Huskies pulling a sled in Bridger-Teton National Forest
It’s taken me awhile to come to terms with this, but I have weird friends. Most people like to spend winter weekends on the slopes or in front of the fireplace, sipping cocoa, curled up with a book.
Not my friends.
One just got back from a week of ice-climbing camp in Ouray, and another is talking about trying snow kiting (think kite surfing, but on snow). Last week I went to see an old friend in Bozeman and we spent the evening buying, waxing and cutting skins for his new all-terrain skis, so that he can walk five miles uphill just to ski down it.
It was at that point I realized I had to step up my winter adventuring, or I wouldn’t have friends left to hang out with. They’d all be outside doing things without me.
So here I am in Bridger-Teton National Forest with six feet of snow on the ground. I’m on the back of a 60-pound sled behind eight Alaskan huskies. And these dogs love to run.
I start off my morning the toughest way possible – rolling out of 400-thread-count sheets in my room at the Four Seasons Resort Jackson Hole, flicking on the gas-burning fireplace and drawing back the shutters to look out on the mountain. Below my private terrace, there is steam rising off the heated swimming pool. The snow obscures the landscape enough for me to suspect that it has been coming down all night.
An hour later, Tim, the seasoned mountaineer who’s driving our van out to the base camp of Jackson Hole Iditarod Sled Dog Tours, is telling me about Frank Teasley, the eight-time Iditarod veteran who co-owns the operation. Teasley has competed all over the world with his team, and runs tours into the 3.4 million-acre Bridger-Teton National Forest. It’s a “pension plan” for his older dogs and a training program for the younger ones. As we wind along the Snake River out of town on Highway 191, Tim tells me whatever I do, not to let go of the sled. Apparently the dogs will just keep going – with sled attached.
This is going to be great.
I
Sled dogs preparing for a trek
clomp my way over the top of the small ridge leading up to the kennel – the last couple hundred of feet of driveway are steep and have too much snow cover for our van to make it up safely – and see a small, cedar-shingled building with smoke coming out of a tin chimney. Behind it are neat rows of wooden telephone-wire spools tipped on their sides. Each spool has a little door cut out of it, and a little dog attached by a chain. There are 187 dogs, and all of them are barking.
When I say little dogs, I’m not joking. Whether it came from Hollywood or Jack London, the idea of the sled dog as a hulking, wolf-like creature couldn’t be further from the type of dog that makes up teams like Teasley’s. Most of his weigh about 40 pounds. Stacy, who is briefing our small group of would-be mushers, tells us that most people think sled dogs look like Siberian huskies or malamutes. These dogs are Alaskan huskies, the kind that used to roam around Inuit villages. “In other words, they’re mutts,” she says.
She and the other guides are obviously fond of their charges, mutts or not – each guide works with about 20 dogs – but she does ask that we not pet the dogs outside, at least until they get sorted out into teams and we’re assigned to a specific guide. The dogs get very, very wound up, which is immediately obvious from the howl and then total chaos that erupts outside when the first sled gets dragged out.
While we’re waiting for the sleds to get set up, I roll around with the five-month-old puppies tied up to the doghouses just outside the kennel. One keeps sitting-standing-sitting on my lap, then attempts to run off with the tiny pink mittens attached to my new friend Caitlin, who has come outside to play with the puppies too.
It’s not long before I’m tromping through the aisles of dogs and doghouses on the way to my assigned sled. My guide, Mike, practically greets us with a yelp himself – he’s almost as excited as the dogs are to get out on the trail. He’s hooked up two teams and puts Caitlin and her parents in the rear sled, then climbs onto the back of the lead one with me.
Our destination, Granite Hot Springs, is 11 miles out, and we take off with a start. I’m kind of surprised by how tippy the sled is – particularly if I’m not supposed to fall off/let go under any circumstances, a guideline Mike vigorously confirms. There isn’t that much steering involved; instead, the dogs respond to verbal commands: “alright” to get going, “on up” to keep up the pace, “whoa” to stop. They know the trail pretty well, but you can tell them to “gee over” to move to the right or “haw” to go left.
