the gathering dark. I felt absurdly like a Mediterranean grape-treader transported suddenly and inexplicably by Twilight Zone forces to the Arctic. After a few minutes the tent spots were nicely flattened and we had even created little paths to link them. Hilleberg tents, it is generally agreed, are the business – lightweight, easy to erect, and practically indestructible. As our tent seemed almost to put itself up, I found it hard to disagree with this, and before long we were standing about proudly surveying our little camp.

But the work was far from over, at least not if we wanted any dinner – two of us set to with shovels digging out a fire pit while the others went in search of firewood. Being Sweden, there was wood all around us, but it nevertheless took quite a time to amass enough for the evening’s fire. Camp fires are permitted in Vålådalen, but there are strict regulations governing what wood is acceptable to use. It must not be taken from living trees, and tree stumps and larger dead branches are also off limits (dead wood provides an essential habitat for an enormous range of species). The mountain ecosystem is fragile and the trees exceptionally slow-growing – a stumpy pine just a couple of feet high may be 50 years old or more. The only wood permitted for burning is small loose branches and twigs, and these were surprisingly hard to come by, especially under three feet of snow.

At last we had assembled a respectable-looking pile which looked like it should last us through the evening. With the help of some birch bark - the world’s best firelighter - we soon had a crackling camp fire around which to warm our extremities. By this time it was properly dark, with just the odd star peeking through the forest canopy. It’s hard to imagine a more idyllic place to spend an evening, watching the sparks from the fire twist beguilingly up into the sky and waiting (this was to become a common theme throughout the trip) for the kettle to boil.

This being a camping trip, we had resigned ourselves to sturdy but otherwise uninspiring rations, sensibly packed with sugars and carbohydrates but nothing to stir the culinary soul. When Torkel stood up, disappeared into the darkness for a minute or two and returned with six tantalisingly aromatic foil packets, we were both curious and delighted. By the time he’d unwrapped them to reveal six freshly-caught Arctic Char (a luxury elsewhere but comparatively commonplace in the clean waters of Jämtland), we were ecstatic. And by the time the fish had been grilled over the open fire and ladled with cream sauce, we were convinced we had died and gone to heaven. It’s a cliche that food always tastes better at the end of a day’s hike in the woods, but I would not be exaggerating to say that this was the most delicious fish meal I had ever had, ever, or probably ever will have again. This was of course, inevitably, an exception – Torkel’s sled would have needed to be twice the size to sustain such delicacies for the rest of the tour. Nevertheless, the food generally over the next few days was a real highlight, far better than I’d expected, and he even managed dessert for our final evening…

We sat around the fire for a while, contentedly licking sticky fishy fingers and making “Mmmm” noises, until Torkel suggested a night walk to the nearby waterfall. It is important to get your body warmed up from the inside (not just from the fire) before going to bed if you want to stay warm during the night, and so we kitted up and tramped off through the now moonlit forest.

It is a lovely sensation to go snowshoeing through a forest at night – almost other-worldly. We shuffled along, lost in our own thoughtful silences, until we came to the river, the water babbling quietly over the rocks in the darkness. We stopped to soak up the atmosphere and watch the stars for a few minutes, before Torkel announced that we would be doing a “bear walk”. The idea of the bear walk was to give each person in the group some time alone to enjoy the silence of the forest. One person (me, it turned out), would stand alone for 8 minutes while the rest of the group abandoned them in the wilderness and headed off into the woods. When the allotted time was up, I was to follow their tracks and collect people along the way who had themselves been dropped off at various points.

I have to say I was a bit concerned about this. Vålådalen is remote, very remote, and it was hard to shake off a sudden vision of me thrashing about alone in the woods for days before popping out by accident into semi-civilisation crazed and half-starved. Eight minutes sounded like a very long time indeed and plenty of time for the group to stomp a good distance off into the forest. I looked apprehensively at my little torch with its feeble and fast-failing light, but decided that after the car-in-the-snowdrift episode on my first night I wasn’t about to go all chicken now.

So I watched as my fellow adventurers became retreating shadows and the crunch of their snowshoes got ever fainter until there was nothing but silence.

Left fully alone at last, I looked up and almost immediately noticed the first swirls of a Northern Lights display in the sky. Granted, this was a very faint version of the spectacular displays that can sometimes be seen (strong Northern Lights displays are certainly possible in this region but more common further north, and we are also currently in a period of low solar activity which makes sightings less frequent and less intense), but the hypnotic swirls and shifting bands of green making their way across the sky were nevertheless truly magical, all the more so for being appreciated in solitude in the middle of the wilderness.

When my eight minutes was finally up, I was rather sorry that it was time to go, but with a last look over my shoulder at the shimmering sky I headed off in pursuit of the rest of the group. Finding the way, it turned out, was no challenge at all (5 people on snowshoes make a rather obvious set of tracks) and before long I had collected the first person who had been waiting for me quietly in the dark.

Soon we were all together again, standing on the banks of the river. Just beyond our vision, a little too far to be seen but easily heard, were the falls. No matter, we would be back this way tomorrow to have a closer look. For now, it was time to head for home.

“Which way are we going?” I asked.
“Better head back the way we came,” replied Torkel, “we don’t want to push our luck.”

I was profoundly pleased to discover that, even with his superhuman powers and great knowledge of the area, even Torkel would have had trouble getting us home in the dark on a circular route.

It wasn’t long before I was wriggling down inside my two enormous sleeping bags for the night (my little down bag had expanded magically to fill most of the tent, or so it seemed). Far from being cold, I had soon worked up a powerful heat and needed to strip off a layer before settling down to a deep and surprisingly comfortable sleep…

Over the next few days we continued our expedition into the nature reserve, passing out of the birch wood and into pine forests, through an area destroyed by forest fires decades before and only now just recovering, up and over the occasional ridge or hill (at which times I was glad I hadn’t chosen the pulk option – navigating a 45 degree slope with a sled in tow is devilishly hard work), and through a stunning gorge. We honed our knowledge of animal tracks, beginning to be able to identify some of the easier ones ourselves without asking Torkel “What’s this? What’s this?” every ten seconds like children on a school outing. We found pine cones wedged into tree trunks by woodpeckers, examined dung of all shapes and sizes and belonging to a host of creatures, told stories around the camp fire and, perhaps most importantly of all, drank a great deal of tea.

