The Stereotypical Canadian

The dogs peek over the snow-covered trench, their breath forming a rising white mist as they closely watch me. I walk toward the direction of the sleds and they simultaneously rise from their beds with a deepened stare. The morning sunlight gleams over the jagged peaks, bounces off our Tee Pee. As I start to hook up the gang lines, all 15 dogs erupt with long howls of excitement. Their energy pulsates through me, and goosebumps emerge along my arms and neck. I have yet to see the complex course we will be navigating today.

Once the dogs are harnessed, the other guide, Jereme and I hook them up to the lines. Jereme’s mother started this dog-sledding touring company 30 years prior, and pioneered this very route with him when he was young. Our guests are two very jolly middle-aged women from Switzerland – both named Monika. Every muscle in the dogs’ bodies is tense as Jereme unties his snub line and the sled launches down the winding trail. I follow behind in my sled with Monika 2 balancing on the opposite back runner across from me. “Good girl Lightning! That’s my boy Bowser! ”, I shout out.

The trail runs on a narrow path following alongside Spray Lake. We approach a descent and Jereme’s voice emits from the radio. “I’m going to go down first, and then I’ll clear you to come after.”

“Copy”. I wait several minutes.

“Okay, it’s clear but take it very slow.” I copy again as Monika 2 starts to voice her nervousness. I reassure her that it will be fine and to pay attention to her balance. We start to descend the largest hill of the trail. I push down on the metal brake arm under my foot, but without the adequate amount of pressure. The hill winds to the left and I instruct her to lean but she is too late. She loses her footing and falls backwards into the snow causing the sled to flip to the right. There is one thing worse than a tipped sled, and that’s a loose one. Every guest and especially the guide knows that, if you remember anything from our instructions – it’s not to let go.

The sled slams to the ground and the dogs quickly pick up speed down the mountain. My right hand death-grips around the steering bow and I try to ignore the searing pain down my arm as the hardened snow tears across my flesh. Clasping the brake arm with one hand, I manage to flip the sled upright. I climb up the back and anchor the snow hook into the ground. The dogs turn their heads back, and while catching my breath, I try to determine if their smirks are intentional.