Non fiction

Thrown to the Dogs

Norway looked like it was trapped in a snow globe. Streetlights framed heavy snow in the dense night, dandruff of the sky to my wide young eyes. I was ten years old. We were being driven to a lake in the next village, to be taken on a husky ride.

The Scandinavian Volvo, in its natural habitat, roared up the peak of a hill. At the summit we were greeted by the sight of a dark lake with lamps like Christmas hung around its perimeter.

We pulled in at a dock at the bottom of the hill. From the snug warmth of the car I peered out at our guides. To my child's eyes they were Vikings, dragged out from troll-laden mythology to take tourists on tours of lakes. The huskies were ferocious guard dogs of Valhalla, with all the savagery that comes from burning, pillaging and lapping mead from enemy skulls.

I felt ridiculous in my puffy sky blue snow coat and looked back at my family. The layers they had piled on me made me feel like a Russian doll. I turned back. We were being beckoned out of the car.

Standing on the lakeside, my mind saw every crack and imperfection on the ice. How much would it take to break through; how did they know the ice was thick enough? Caught up in my worries, I failed to notice the rest of my family being led to a sled.

And I was alone.

Left to the mercy of the Vikings and their war dogs.

One of them looked towards me. He burst out laughing, a booming laugh which echoed through my ears. ‘Come,’ he said, smiling and pulling me towards the husky train.

The convoy was six sledges long, separated in turn by teams of four huskies. At the head of the procession were my family, sat in the sled and wrapped in furs and leathers, looking like candy canes in a stocking. It all became clear. I was just being reunited with my family.

I gave them a wave to show everything was fine.

Then the Viking placed a meaty hand on my shoulder and guided me to an empty sled at the back of the group. He gave me a pat on the back and placed my hands on the bar before me, before departing to his own sled at the front.

Everything was not fine.

I was in charge of four huskies with the bundled, collective energy of a Norwegian blizzard. I could sense their disapproval, their indignation at being saddled with a child. They howled and shifted on the surface of the lake. I was terrified.

The rider in front turned to give me a thumbs up and I suddenly realised: it was a test, a challenge. A rite of passage, my initiation into Viking society. I had to impress. I gripped the reins and dug my feet in. The call came from the front and the dogs powered forward. The trial had begun.

I was yanked on, but kept a steely grip on the bar. Determined in a way only a child who wants to impress can be. We whipped past lamp-lit fir trees and cabins through the heavy night. The barks of the huskies overcame the ‘gees’ and ‘haws’ of the drivers as they echoed off the delicate ice, separating the husky teams from the frozen fathoms below.

I was exhilarated now; in charge, bringing up the rear, playing a key role. I was Ben Hur of the frozen wastes, Captain Scott crossing a perilous lake in the name of exploration. I had met the challenge. I felt like one of the tribe. A leader of the tribe.

When we completed the circuit and returned to the dock, I stepped off the sled. Striding through the snow, I gave curt nods to the other drivers who responded with laughter. I didn't mind. I was one of them now. A complete Scandinavian warrior.

As we returned home in the Volvo, my head began to droop under the drone of the engine, and I slept, looting and pillaging.

Jack Stacey