When we finally arrived back at Vålådalen mountain station some days later, there was no doubt about it – we had been on an adventure. A little stiff perhaps, a little tired certainly, but utterly satisfied, we stripped off and settled in to the sauna for a blissful afternoon of reflection on our experience. For myself, my thoughts were filled with how much I had learnt during the tour: not just how to distinguish animal tracks or how to pitch a tent in deep snow, but some very important lessons in winter outdoor toiletry:

- When answering a major call of nature, make sure you’re on a firm footing before getting down to business. Falling bare-buttocks-first into your newly-dug snow hole when it’s -6 is rather a shock, especially since, with snowshoes on, it’s practically impossible to get up again.
- Watch what you drink very carefully in the hours before bedtime, especially as you’ll be sleeping a good 11 hours a night. No matter how desperate you are, nothing is worth the hassle of getting out of the tent before morning. Torkel summarised my own feelings nicely one morning when, on opening his eyes, his first words were, “Ow! My bladder hurts.” It seemed he really was only human after all…

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

Read part 1

This is the second part of a description of this season’s Snowshoeing in Wolverine Country tour in February 2008. To find out more about snowshoeing holidays in Sweden, see here. We also have a number of other experiences in the beautiful region of Vålådalen, including dog sledding tours, winter mountaincraft and summer mountaincraft training and guided hiking tours.

Having achieved widespread popularity in central Europe, snowshoeing is just beginning to become known here in the UK, as a growing number of people discover how liberating it is to be able to step off the beaten (or ploughed) track and strike out into the white wilderness.

This February I had the chance to join our local guide Torkel for four days of snowshoeing and winter camping in the silent expanses of Vålådalen Nature Reserve in western Sweden.

Torkel is no stranger to the frozen wastes, having traversed Greenland in the footsteps of Nansen, and no stranger to adventure, having been the first person, along with his wife Annica, to make an extended expedition right around Sweden.

With the prospect of exploring the mountains in such rugged company, I was just a little apprehensive about what I’d let myself in for as I slithered along in my little Vauxhall Corsa hire car up the 30km forest track through a howling snowstorm to Vålådalen Tourist Station, where we were to assemble next morning to head off into the wilds.

That evening, I received a cheery call from Torkel asking me to drive down the road a few kilometres to his house to collect some equipment I had arranged to borrow. I looked out with trepidation at the blizzard raging outside.

“Umm…are you sure?” I said. “Couldn’t I pick it up tomorrow? What about the snow?”
“Snow? What snow? Oh, don’t worry about that, there’s just a dusting…”

And so I set out of the station car park, windscreen wipers going for all they were worth but failing miserably to clear my vision, headlights straining weakly through the white onslaught. “Ah, there’s the road”, I thought confidently, and swung hard left and down the hill. It took just a few metres before it dawned on me that what had looked invitingly like a minor road was in fact a ski track, and sure enough a couple of seconds later I ground decisively to a halt, the nose of the car wedged alarmingly deeply into the snow.

After much grunting and straining and spinning of wheels, there was nothing left for it but to call Torkel to come to my rescue to help push me out of a snowdrift I’d apparently deliberately driven myself into.

After such a shaky start, I was determined to prove my worth as an experienced adventurer over the next few days. We gathered next morning in reception and were taken into a side room to divvy up the food and other equipment for the trip. We were each presented with a mixture of individual food rations (including the worryingly termed “coma bag”, a high-energy mix of chocolate, dried fruit and nuts to munch as needed along the trail) and communal items. We staggered off laden down with all our various bits and pieces to try to find a place for it all in our packs. Some of the more foresighted members of the group had arranged to borrow a “pulk”, or sled, to drag behind, and as I looked at the effortless way they seemed to pack everything down I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have done the same.

When Torkel had lobbed an enormous sack of Santa Claus proportions in my direction the previous evening and proclaimed matter-of-factly, “Here’s your share of the stuff”, I had honestly assumed that he was joking. It had taken me much of the night and a great deal of straining and puffing to get everything into my pack, which was now bulging at every seam. Not heavy at all, as the equipment I had borrowed was top-of-the-range: lightweight Hilleberg tent, two sleeping bags (a synthetic outer and down inner) and Ridgerest sleeping mattress, but the bulk of it proved a real packing challenge. Still, somehow I found a little extra space for the food rations, and at last we were standing together, expectant and ready.

“Have you all brought toilet paper?” asked Torkel, and as one we all scattered sheepishly off to the loos (apologies to any guests at the mountain station at the time who are reading this and found a mysterious absence of loo roll for the rest of the day).

I had done a fair bit of snowshoeing as day tours before, both in Switzerland and Sweden, but I had never had the chance to try an extended expedition. As we flopped around the car park like drunken penguins trying out our snowshoes for size, I just had a feeling that this was going to be a great trip. The wind had dropped, it had stopped snowing and the sun was beginning to peep through the clouds. Mild, stable weather conditions had been forecast for the following days, and we were all very excited indeed. Even Torkel seemed positively brimming with enthusiasm for the trek, which is a very good thing for a guide to be.

“Where are we going?” we asked. “I don’t really know”, answered Torkel with a cheeky smile. This felt a bit odd at first, but was to turn out to be one of the huge attractions of the whole experience for me. There was no fixed route, no fixed destination. We walked when we wanted, stopped when we were hungry, and pitched camp when we were tired. The profound satisfaction of an extended trip where we just walked for the sheer fun of it and to see what we would find was as uplifting as it was unexpected.

It took just a few minutes of self-conscious wobbling before we found our balance, adjusted to the unexpected weight of the packs and sleds and got into the stride of things. We passed quickly along some of the prepared cross-country tracks surrounding the station and then suddenly Torkel stopped in his tracks, looked up as though struck by divine inspiration, and announced “This way!” Clambering over a fence, he headed off into the woods, making fresh tracks in the virgin snow.

As well as being a patient and inspiring guide, Torkel also turned out to be a knowledgeable and passionate naturalist. One of the other real surprises of the trip was to be how much we would learn about the flora and fauna of this region over the next few days, from which lichen are eaten by the passing reindeer to how to tell the difference between pine marten and weasel tracks. Every few minutes we would stop to look at some new discovery, fresh elk tracks in the snow, their depth clearly indicating the great weight of this majestic animal, the phoenix-like patterns left by a capercaillie taken flight from its night shelter beneath the snow, the pitter-patter tracks of a pine marten scurrying from tree to tree.

