Slips and chains

Stanley Stewart goes dog-sledding in the Svalbard Islands, where the human population is outnumbered by polar bears

Faced with the prospect of an Arctic blizzard, temperatures of -25°C and the management of a team of deranged huskies, I had probably hoped for more of a hand-holding approach from my guide - a bit of gentle reassurance, however false; some friendly encouragement. I felt a few strategic half truths were in order. "Don't worry, everything is going to be fine," was what I needed to hear. "Camping," was what I didn't need to hear.

Tough as steel and armed with the social skills of a crash barrier, most Arctic guides don't waste time pampering their guests. Their message is simple. This is the Arctic. Up here, we don't mince our words. If you needed jollying along, you should have stayed home.

It was mid-winter in the Svalbard Islands. The North Pole was barely 1200km away. When I stepped outside, my nostrils closed as an involuntary protest, a reflex act of self protection. I was setting out on a three-day dog-sledding expedition, and I confess to a few niggling anxieties - had I packed enough socks?

How does one pee when encased in 27 layers of clothing? Was I going to freeze to death? In my present state of mind, I needed any idea of camping to be introduced gently, almost imperceptibly.

Longyearbyen is a tenuous town on the edge of a frozen fjord, the last outpost of civilisation and central heating. I met the guide in the lobby, where a polar-bear skin the size of a king-sized duvet was pinned to the wall.

 In the Arctic, polar bears are not cuddly figures. Longyearbyen is littered with notices, like wanted posters, warning you about them. The gist of the posters is that the bears are dangerous killers who will probably rip your face off should you be unlucky enough to meet one on your way home from the pub.

In a low monotone, over detailed maps of breathtaking emptiness, the guide was laying out the journey. Our destination was the Noorderlicht, a two-masted schooner, frozen in the ice of Templefjord, almost 80km away. There seemed to be only two problems - the weather and me.

There wasn't much he could do about me, so we turned to the weather. A glance out the window told us all we needed to know. You could barely make out the buildings on the other side of the street.

The winds were blowing out of the east, into the faces of the dogs apparently, and was going to slow us down considerably. We might not make it to the ship in a single day, he said. We may have to camp, he said. He dropped this bombshell into the conversation as casually as if he was announcing lunch.

While images of frozen sleeping bags played round my neurotic imagination, we kitted up, an elaborate procedure whose intricate undergarments and countless layers might have been vaguely familiar to Tudor damsels.

 I won't bore you with details but it involved woollen boxer shorts and three kinds of hat. The final layer was a windproof, waterproof, and presumably dog-proof jumper suit. I lumbered outside to a waiting van feeling like the Michelin Man.

Down at the dog yard, the arrival of Michelin Man set 90 huskies howling like the wolves to whom they were so clearly related.

Each dog was chained outside a little dog house, the chain just short enough to keep them from tearing the throat out of the dog next door. Huskies are remarkably keen on their job. At the first sign that sled-pulling might be part of their short-term future, they become hysterical.

The hounds stood on their hind legs, straining at their chains, frothing at the mouth.

In line with the tough love of the Arctic, the guide didn't waste time on introductions. He handed me the harnesses, told me the names of my six dogs and waved me in the direction of the howling masses.

 Tiptoeing just out of chain reach of baying huskies, I found my dogs - Troika, Ivar, Wilheim, Jinx and a couple of back markers whose names I have already forgotten. Releasing them from their chains, I hung onto their collars as they dragged me towards the sled.

Given this level of canine enthusiasm, departure proved a tricky business. In dog-sledding, the chief danger is that the dogs will leave without you. To avoid this ignominy, the sledder hammers a metal anchor into the hard-packed snow.

As the team was rigged up one by one, their excitement became deafening; the sled trembled as the dogs strained at their harnesses. When I finally lifted the anchor and took my foot off the brake, my whole body experienced a kind of whiplash. For a moment I seemed to be horizontal.

The first kilometre was a terrifying blur. It was downhill, on a slope tilted steeply from right to left. Hanging on for dear life, I had to lean far out, like a sailor in a keeling yacht, to keep the sled upright.

