I had just started my dog sled trip in Kiruna, Sweden, the country’s northernmost town. The famous Icehotel is nearby, in the village of Jukkasjärvi. I traveled there from Chicago, flying through Copenhagen and Stockholm with my friend Mike McCarthy. We had signed up for a 100-mile, 6-day Arctic Circle trip through the mountains in the north. We met at the dog sled camp, stayed there overnight, and the next day rode out to the trailhead with the dogs in cages and the sleds strapped on top of the trucks. The five other guests were from Germany and France: a married couple, and a father and his teenage son. Our guide was Martin.

We were given control of the sleds with minimal instructions. Our sleds were loaded with our food and ten huge frozen dog-food patties of meat, each the size of a couch cushion.

We moved in a cavalcade of seven sleds across the beautiful, snow-covered landscape at about 15 mph.

I was the last sled. My team was four Siberian huskies, each about thirty to forty pounds. They pulled relentlessly and happily, long tongues hanging down. The sun was out against a beautiful azure-blue sky, and I followed the sled tracks of our group. There were no other people or signs of civilization in sight.

After lunch, the flat landscape gave way to a long, steep, wide downhill stretch. It was wide and open. We picked up speed, and I applied the brakes so as not to run over my industrious dogs. I was the last in line of the seven sleds.

Off the runners

The trail was uneven, and I needed to concentrate to keep my balance on the sled runners. I did not see the dip or bump. The sled kicked, and I was thrown off. It happened fast. One moment I was standing on the runners, the next I was in the snow.

I shouted uselessly for the dogs to stop.

They did not stop.

They kept moving, pulling the sled behind them. Helplessly, I watched them continue. In a flash, they disappeared downhill.

It got quiet after that as I wondered what to do.

I stood alone on the slope. There was no one in sight. There was no sound.

I realized I did not know what to do, and I was very alone.

I had no sled, no gear, and no plans.

I stood there for a short time, thinking. I wondered if the dogs would stop on their own. I wondered if someone ahead would notice I was gone.

The long walk back

Then I started walking, following the sled tracks.

All my supplies were on that sled. Everything I needed for the trip was there.

I kept walking.

It was not panic, but it was close. I did not like not knowing what to do or the next steps. There was no noise except the crunching of snow under my big snow boots.

After some time—maybe fifteen minutes—I saw someone ahead.

Mike McCarthy stood on a rocky outcrop. He raised his arm and waved. I waved back and walked toward him.

When I reached him, he told me what had happened. The dogs are not trained to stop when the mushers call out. They kept going until they ran into the team ahead, forcefully, with no operator at the helm.

We walked back together to the sleds.

After that, I understood more about how it worked. The dogs would run. The sled would follow. And if you were not on it, it would not wait for you. While falling, it was best to push over the sled, stopping it. I applied this method when I fell - the next five times.

Charlie Brown is a practicing attorney who was raised and works in the Chicago area. He is married with four children and two grandchildren, and loves adventure travel.