We stopped for lunch in a forest glade, and set to working out how to get the Primus stoves lit. Always a big fan of Trangias myself (great for general camping, not so good at low temperatures), this was unfamiliar territory for me, and it took a fair bit of fiddling about to get lunch on the go. Torkel maintained a good balance between hanging back to let us work things out for ourselves and pitching in to rescue us from disaster, and before too long we had two stoves hissing away happily melting snow for tea.

When we started to get cold, Torkel had us all “doing the penguin”, hopping up and down with fingers splayed out to the sides to encourage blood flow. We felt silly, but it didn’t matter – there was no-one to see us. In fact, it wouldn’t be until we returned to the station four days later that we would see another human being.

Looking around, at the forest with the imposing bulk of the Jämtland mountains rising behind, at our little group bustling about with the paraphenalia of lunch, at the lichen hanging like miniature beards from the trees, I felt strongly that this was going to be a very very good trip indeed. And, to make life perfect, the tea was ready…

Best regards
Bob from The Nature Travels Team

This article describes the first day of our Snowshoeing in Wolverine Country experience. The Vålådalen Nature Reserve is also the setting for many of our dog sledding holidays in Sweden, as well as for our summer mountain skills training and guided hiking tour, Mountain Magic for Beginners.

Look out for the next instalment, when we go in search of our first camping spot and discover something fishy in Torkel’s sled…

Read part 2

The next two days of the tour were to pass in a euphoric blur of sunshine, powder and flying fur.

Waking from our night of comparative luxury at Helags, the morning had an air of unhurried calm, as we luxuriated in the good weather and marvelled at the imposing bulk of Helagsfjället, Sweden’s most southerly glacier, looming over us as we did our morning rounds of feeding, watering, and poo collection.

Replete from a leisurely breakfast, we harnessed the dogs and tore off across the plains en route for Gåsen. The first downhill section was truly exhilarating. With both mushers and dogs well-rested and spirits fired by the glorious weather, it was a joyous experience racing over the virgin snowfields, stealing quick glances behind us to catch another glimpse of the retreating L-shaped glacier. With the sleds emptied now of much of their original food supplies, the difference in speed was noticeable. But our new dogsled handling skills had also kept pace, and we coped effortlessly with twists, turns and bumps which would have easily defeated us just a couple of short days before.

Though today was one of the longest stretches of the trip, it seemed no time at all before we were puffing and panting our way along the final 1km ascent towards Gåsen. Perched spectacularly on a rise, the views from Gåsen were simply stunning. An enormous wide sweep of peaks, alpine and jagged, and a huge sky of perfect blue.

We had made good time to Gåsen and had plenty of time ahead of us before sunset in which to bask in the afternoon sunshine. The dogs clearly loved the unexpected warmth, turning their faces to the sun and closing their eyes in contentment.

For a few blissful hours, we took time out from our adventures and revelled in the glow of the afternoon sun and the breathtaking views. One of our group commented, and we all agreed, that part of what made this view so particularly special and the whole afternoon so idyllic was that we were, quite literally, the only ones around to enjoy it.

Spectacular views may be common enough from mountain peaks in alpine ski resorts, but the experience is always shared with (and some would say marred by) the restaurants, ski lifts and general hubbub of life on the pistes. This afternoon was ours and ours alone, and we were determined to make the most of it. Even our guide Tommy, a veteran musher in this area for more than 20 years, was delighted. “It’s never like this up at Gåsen in February,” he told us, smiling, “this is more like April.”

As the sun began to boil away below the peaks, the temperature dropped sharply, and it was time to build the shelters for the dogs to protect them through the coming night. Here again it was noticeable how much our skills had improved. Instead of the shaky, ramshackle creations of our nights at Vålåstugan, we crafted sturdy shelters in half the time that looked like they would withstand a hurricane, each little wind hole between the snow blocks lovingly filled with loose snow.

After some hot work of digging and packing, we stepped back to admire our handiwork, feeling a certain pride in what hardened Arctic pros the previous days had moulded us into. But while our shelters may have looked hurricane-proof, they were far from husky-proof, as we discovered when many of our charges hopped over to the windward side of the walls to catch the last fading rays of warmth from the setting sun, nonchalantly demolishing many of our little shelters in the process. Ah well, a musher’s work is never done….

This being our last night in cabins for the tour, Tommy and Lena surpassed themselves, putting on a feast of traditional Swedish meatballs (including a veggie version for me) and surprising us with chocolate mousse with whipped cream. Outside, the stars shone bright and clear in the sky and the mountains echoed to the howls of the dogs as they bayed at the full moon like a wolf pack.

Stomachs full and thoughts still back on the trail, it was a reflective evening of solitary reading broken by occasional interjections of “Pass the chocolate biscuits” or “Have you seen my headtorch?” This was no awkward silence born of lack of conversation, but a comfortable, mindful quiet. We were adventurers who had shared an amazing common experience, and there was no need for words. One by one, like characters in an Agatha Christie novel, people drifted off unseen to bed, until I suddenly found myself alone, reading in a pool of torchlight.

As I stepped out of the cabin to brush my teeth by the light of the moon, I had to wonder if it was possible for life to get any better. It was, as they say, the perfect end to a perfect day.

The following morning, our final day of dog sledding in the mountains of Jämtland, was our coldest yet at -6 degrees, though still much milder than normal February temperatures in this part of Sweden.

Though the day started overcast, the clouds were clearing nicely as we readied the dogs for their final pull. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the sunshine the day before, or perhaps it was because the dogs clearly knew they were now within striking distance of home, but harnessing the sleds was an even more riotous affair than usual. By the time we were ready to cast off, my ears were singing from the noise and I was using all my weight to hold the sled on the brake.

Once again, it was immediately obvious this day how far our sled-handling skills, our sense of balance and our general confidence in ourselves and in the dogs had improved. Once again we flew across the snow surrounded by a gorgeous panorama of mountains, negotiating steep downhill sections with the wind whipping through our hair and clouds of powder rising behind us as we braked, before traversing downwards through an icy wind and flying spindrift, at last leaving the high mountain plains behind and entering the shelter of the birch forests.

Perhaps a less dramatic landscape than the high plains with their sweeping views and endless horizons, the forest nevertheless presented its own challenges: tight, twisty tracks requiring full concentration and precise braking. The sleds were all but empty now apart from our personal luggage, and our turns of speed on the downhill sections were thrilling. It is vital when going downhill to brake sufficiently, keeping the lines tight and the sled well behind the dogs. Serious injury can result to the rear dogs if the sled runners catch up with them, and we needed every ounce of our newly-honed dog sledding skills to negotiate the labyrinthine forest tracks.

