JAUNT THAT MADE ME HOWL WITH JOY

I’ve been invited to take part in a 200-mile expedition across Arctic Scandinavia. We’re travelling by dog sled, each of us responsible for our own dogs, and carrying with us everything we need to survive: tents, stoves, snow shoes, shovels, food for the dogs and rations for ourselves. It’s -10°C.

I know the knuckles beneath my thick gloves are white. I’m gripping the birch wood handle, every muscle in my body tense. I’m scared, elated, adrenaline pumping. The sound around me is cacophonous. Two hundred dogs, straining at their tethers, are barking eagerly.

Then my dogs leap off with a jolt that almost knocks me backwards, and we stream across the snow. There are advantages to travelling by dog sled rather than walking here – we cover far greater distances – but I had wondered if the experience of being in this otherworldly place would be diminished because I was relying on the legs of the dogs rather than my own. But as soon as we set off I know my fears are unfounded. I’m not sitting on the sledge, snuggled under reindeer skins to be whisked effortlessly, but standing on the runners at the back. I must keep a sharp eye on the track, looking out for hazards. I feel every bump, every rut, and the changing texture of the snow.

I fall off more than once, though the padded layers of Arctic kit mean the only thing that gets bruised is my confidence. It’s surprisingly physical to travel this way. The landscape is breathtakingly cold but so beautiful that I forget to be scared and let out shouts of joy.

Kate on the back of her sled