• What to know if you go

PATTI BOND/Staff (ENLARGE)

Alaskan racing huskies, weighing in at around 50 pounds, are the hard-working mutts of the mushing world. This team was a mix of budding athletes, retired racers and former sled champions.

KATE DOMINOWSKA/Special (ENLARGE)

Patti Bond and musher Matt Mlynarczyk stretch their legs midway through the trip. Bond got more than she bargained for with a wild ride through the spectacular Bridger-Teton National Forest.

Jackson Hole, Wyo. — The towering Grand Teton mountains, jutting nearly 14,000 feet toward the sky, are a beacon of sorts in this rocky nirvana of radical sports.

Extreme is standard operating procedure here. Skiers soar over granite-faced cliffs merely to warm up for bigger freefalls. Snowmobilers plow through waist-high powder on purpose.

So it should have been no surprise, then, that Wyoming's dogsledding could be just as spine-tingling. Actually, spine-rattling.

I found that out the hard way, as did my friend, Kate, an expert skier who dreamed up the sledding trip as a way for me, an absolute novice on skis, to experience the mountain views that I was missing on the bunny slopes.

After three days of ski school, mostly on my backside, I couldn't wait for the half-day sledding trip. I envisioned us gliding over a wide-open, white landscape, taking in the pristine wilderness, sans snowboarders. Best of all, I wouldn't have to wear ski boots. The aches and pains started melting away just thinking about it.

Sure enough, the day kicked off with a relaxing start. A driver for the dogsledding company picked us up right after breakfast at our lodge in downtown Jackson for the one-hour drive north to Bridger-Teton National Forest, just south of Yellowstone National Park.

Majestic mountains, moose sightings

Clouds and snow from earlier in the week had cleared overnight, offering a perfect blue-sky morning for photos. Our driver stopped three times along scenic U.S. 26 to let us snap pictures of rambling moose and, of course, the stunning Teton range, a favorite subject of countless photographers.

The adrenaline factor began to rise with the altitude, though, as we got closer to Togwotee Mountain Lodge, our launching point for the sledding tour. Straddling the Continental Divide, northwest Wyoming is a mecca for snowmobilers, and they popped up en masse on roadside trails just outside the lodge, revving up a considerable contrast to what had been a wondrous escape from the traffic noise back home in Atlanta.

Yet, that was nothing compared to the pandemonium awaiting us in the dog yard.

Sled dogs, I quickly learned, are born to run, not hang out in their igloos. And when they're not running, they're going to let you know it.

Barking, howling, yapping, pulling at their chains, each of the 30 or so dogs seemed to call out to the mushers, "Take me!"

Our musher, Matt Mlynarczyk, practically had to woof to be heard. "They're ready to go. They don't like standing around," Matt yelled over the din.

A dozen dogs

We met the 12 dogs that we would spend the morning with as Matt finished clamping the gangline that would keep them lined up side by side, in pairs. Like the other canine teams, our group was a mix of budding athletes, retired racers and former sled champions.

Weighing in at about 50 pounds each, they're smaller and leaner than most people expect. These dogs are Alaskan racing huskies, the hard-working mutt of the mushing world, a mix of Siberian husky, German shepherd and retriever.

Each has a special role. Samson, the beefy wheel dog, is hooked up closest to the sled to help with sharp turns. Decatur, a former race champion, goes up front because he's a master with directions such as "Gee!" (turn right) and "Haw!" (turn left).

We took our positions, too, Kate hunkered down in the back of the sled, me jammed in front, using her as a back rest. Matt strapped the sled cover across our somewhat reclining figures, then took his sentinel post, standing behind us on the back of the sled.

"Let's go!" he said, and we took off with a lurch.

As soon as they started running, the dogs fell silent. The commotion in the staging area gave way to the single sound of the sled's runners slicing through the snow.

"Come on, pups," Matt called out to the pack. Heading up a slight incline, the dogs dug in to pull their human cargo. The trail, just two huskies wide at this point, was lined on each side with a bank of powder that was shoulder-deep for our canine crew. Every stray step was that much more work to get back into unison.

Pushing and pulling

Matt was huffing, too. On an uphill climb like this, the musher pushes as the dogs pull. I looked to my right and saw Matt's bearded shadow on the shimmering snow, pushing off with one leg, keeping the other planted on a skinny platform at the back of the sled, slowly but steadily bobbing up and down like he was trying to maneuver a giant, heavy skateboard.

"Haw, haw!" Matt called, swinging us westward at the peak toward a wide-open view of mountaintops in the distance. Closer up, hundreds of lodgepole pines punctuate the winterscape with its only greenery.

"I love the look of untouched snow," said Kate, a powder addict. I nod, thinking that this is just as I imagined it would be.

Just then, thwack!

The dogs dropped down the other side of the hill, and the sled jerked upward, suspended airborne for a second.

"It's going to get bumpy," said Matt, who had quickly moved from pushing to hanging on.

I'm reminded that what goes up must come down, a universal truth that takes on new meaning when you're strapped to a pack of somewhat-wild animals.