After a lunch stop at Stensdalen (with a quite spectacular but harmless spill on the way in from Chris as he flew over a sharp rise), it was time to saddle up for the final stretch. With the mix of joy and sadness that accompanies the end of all great adventures, we saw the sign for Vålådalen Tourist Station. At the last moment, Tommy stopped our convoy and relayed a message back down the lines. We had made excellent time on our descent, and with such good weather he had decided to take us on a detour through the forest before finishing the tour – the adventure wasn’t over yet. He swung his sled right onto a new trail and sped off through the trees, and we set off in pursuit.

An hour or so later, now utterly exhausted having covered about 35km in total since leaving Gåsen but delighted to have had the chance for an extra tour, we arrived back at Vålådalen. How long it seemed since we had stood there just 5 days before, huddled nervously around the sleds listening to Tommy’s instructions and fumbling with our dog harnesses.

It was an emotional moment saying goodbye to the dogs as we hoisted them two-by-two into the trailer boxes. They had been our engines, our companions and our friends during our adventure, and we had each developed a fierce bond of trust and loyalty with “our” dogs. When we had first met these 44 animals it had been hard to tell one from the other, and for the first couple of mornings we had needed help from Lena and Tommy to recognise the members of our team when picking them out for harnessing.

But now they were very much individuals to us. We knew their characters, the patterns and feel of their fur, whether they pulled a little to the side or straight ahead, whether they were fussy eaters who liked to be hand-fed, whether they were one of the cheeky ones who always seemed to wait until you had just finished a round of poo collecting before squatting smugly to deposit another little brown pile in the snow. We had breathed in their warm musky odours and huddled with them against the driving snow. We knew them, and we would sorely miss them.

We shook the ice from our sleds and loaded them onto the roof of the truck. As the other guests set off up the hill for showers and sauna and a well-earned hearty meal at Vålådalen, I climbed into the cab, Tommy gunned the engine and truck and dogs rumbled off along the track to Undersåker. As we bumped our way home, I opened my breast pocket and took out my little card with the names of my team which had been handed to all of us on the first day. At the time those names had meant nothing to me, but as I read them now they conjured vivid images from our journey. Marte, golden-furred and full of energy, pulling hard on the front left. Bruno, darker, stronger, a calm and steady force on the front right. Behind and on the left, the lightly-built but tireless Tindra, rolling in the snow to cool down as we stopped for a rest, and my personal favourite, Haddock, a little jumpy and surprisingly shy for such a big dog, but strong and intelligent with deep, rich fur.

I have always counted myself lucky to be able to work in the business of outdoor experiences, but as we rattled along through light snowfall on our way back to the kennels, I reflected that we had named this experience very well indeed – it really had been a Dogsled Adventure.

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

Read part 3

Read part 2

Read part 1

This is the final part of the description of our Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland tour in February 2008. You can also watch a slideshow of images from this experience at www.naturetravels.co.uk/slideshow-dog-sledding-feb-08.htm. For further details of our range of dog sledding holidays in Sweden, please see our website at www.naturetravels.co.uk/category-dog-sledding.htm. Dates and prices for winter 2008/2009 will be released shortly. For groups of 5 or more persons, we are able to offer private dog sledding holidays in Sweden by arrangement. Please contact us to discuss your requirements.

When we awoke for the third day of our dog sledding adventure, it seemed that today the weather would be with us. The wind had dropped, and as the skies slowly cleared the mighty forms of the surrounding hills peeped tantalisingly through the dispersing cloud. As I made my way through the drifts on my morning trip to the outhouse, ptarmigans chattered excitedly from the scattered trees. The dogs, bathed in the ice-blue light of early morning, looked up expectantly and shook off their nightime carpet of snow. As one, they let loose a volley of mournful howling, like a gaggle of tone-deaf X-Factor hopefuls launching into a chorus of “The Greatest Love”, which echoed back from the mountaintops until the whole valley rang with their lament.

Back inside the cabin, the morning routines were once more underway, snow melting on the stove, the rustle of sleeping bags being packed away and the zing of zippers. Spurred on by the thought that we would soon be back on the trail in command of our dogsled teams, we set about the ritual of feeding, watering and poo clearing with enthusiasm, and before long were sitting down to our own breakfast of steaming porridge and hot coffee.

When Tommy came in with the day’s weather report, forecasting decreasing winds and good visibility, the excitement was palpable – our goal for the day was Helags, a well-equipped but very remote mountain station deeper into the reserve, with its holy grail of hot showers and sauna.

After their day of inactivity, the dogs were in an even more frenzied state than usual as we harnessed them to the sleds. We chose our anchor spots carefully, as with the dogs so excited it seemed that even the sturdy-looking picnic benches might be unable to hold them back. Blood was up for both canines and humans as we released the ropes and flew forward. We careered along a short downhill section before turning into a wide valley, soon leaving the cabins far behind us as the dogs warmed up and moved into top gear. We streaked along as the views opened up around us and we were able to get a good impression of the lie of the land for the first time since our arrival at Vålåstugan. Previously concealed by the clouds, the remoteness of the area now revealed itself to us in its full glory – a wide, white horizon stretching unbroken in all directions.

Exhilarated to be back on the sleds once more and awed by our surroundings, we pressed on towards the distant peaks. The dogs were doing most of the work, but even huskies need a helping hand sometimes, and on the steeper uphill stretches we “scooted” along with one foot to help the sled forward or took both feet off and ran behind in short, sweaty, breathless bursts. But as one of our group discovered, this needs to be done with care: stepping off the runners takes a lot of the weight off the sled, and suddenly released from the extra burden, the dogs will surge forward – and you have to keep up! As Jackie stepped off, the dogs and her sled accelerated. No doubt remembering Tommy’s words of wisdom at the start, (“Don’t let go!”), she hung on gamely like a cowboy in a comedy western, half running, half skidding, kicking up great clouds of powder in her wake. And her iron determination paid off, as 50m or so later she jumped triumphantly back onto the runners to cheers of encouragement.

Stiff from our efforts and flushed with adrenalin, we stopped half way for lunch at the emergency shelter at Ljungans. Far in the distance we spotted another dogsled team racing towards us in a flurry of snow, and Tommy called to us to stand fast on the anchors as our excited teams spotted it too and launched into another round of manic barking and howling. It was a dramatic sight – 17 dogs harnessed to one sled, which was almost literally flying. As the team raced past, the musher standing heroic and god-like like Thor on his chariot, our first thought was, “Wow! That’s cool!” Our second thought was, “Blimey. That’s a lot of poo for one guy to clear up!”