But once we reached the flat and the dogs lost their initial fever, we settled down to a steady and relatively comfortable pace.

 In a matter of moments, the buildings of Longyearbyen had fallen away and we were engulfed in the white, empty world of the Arctic. I wish I could tell you that I was cracking a whip, shouting mush and barking the Inuit words for right and left. But the reality was rather tamer.

The guide's sled took the lead, and my team followed obediently, panting like lions. I had only to lean on the brake occasionally - a bar with spikes that dug into the snow - to keep my overeager hounds from running up the back of the guide's sled. Mushing was largely a matter of admiring the scenery, while gliding along on smooth, packed snow.

An archipelago the size of Ireland, the Svalbard Islands lie almost 1600km north of the Norwegian mainland. Sixty percent of the islands are covered by permanent glaciers.

 From April to August, the sun never sets while from the end of October to mid February, it never rises. The permanent population - a mixture of research scientists, miners, government officials and tourist guides - is outnumbered by polar bears.

Global warming may be threatening the whole Arctic environment but on Svalbard only an expert would notice. The name means "cold coast" in Norwegian. This is a case of Nordic understatement. In mid-winter, temperatures regularly plunge to -40°C but the wind-chill factor often makes it feel more like -70°C.

We followed the flat valley of Adventdalen as it swung eastward towards Sassendalen. The swirling snow reduced the landscape to a fathomless and unblemished white.

There was no horizon and the rocky heights on either side of us appeared only as ghostly shapes. The Arctic was strangely like the desert - empty, disorientating, dreamlike, a place of visions and confusions.

There is little to distinguish between what is real and unreal, what you see and what you think you see. The only sounds in this monochrome world were the padding of the dogs' feet, and the occasional squeak of the runners on the snow.

Distances were impossible to estimate. In Templefjord a small pylon appeared. It looked to be a few hundred metres off. It turned out to be our icebound ship, still miles away.

We reached the Noorderlicht in blue twilight. Hitching the dogs to night chains on the ice beside the ship, we threw them some cuts of frozen meat, and gave each a handful of straw to sleep on while we retired to the warmth, comfort, drinks and huge meal on the snug vessel. I was so happy not to be out there with the dogs, braving the Arctic night.

After dinner, I went out in the moonlight to give my team, curled up on the ice, a little pat of thanks for the day's work. When I turned back to the ship, I found the guide on the icy deck, smoking his pipe.

"Glad we made it," I said. "I wouldn't like to camp out here."

"We always make it to the ship," he said with the first trace of a smile. "But sometimes it is useful to add a note of urgency."

Our breath plumed into the night air. All round us the waters of the fjord were frozen to a depth of half a metre. Moonlight glinted on the Von Post glacier a couple of miles to the east. I could feel the wind biting into my cheeks.

We both knew that without all the support equipment, and without the dogs, we wouldn't survive an hour in this extraordinary place. The idea was strangely entrancing.

I asked him why he loved this frozen landscape.

"Because it makes me feel so alive," he said.

IF YOU GO ...

GETTING THERE: The quickest route from Johannesburg to Longyearbyen is on Lufthansa to Frankfurt and then on SAS via Oslo. Return fares start at R15041 for travel in early March. See www.skyscannner.net for more information.

WHERE TO STAY: The Trappers Hotel (www.basecampexplorer.com) in Longyearbyen, kitted up in Shackelton Chic, has comfy rooms from about R2700.

It is owned by Basecamp Expeditions, which organises many of the activities on the islands, from snow-mobiling to dog-sledding. Another option is Mary-Ann's Polarrigg (www.polarriggen.com), basic doubles R1360.

TOUR COMPANIES: UK-based tour operator Steppes Travel (www.steppestravel.co.uk) offers dog-sledding expeditions from £2195 per person, including flights from the UK, hotel accommodation in Oslo and Longyearbyen and the two-night/three-day dog-sledding with full board on The Noorderlicht.

Dog-sledding is from early March to May. Other operators include Activities Abroad (www.activitiesabroad.com) and Black Tomato (www.blacktomato.co.uk).