Who's driving this dog sled, anyway?

Editor's note: Stephanie Nichols told this story as part of the live event Arctic Entries on Jan. 10 in Anchorage. It is printed here by permission of the storyteller and the Arctic Entries.

Two years ago for the first time in my life, I was going to see the finish of the Iditarod sled dog race in Nome, Alaska. I'd never been to Nome — I'd never seen any part of the Iditarod, and I was so excited.

As I was sitting in the Anchorage airport waiting to board my flight to Nome, I got a text message from my friends up there, and they said that they had arranged for me to go on a dog sled ride the next morning.

I thought that sounded fantastic. What better place to go on a dog sled ride than Nome? So the next morning I wake up in Nome, and I'm told that I need to be at the dog lot by 9 a.m.

[Curious about the Iditarod? Check out our full coverage here.]

I show up and I am so ready. I've got on my full-length down parka, I have on my bunny boots, I've got on a big fur hat, and I've got a couple thousand dollars' worth of camera equipment hanging around my neck, because I think I'm going to be taking some pictures.

There are eight dogs and they're already harnessed and attached to the sled. Now, mind you, this sled is not quite as elaborate as the sleds you see on Fourth Avenue during the ceremonial start of the Iditarod. Instead, this is a very rudimentary device. It was essentially a piece of plywood, that would be my seat, on top of some runners, and nothing for me to hold on to but a handlebar in the back.

The musher says: "Are you ready?" I say, "I'm ready." And she says, "Hop in the sled."

I hop in and sit down on that piece of plywood, my legs are out in front of me and BOOM — we take off like a rocket.

These eight dogs are moving, and eight dogs can move really fast. The dogs are flying and we're barreling across the tundra. I'm trying not to get dumped out in the sled, I'm holding onto my camera equipment and wondering why on earth I brought it with me at this point.

Several minutes or so after we left the dog lot, at least three-quarters of a mile or so down the trail, I decide to make some conversation with my musher, because we hadn't really had a chance to chat before we took off.

As I'm still sitting there looking forward at the dogs I say out loud: "So, how old are most of these dogs?"

I didn't get a response, so I just asked again, out loud: "So, how old are most of these dogs?"

Silence.

There was no response at all.

At that moment, my heart sunk.

As I slowly turned around, I saw that there was NOBODY on the back of my sled — there was no musher on the back of my sled, and at this point there was no human being for as far as the eye could see! And the town of Nome was quickly fading into the distance.

I took a minute to digest my situation. Here I am flying across the tundra in a place I've never been, with eight dogs I've never met.

I do what any reasonable person would do. I decide I'll just start shouting out at the dogs. Certainly that will remedy the situation. So I start shouting, "Hey dogs, hey! Hey, dogs!"

As you can imagine, that was completely ridiculous and did nothing.

The second thing I did was go into my memory bank of every dog mushing command I've ever heard in my life. I grew up in Alaska, but I know nothing about dog mushing. I have certainly heard dog mushing commands or what I think are commands. So I think this is a really good idea.

I start shouting commands. I say, "Hee! Gee! Gaw! Haw!" Which, again, was pretty ridiculous. I will tell you, however, that the two dogs in the back, the ones closest to me, they did turn around. They turned around as their tongues were hanging out and their tails were wagging, and they were sprinting across the snow.

The look on their faces was like, "Hey, crazy lady, in the back! We hear you but we have no idea what you're saying, and we really don't care because if you haven't noticed, the eight of us up here, we're having a really great time and we're just gonna keep right on running."

So I think, OK. I guess I can hop out of the sled, but let's be honest — what is that going to accomplish? I could get hurt. Also, then there would be a really rogue dog team running around Nome and I would be laying out on the tundra.

At about this point, I heard a large metal object clanking along the side of the sled. I picked it up, and it's the claw brake. At least that's what I thought it was and what I think it is. I thought: Oh, I know, I can throw this down on the snow and I'll stop these dogs. That's what I'll do!

Fortunately, my voice of reason quickly came into my head and I thought, that is absolutely a terrible idea and all evidence leading up to this point is that I really don't know what I'm doing, and the chance of me actually being able to use this object for what it was designed is slim to none.

As I'm holding this metal claw and looking up at the dogs two things became crystal clear. One, these dogs are having the time of their lives, and honestly I was having a really good time too. It was a beautiful day!

The second thing is that these dogs knew far more about where they were going and what they were doing than I ever would, and I needed to trust them. I took that claw brake and I attached it behind me on the handle bar, where the musher was supposed to be, and I made sure that it was secure.

I turned back around and said, "OK, dogs! Let's go for a ride until someone finds us." And that's what we did. We went on an adventure. I don't even know where we were, but we were flying. They never slowed down, by the way. We did this for about a half an hour. It was a while until the musher showed up — with another dog team and another musher. Somehow, they were able to stop my little dog team and our little adventure was over, and they took us back to town.

That's when I found out what had caused this adventure. Right before I'd arrived at the dog lot, the musher had fed the dogs some fish snacks, so there was fish oil on her hands. She had pulled that claw brake probably a little too soon, and as soon as those dogs felt that release they took off. When she went to grab the handlebar, her hand slipped right off because of the fish oil.

I'm going to tell you something though — that camera equipment that I brought with me — it was actually pretty useful. When I got home I looked through the photos I had taken, and it was then that I realized that I had taken some pictures before I realized I was on my solo mission.

One of the pictures was perfect, and no, it wasn't a selfie. I took it from the sled looking ahead at the snowy hills of Nome and my new eight best friends. It was a sunny day and the sun cast a shadow, and that shadow told the story.

In that shadow, you can see my little head sitting in the sled and you can see the handlebar where the musher is supposed to be. But it is clear that there is nobody there.

Stephanie Nichols grew up in Fairbanks, but after living and traveling throughout much of the world, she now makes her home in Anchorage. She's looking forward to reconnecting with her eight four-legged friends on another dog sled ride in Nome.

You can catch more Arctic Entries at their next show Tuesday, March 14. The theme is "Stranger than Fiction: Stories of the Unpredictable, Unreliable, and Unbelievable." Tickets are $15 at centertix.net.