This astonishing übersled and its larger-than-life musher disappeared rapidly into the distance and we lesser mortals retreated into the shelter of the small cabin to warm our hands around cups of hot coffee while Tommy and Lena checked the dogs.

The second half of the day’s route was steeper and physically harder than anything so far, and we were glad of the sustenance from our simple lunch as we battled with our sleds uphill for the next 10km or so. But, tiring as it was, it was a thrilling experience, surrounded by smooth, white hills with light wisps of powder creating hypnotic ripples along the surface of the snow.

Travelling uphill on a dogsled in a padded scooter overall is hot work, and there was no chance to feel the cold until the very last few minutes of our trip as we glided down into the wind towards the welcoming haven of Helags. As the station came into view, we passed a summery-looking sign almost buried in the snow, incongruously promising “Tea and muffins” for sale just ahead.

With improved weather conditions, the dogs looked instantly more content as we clipped them to their long lines and got to work building their shelters. Although high winds were not forecast, Helags lies in an open, exposed area, and we needed to make sure that the dogs had adequate protection for the night. There was even a little more enthusiasm for the food rations, though it still took considerable cajoling from Lena to get some of the dogs to eat. Patiently she crouched by each dog, hand-feeding them little chunks of meat and cooing encouragingly. The dogs clearly loved the human contact, and I’m sure I didn’t imagine the smug glint in their eyes as they each revelled in their few minutes of extra attention.

Having marvelled at the radiators and electric lights (and, wonder of wonders, a drying room!) as if we hadn’t seen such things for months, it was time to get down to the serious business of trying out the sauna – located rather devilishly in the furthest building away from our cabin. Wading off to the sauna through deep snow clad in full arctic gear and clutching a pair of swimming trunks was a surreal experience, but we all agreed it was going to be nice to strip off after days shrink-wrapped in thermal underwear. We separated off into the men’s and women’s changing rooms, peeled off our various layers and stepped through into the sauna room. There were little squeals of embarrassment and cries of “Oh gosh, excuse me” and “I’m terribly sorry” as we realised it was mixed sex and, true to traditional English form, we scampered back to fetch our towels…

An hour or so later, feeling very lobsterish and gloriously relaxed, we gathered for dinner. With the extra space and cooking facilities, Tommy had surpassed himself, serving up a delicious creamy pasta dish which was devoured with gusto. After some brief after-dinner conversation, the day’s adventures combined with the afterglow of the sauna seemed to catch up with all of us simultaneously, and in a flurry of yawning and stretching, suddenly we were all in bed and fast asleep.

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

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The article above describes the third day of the Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland tour in February 2008. You can read the first part of the dog sledding diary here, or see our website for our full range of dog sledding holidays in Sweden.

We fell asleep to the lullaby of the wind battering the sides of the cabin. Waking at intervals during the night, stirred by a particularly strong gust or by room-mates gearing up for a midnight expedition to the loo, it became clear that the storm had no intention of abating any time soon.

But despite the dramatic weather just beyond the walls and windows, the warmth and cosiness of the cabin and the softness of our beds made for fine conditions for a sound night’s sleep, and our party awoke refreshed and in good spirits at around 7.30 the following morning. One by one we emerged from the bedrooms, clad in a varying selection of long johns, fleeces and woolly socks, and began pottering around, lighting the fire, heating water for the dogs, and sleepily rubbing the steam from the windows to check that the storm was indeed still raging at full strength.

Having coaxed the fire into a healthy blaze, one of our party checked his thermos to see if the snow he had spooned in the night before had turned to drinking water as intended. At the time, this had seemed a good idea to all of us, but as sheepish inspection of the thermos revealed that it still contained nothing but hard-packed snow, memories of long-forgotten school Physics lessons came flooding back to us and we realised as one that snow in a thermos is not likely to melt in a hurry…

While we had been luxuriating in the muggy comfort of the cabin, the dogs of course had spent the night outside, sheltered only by our faltering attempts at snow walls and the limited windbreak provided by the cabin. Concerned for their well-being, we donned hats and overalls and forced open the front door, to be greeted by a wall of wind which all but swept us off our feet and sent us skidding across the icy steps.

But we needn’t have worried about the dogs. They were variously sitting up quietly watching the spindrift swirl around them or curled up half-buried and snoring contentedly in their depressions in the snow. As we passed along the lines, ruffling ears and brushing off the ice caked onto their fur, the dogs looked up at us as if to say, “Storm? What storm?”

Back inside, the pans of snow were melting nicely and it was time to give the dogs their breakfast. We felt sure that after the long cold night, the dogs would show more interest in this morning’s offering than they had at dinner the night before, and so we dutifully mixed up the food and distributed bowls among our charges - bowls which once again were sniffily ignored or deliberately tipped over, covering the pristine snow with large splodges of murky brown. The second course of frozen meat was a little more popular this time, though, and we took great care to leave the dogs in peace to concentrate on the food as they picked gingerly at the chunks.

The wind had been blowing hard all night, and despite our efforts to position the sleds to minimise snowdrifts, four had been almost completely buried. As other members of the party began the essential duty of collecting dog waste with a shovel and bin bag (44 dogs produce an astonishing amount of poo, even when they haven’t eaten!), three of us set about the business of digging out the sleds and dragging them up to higher ground.

We began as three macho adventurers, energy levels running high after our long sleep, heaving great hunks of snow out of the way and digging furiously. We uncovered the bulk of the first sled and began rocking it free, heaving in unison for all we were worth, red-faced and eyes popping. But the sled stubbornly refused to budge. This went on for perhaps five minutes until our strength had all but deserted us and we collapsed panting in the snow, puzzled by our lack of progress. And then it dawned on us – buried beneath another metre of snow just to the side of the sled was, of course, the anchor, quietly doing its job of holding the sled firmly in place. Feeling somewhat chastened that we had led with our brawn rather than our brains, we picked up the shovels once more and before long had our first sled free and parked safely on higher ground.

About an hour later, our various duties had been completed and we were safely back in the cabin interior, working our way through a hearty breakfast of porridge and sandwiches washed down with copious cups of tea and coffee. It was time to assess the situation and see where, if anywhere, we would be going that day.