Sledding to Granite Hot Springs
In a few minutes we’ve left the kennel behind and the dogs have pretty much stopped goofing around like naughty kindergarteners. I’m balancing like a ballerina on a 3-by-12-inch slat of wood, with powder kicking up on either side of me and nothing but the sound of dogs panting and the slight squeak of the sled moving through the snow. The last few days have been warm and just off to our right, the ice over Granite Creek has melted off, leaving a steep wall of snow on either side that makes me feel like I’m shushing along on top of a polar ice cap. Mike points out moose tracks along the river (mountain lions, bison, deer, elk and pronghorn also make this wild terrain their home) and tells me how he usually spends his summers working with horses and leading fly-fishing trips.
On top of a solid four- to five-foot base, there is also 15 inches of new snow from last night’s storm, which makes our ride slightly slower going but also gives us a great excuse to hop off the sled and help the dogs out over small hills and tough terrain. (The only sizeable climb is over what the guides call “Big Ass Hill.”) In breaks in our conversation, there is an overwhelming sense of quiet to being this far out in the snow-covered wilderness. Five or six miles out, we pass Granite Creek Falls and a ranger station. There’s a beagle outside the ranger station, somebody’s pet, and for a second it looks like our team is going to sacrifice our lives and our sled for a little tail-sniffing. Mike yells at them and they reluctantly get back on the trail.
Granite Hot Springs has been gushing up from the earth for thousands of years, but it wasn’t until the 1930s that the Civilian Conservation Corps built a small concrete pool to capture the 104-degree water. Today, a national forest ranger and his wife occupy a small home overlooking the springs; as I’m easing myself into the very hot water in nothing but a bikini, I watch the ranger shoveling snow into the pool to keep it a manageable temperature.
Bundled up again – I swear I can’t move my arms – I make my way down to the picnic area near where we’ve left the dogs. There’s steak and stuffed trout steaming on the grill, a delicious vegetable soup in thermoses and raw vegetables, cheese and even homemade carrot cake for dessert. I unwrap the foil around my trout and devour that, then accept one of the extra-juicy hot dogs the guides have brought along for my 3-year-old friend in the pink parka.
It
Riding on a dog sled in Wyoming
doesn’t take that long to untangle our teams and get them pointed for home again, but I’m feeling sleepy from the hot springs and the warm food (and the glass of red wine one of the other novice mushers gave me), so I decide to ride back wrapped in blankets in the sled basket. Mike has added some of his horse blankets, which makes it super toasty. Knowing they’re going home – and going to get dinner, most likely some of the raw, red meat that was sitting in vats around the kennel – the dogs roar off like they’re running for their lives.
Not everyone can get excited about a pile of raw meat. I am thinking instead about the Tranquility Lounge back at the Four Seasons, which might be nice after a quick dip in the pool, a heated towel and robe from the outdoor closet and maybe even an “icicle” at the cabana – a sugar cone filled with ice, then drizzled with a liqueur of my choosing. Perhaps some Kahlua…
So maybe this counts as Adventure Lite, if 3-year-olds can keep up with me and there’s an après-sled cocktail waiting back at my luxury resort. The great thing about dogsledding is that you can do it the easy way – kicking back in the basket for a few hours – or sign on for a multi-day tour with some serious backcountry camping thrown into the mix.
I just won’t mention the 3-year-old, I decide. Even my friends aren’t weird enough to turn down the Four Seasons.
You can shop where the Queen of England did, see artwork in a ranch setting that was home to British nobility, and ride horses in Wyoming Bighorn mountains just like the first cattlemen or early dudes if you take a cowboy vacation to the Bighorns.
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Whether you are planning to visit Wyoming in the spring, summer, fall or winter, there is so much to see and do. Each season in Wyoming has its own character. If you’re planning your first trip to the Cowboy State or you’re an old hand, there’s always more to explore and find. read more