Given the notoriously changeable mountain climate, weather forecasts too far ahead are largely meaningless, and information is given on a day-by-day basis. As we finished the last of our breakfast, we waited anxiously for Tommy to return with news of the day’s weather report that the wardens would receive by radio.

The forecast, when it came, was not good. Strong winds of 50mph or more continuing throughout the day. Our planned route was to Helags, 24km away, perched high up in the wide and unsheltered mountain plains. This was no day to be setting off on such a journey. Though of course disappointed not to be off dog sledding, we were at the same time all in agreement that in such weather it would be both uncomfortable and unwise to try to make Helags. And the situation was not without its compensations – a quiet, cosy day lay ahead of us, with our time completely our own. The impotence imposed on us by the force of the weather was oddly liberating, and a day of enforced relaxation held a strange attraction.

And so the day went on, measured not so much in hours as in teabags and the pages of books, and punctuated by periodic checks on the dogs, still huddling in their rows against the horizontal snow.

Lena’s mother both impressed and shamed us all, as she announced after lunch that she was going to borrow some skis and go off for a “little tour”. To a mixed reaction of admiration and incredulity, she set off into the blizzard while the rest of us watched her departure from the warmth of the cabin. “Don’t worry”, said Lena, “she’s an experienced skier, and besides that she’s completely mad.” And sure enough, as dusk approached, a lone silhouette appeared once more though the howling storm and she breezed in, exclaiming what a wonderful bracing afternoon she’d had and what a lovely day we’d all missed out on.

Time passed surprisingly quickly, and as bedtime approached once more we all agreed that, though the day had lacked the thrills of a day’s dog sledding out on the trail, to be caught in such a storm was nevertheless a real part of the mountain experience. It had not only been a graphic reminder of that old cliché, the power of nature, but also a great opportunity to get to know each other and compare stories. We had started the day as a group of fellow travellers, but were ending it as friends.

Just as we were turning in for the night, Tommy appeared with the latest weather information. The forecast was looking decidedly better for the morning, with the winds expected to drop steadily through the night. It was welcome news – our day caught in the storm had been a real experience, but we were keen to be back in command of our dog sledding teams and heading up into the hills - and we went to bed eager for the adventures the morning light would bring…

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

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The article above describes the second day of the Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland tour in February 2008 – a 7-day experience with 5 days’ dog sledding in the Vålådalen Nature Reserve. Look out for the next instalment, as we watch the skies clear, harness the dogs and strike out for the remote station of Helags, 24km further on into the mountain wilderness. You can read the first part of our account of the dog sledding expedition here.

One of the great advantages of working at Nature Travels is the regular opportunity to combine business with pleasure on visits to our local partner companies in Sweden. On this occasion I was heading for the tiny village of Undersåker in Jämtland to visit Tommy, a local dogsled guide in the area in and around the Vålådalen Nature Reserve who has been running dog sledding tours in the region for more than 20 years.

This was the first time that I had had the opportunity to take part in the full 5-day expedition Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland tour, and I was looking forward to the experience immensely. The adventure had already begun some weeks before the start of the trip, with a look through the pre-departure packing list and a number of shopping expeditions to hunt for missing essentials. Like many outdoor enthusiasts, I have something of a weakness for new gear and gizmos, and I was delighted to have a good excuse to update a few tired old pieces of kit and splash out on one or two things I’d been hankering after for some time. Along the way, I found some real bargains, including a terrific pair of Gore-Tex ski pants from the PDSA charity shop for £15 (which satisfied the demands of both my limited budget and eco-consumer conscience) and a great value alternative to the Buff multi-functional headwear. I’d had my eye on one of these for quite a while (and the discovery of a Windstopper version had sent me into paroxysms of avaricious yearning), but I just couldn’t bring myself to spend 19 quid on what was basically a stretchy scarf. I was delighted, then, when I found that Oswald Bailey do a version made by Trespass for half the price.

Laid out on the living room floor, my assembled packing seemed to take up a frightening amount of space – always the problem when planning for a winter trip – but with judicious planning accompanied by a great deal of groaning, swearing and jumping up and down, everything was finally shoe-horned into my long-suffering rucksack and ready for the off.

It was with a mix of excited anticipation and gnawing guilt that I abandoned my wife at an obscenely early hour on Valentine’s Day at Poole bus station to catch the National Express to Stansted. Not the most convenient airport for those of us on the south coast, Stansted is nevertheless currently the only airport in the UK offering a direct low-cost flight to Trondheim in Norway, from where it is only just over 2 hours across the border to Sweden by train to the start of the Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland tour.

Back in my youth, on my regular comings and goings between Edinburgh and the South West, I used to watch in open-mouthed amazement as National Express drivers berated passengers mercilessly, shouting in the ears of little old ladies, cursing blank-faced foreign tourists for their lack of comprehension. In the intervening years, I have watched these surly fellows be gradually replaced by a new generation of polite, soft-spoken, well-dressed driving professionals – marvellously efficient, but sadly less entertaining. I was both shocked and oddly nostalgic, then, when our driver turned out to be a die-hard member of the old guard, calling a young French passenger an “ignorant git”, warning us to fasten our seatbelts and hang on because “for those that understand English, I’m a s*** driver”, and sending a pair of young Asian girls scurrying off in panic with their enormous suitcases bouncing crazily behind them by joking to the waiting queue, “Anyone for Manchester?”

The rest of the journey was smooth and far less eventful, and after a restful night in Tommy’s guest cabin, I watched as he and Lena, our other guide for the tour, loaded 44 eager and insanely excited Alaskan Huskies into the truck. This was my first sight of the dogs that were to be our friends, companions and means of propulsion for the next five days. There is no doubt about it – Alaskan Huskies love to run, and they are superbly designed for the purpose. They came in a wide range of shapes, sizes and colours, some heavy-set with thick, shaggy coats, others lean and wiry, some with eyes of piercing blue, others a deep chocolate brown, but all with an athlete’s physique and faces alive with energy, intelligence and friendliness.

With the whole truck practically humming with collective excitement (how much coming from the dogs and how much from me it’s hard to say), we headed 40km up the snowy track towards Vålådalen tourist station, the start point for our dog sledding adventure. We left the dogs for a while to rendezvous with the guests, who were already gathered expectantly in reception. Of the six other participants in the experience, four were Nature Travels clients from the UK, and we were also joined by two young French guests who had been dog sledding in Canada before and were keen to try the Swedish version.

We began with a brief look at the map to see the likely route we would be taking during our dog sledding adventure, with our first objective being the cabins at Vålåstugan. From there to Helags, with its promise of showers and sauna (some of the guests got rather excited at the mention of the “s” words), where we would be staying for two nights, leaving our luggage at the station and running fast and light on a day-tour through the surrounding mountains. Our last stop would be the cabins at Gåsen, before the long downhill stretch back to Vålådalen.

With the basic tour description completed, Tommy went on to outline what to expect during a typical day’s dog sledding. “Ah – adventure, excitement, swooshing through endless white expanses of untouched wilderness, the wind in your hair and the cry of the dogs in your ears,” we thought. “Poo patrol”, said Tommy gravely, bringing us back down to earth with a bump, “and every night we must dig shelters for the dogs before we have dinner”. Ah well, we were sure there would be a bit of time for adventure and swooshing in there somewhere.

With the introductions over, we made our way down to the truck to collect our equipment and meet the dogs. It was remarkably mild for the time of year, just around freezing and snowing gently, and the mood was jovial as everyone changed into their winter boots and tried snowmobile overalls on for size, with frequent jibes about James Bond films and Nanook of the North as we appraised the dashing figures each of us cut in our new Arctic garb.

Then it was time to get down to business. By now the dogs had been unloaded from the truck and were standing patiently waiting to be harnessed. We huddled around one of the sleds as Tommy took us through the basics of handling the dog sled and harnessing the dogs. In particular we were given some important safety information, shown how to use the anchor and where to hang it safely out of harm’s way, and how to brake the sled when going downhill. Good braking is vital, both to prevent a spill and so that the sled does not overtake and injure the dogs. “Keep tension in the lines at all times”, said Tommy, “…and don’t let go!” he added with a wry smile. By this time the dogs had begun to sense what was going to happen next and the noise level was rising, and we strained to catch Tommy’s final words of wisdom before fanning out to find our own sleds.

We were each given a card with the names of our dogs, and with Tommy and Lena’s help in identifying our charges, we set about the business of harnessing them according to the positions on the card. Huskies have strong individual personalities and, like people, different strengths and abilities. Some dogs like to lead and think, others to follow and pull, and the teams had been chosen carefully to ensure that each dog was in its proper place. First the lead dogs are harnessed, with a “Dead Man’s Hand” staked out in front to keep the team straight and prevent tangles. The technique for harnessing is very simple, and though I still managed a twist or two and needed a friendly word of advice from Lena, before long all the teams were in place.

While quiet and remarkably well-behaved when at rest, when harnessed up and waiting for the off, the dogs go absolutely berserk, straining against the anchored sleds and producing a deafening cacophony of barking, howling and whining. This moment of anticipation before the anchors were released and we surged forward was to be one of the most enduring images of the whole dog sledding experience for me, an intensely uplifting sensation that sent my heart racing and blood pounding. You cannot help but be swept along in the wave of primal energy and longing that is produced by 44 four-legged pulling machines in full cry, and those few seconds as we waited for the signal to release the brakes held a magical quality for me, when the modern world seemed a distant memory and life was filled with infinite possibility.

As we upped anchors and took our feet off the brakes, our teams leapt forward as one and the sleds took off in a whirl of flying fur and snow. The track dipped sharply downwards almost immediately and we stabbed in alarm at the brakes, but apart from one minor spill we all negotiated this first obstacle successfully and were on our way – masters and mistresses of our very own dogsled team! Somewhat overawed by the whole thing at first, over the next few kilometres I really felt I was getting the hang of it, and hands that had been desperately holding on to the sled for dear life just a few minutes before soon lay relaxed and nonchalant, guiding the sled smoothly and confidently through the twists and turns of the track as we headed upwards through the birch forest.

I began to feel elated, proud of my new-found skills and my rapid mastery of dog sledding technique. As my dogs pulled for all they were worth I had time to take in some of the beauty and silence of the forest, and turned my head to catch a suggestion of the majestic shapes of the surrounding mountains looming through the low cloud. But pride comes, of course, before a fall, and a few seconds later the world went suddenly and completely white as I pitched head-first into a deep snowdrift and disappeared in a puff of powder. I emerged to see my sled on its side and disappearing into the distance, pulled forward at a slower but still impressive pace by the unrelenting power of my dogs. Two legs are considerably less efficient than four when it comes to running in snow, especially when they are attached to a slightly paunchy 37-year-old body and encased in a thick set of padded overalls, and it took me what seemed like an eternity before I caught up with my sled, panting, sweating, and with little stars bursting in front of my eyes. Even with the added encumbrance of the sled on its side, my dedicated team of canine pullers had seemed to have no problem charging up the hill and putting an impressive distance between us, even before I had had time to struggle to my feet and set off in pursuit, with my cries of “Stop!! For God’s sake stop!!” falling on eight deaf, or perhaps just indifferent, ears.

“Still, I’ve learned my lesson”, I thought, as I clambered awkwardly aboard and set off once more, vowing not to get so distracted by the tempting beauty around me again. Indeed, that was to be my only fall of the whole trip, and by the end of the tour five days later I would have good reason to be justifiably proud of my new skills of balance and control, but for now I was content just to stay on my feet and count myself lucky that I was nursing nothing worse than a bruised ego.

Much of the Vålådalen Nature Reserve through which we were travelling has a restriction on snowmobiles, which makes it possible to enjoy the tranquility of this lovely area undisturbed. Though we were not scheduled to enter the restricted area until the following day, when we would be penetrating deeper and higher into the reserve, we neither saw nor heard a single scooter during our trip up to Vålåstugan, our only fellow travellers a hardy-looking group of ski tourers out on a winter camping expedition. As we raced ever upwards, the dogs pulled tirelessly, taking occasional bites of snow from the track and even going to the loo on the move.

When finally we stopped for a short break, the air was alive with exclamations of “Wow!”, “That was amazing!”, “This is beautiful!” and occasionally “Ooh my aching legs!”, and the sun made a welcome appearance through the clouds as we surveyed the ascent we had made and the lie of the land behind us, sipping coffee from our thermoses and attacking the proffered sandwiches as if we hadn’t eaten for days. The dogs took the opportunity to roll in the snow to cool down or lie panting, tongues lolling with great clouds of breath hanging in the crisp air.

Just the sound of a thermos top being screwed back on or the rasp of a sled pocket zip closing seemed to be enough to signal to the dogs that we would be setting off again shortly, and once more the teams erupted in a frenzy of yelps and barks. A few kilometres later, we rounded the corner to see the welcoming low huddle of buildings at Vålåstugan winking at us through the afternoon sunshine. Almost immediately, our thoughts turned to cosy fireside chats, the crackle and spit of dinner cooking on the stove, and the evening of cheerful camaraderie that lay ahead.

But it would be a while before we settled down to enjoy such creature comforts – for now, the dogs came first and their needs must be attended to before we ourselves could be fed and watered. As we waited in turn to park our sleds, the wind picked up noticeably behind us and the clouds rolled in, obscuring our view of the mountains, driving snow down our collars and chilling our faces, giving us a taste of the approaching weather front that we had stayed just ahead of all afternoon.

While we were to be spending the night wrapped up cosy and warm in the mountain cabins, the dogs would be sleeping outside, and it was important that adequate preparations be made to shelter them from the worst of the weather. First of all, static lines were drawn between stakes and the dogs clipped on at intervals of a couple of metres, each section of line with its own individual piece of cable to allow the dogs ample room to move around.

Once the dogs had been unharnessed and clipped on to their static lines, we moved the sleds together and faced them downwind to prevent them being lost in snowdrifts overnight (a very real problem – Tommy told us later that he has spent hours searching for sleds buried completely in the snow after a storm!). Then it was time for our first taste of snow-shelter digging, which was to be come an essential part of the dog sledding experience and a major part of our dog-care duties over the coming days. By this time the wind had really picked up, and for the next hour or so we struggled with our snow shovels against horizontal snow and driving winds of up to 22mps (about 50mph) to build walls of snow sufficient to protect the dogs through the approaching night. Though the still air temperature was still very mild (around -2), wind of this strength drops the actual temperature to around -20. But with the exertion of digging the snow and packing it to make the walls there was little chance of anyone getting cold!

At the end of an exhausting but strangely rewarding hour battling the elements, we stood back to survey our handiwork. The dogs looked distinctly unimpressed with our efforts, some even jumping over the walls to lie on the windward side, their ears flapping as they turned their faces full into the wind, but we knew at least that we had done our best and that shelter would be there for those that wanted it. It seemed only right to test one of our snug-looking creations for myself, and so I curled up to try my hole out for size. It did indeed make a surprising difference to huddle down behind the wall of snow, though the prospect of a warm bed inside was a still good deal more inviting.

As we mopped our brows and congratulated ourselves on our fortitude and stamina, Tommy and Lena called us over with the cry of “Food time!”. “Excellent”, I thought, “I’m starving.” But of course they meant the dogs. They showed us what was on the canine menu for the evening – a veritable banquet of dried food mixed with water followed by a hunk of frozen meat of unknown and rather suspect-looking origin. Dutifully we held out the bowls while Tommy and Lena slopped in the food and, though it didn’t look too appetising to us, we assumed that after their exertions the dogs would be ravenous, falling upon the food like a pack of hungry, well, dogs. We were therefore astonished when most of the dogs looked at the food disdainfully before turning their backs in a huff and curling up in the snow, while others licked at it listlessly or deliberately emptied out the water by tipping the bowls over to pick the dried food off the snow.

“This is often a problem,” explained Tommy, his brow furrowed with concern. “In bad weather the dogs don’t like to eat. We really need them to drink as well, which is why they need the water from the bowls – they don’t get enough water just from eating snow.” And muttering to himself about the vagaries of the mountain climate and canine mood swings, he shuffled off to redistribute the untouched bowls to other dogs.

“Well”, we thought, “they’re bound to like the meat at least.” But no, as the hunks of frozen meat were hacked up with an axe and handed out, once again the dogs sniffed at them hautily or quickly buried them in the snow before lying down in disgust.

There was one more task to accomplish in the gathering darkness before we could retire to the warmth of the cabin. Lena produced a bag of doggy coats and we went around covering the more lightly-built dogs or those with the thinnest fur. Alaskan Huskies are incredibly hardy animals, but even a husky gets cold sometimes, and in the evening ahead Tommy and Lena were to make regular excursions out into the storm to check on the welfare of the dogs, even bringing one or two inside occasionally to warm up.

At long last, our duties were completed and we retired to the steaming interior of the cabin. Thanks to the efforts of the warden, who had been anticipating our arrival, the fire had been lit many hours before and the cabin was a roasting 23 degrees. We stripped off our many layers and suspended our icy hats and gloves above the fire before flopping gratefully down around the table to bask in the unexpected warmth.

The evening passed in a haze of gentle conversation and laughter, punctuated every hour or so by one or other of us deciding they could hold out no longer and it was time to get togged up for an expedition to the toilet. And an expedition it was – the wind was unrelenting and it took all our strength just to open the door to the cabin. We were propelled by the wind at our backs across a carpet of snow to the toilet block, where even the thick doors and solid Swedish construction could not prevent icy drafts whistling into the most private places. When we opened the door to brave the trip back, the cabin was just a hazy outline barely visible through the driving snow, and though a distance of just 30m or so, it was not hard to imagine yourself as an intrepid Arctic explorer struggling valiantly back to base across the frozen wastes.

Dinner, when it was finally time for us to eat, was well worth the wait, and before long our bellies had been filled to bursting with a hearty meal of reindeer meat and mashed potatoes. This was the first of many tasty meals that Tommy was to prepare for us over the coming days – perhaps it was the mountain setting and expedition ambience, the drama of the howling storm outside, or just our ravenous hunger after the day’s adventures, but we all agreed that mashed potato had never tasted so good.

By the time 9pm rolled around (though it felt like midnight at least), all of us were yawning and looking longingly towards our beds. As I slipped into my sleeping sheet, pulled over the duvet and lay back to listen to the wind still racing around the corners of the cabin, a jumble of impressions and thoughts swirled through my head – the myriad sights, sounds, and powerful emotions of my first day dog sledding in the mountains of Jämtland.

Look out for the next instalment, as we go in search of buried sleds and watch the skies anxiously for signs of sunshine…

Best regards

The Nature Travels Team

Read part 2

The article above describes the first day of this February’s Dogsled Adventure in Jämtland, a 7-day adventure holiday with 5 days’ dog sledding in the mountain wilderness of western Sweden. We have limited spaces still remaining for some of our dog sledding tours in Sweden in March and April 2008. Please contact us for details or see our full range of dog sledding holidays in Sweden at www.naturetravels.co.uk/category-dog-sledding.htm.