In the span of 10 seconds, we went from riding a sled to riding a jackhammer. Air. Ground. Air. Thud. Bump-bump-bump.

I plucked my camcorder from the air and shoved it under a blanket in the sled. The dogs were having a blast — and picking up speed.

"Is it going to be like this for the rest of the trip?" I called out.

"Only when we go downhill!" Matt replied. The dogs, apparently having gotten their second wind, charged toward a heavily wooded area.

Hurtling toward a tree

"Keep your arms inside the sled no matter what," said Matt, as we hurtled, airborne again, toward a solid-looking tree trunk. "You don't want them to snap off."

Matt didn't sugarcoat for the tourists.

In fact, I started to think he wanted to spook us.

We're not in the back country, he noted, but we're still pretty deep in the Wyoming wilderness. Even though the bears are hibernating, there are still plenty of moose and mountain lions wandering around.

"If we should get mauled or attacked, we're screwed," Matt said, huffing up another hill — which meant another downhill on the way.

Looking back, it was wise to keep him talking — at least that way we knew he was still back there. Once we hit a smooth spot, Matt felt compelled to tell the story about a tourist a few weeks earlier who wanted to learn how to mush.

Matt was giving the tourist instructions from inside the sled, looking ahead toward the dogs, and didn't realize he was talking to himself. The tourist-trainee had been ejected, apparently during a downhill drop a couple of hundred yards back.

Not to worry, Matt quickly added. "I'll do whatever it takes to hang onto the sled, even if it's only with one arm."

Sled dogs can hit speeds of up to 20 miles per hour, and once they get going, they're not too eager to stop.

Going downhill, the musher has to be careful to keep the sled — and its contents — far enough back so as not to jam up on the dogs. There's a foot brake on the back of the sled, but as Matt nonchalantly noted, it doesn't always work.

Forget the bumps, enjoy the ride

"All sense of control is illusionary," Matt said. He learned that on the first day on the job — four months earlier (another fact he could have kept to himself).

For Matt, mushing is a winter gig and a steadier paycheck, he said, than his sidelined music career. With his cinnamon-colored dreadlocks, Matt looked like he'd be more at home in a reggae band than on the back of a sled.

Still, he seemed to take his new career in earnest. "It's not a job, it's a way of life," Matt told us.

About midway through the 10-mile trip, we came to an opening that gave us a panoramic view of the Teton range, a view that could only be had thanks to our furry tour guides — and the snowmobiles that carved out these trails.

Matt parked the sled with an ice hook, holding our bristling pack of dogs in place long enough for us to hop out into the thigh-high snow to take pictures.

It was absolute perfection as mountain views go. Countless shades of blue in the clear sky. The snowbanks shimmered in the sun.

In the frequently unforgiving climate here, we had timed our sledding trip just right. The previous week, the thermometer hit 25 degrees below zero. The view where we were standing was a bitter white-out, Matt said.

We couldn't enjoy it for too long, though. The dogs were restless, woofing and tugging to get back in motion.

During this last stretch back to the dog yard, the trail got wider — and flatter — and I loosened my grip on the sled. We hit a couple of more bumps, but by then I'd gotten used to it.

We all stopped talking for a bit. It was quiet, except for the jangling of the harnesses. The dogs were hitting their stride, all 48 feet clipping along with a collective rhythm that said, "We are in charge."

I started to take in the scenery surrounding us and stopped fixating on the twists and turns. The dogs know where they're going, I reasoned.

Like life itself, all sense of control is illusionary. Sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.

IF YOU GO

Getting there

Expect to pay about $500 round trip from Atlanta to Jackson Hole, Wyo.

Before you book

Trails range from wild to mild, depending on the location and the topography. Dogsledding companies offer short, mellow tours at the base of the Teton Village ski resort for beginners who just want to experience the sensation of sledding. On the other extreme, some outfits offer overnight yurt tours and snowshoe combo trips through the rugged backcountry.

A half-day trip is a good compromise — long enough to get a feel for true mushing but not too hard on the tailbone.

We booked our trip through Continental Divide Dog Sled Adventures, one of four sledding outfits recommended by Jackson Hole Mountain Resort.

The company offers several combo trips in four locations around Jackson Hole, including multiday jaunts for people who want to learn how to mush.

What it costs

Prices for adults range from about $150 per person for half-day trips to $250 for a full day. Transportation, meals and other activities such as snowshoeing or snowmobiling cost extra.

When to go

Weather permitting, tours begin in late November and run into April. On Jan. 26, the International Pedigree Stage Stop Sled Dog Race, the biggest sled race in the lower 48 states, kicks off in Jackson Hole for an eight-day, 350-mile odyssey that ends in Park City, Utah.

What to wear

Wyoming winters are cold and unpredictable. Outfitters advise breathable layers that can be removed easily. Bring sunglasses and goggles, as well as plenty of insulation for your feet and hands.

Information

* Continental Divide Dog Sled Adventures, 1-800-531-6874, www.dogsledadventures.com.

* Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, 1-888- 333-7766, www.jacksonhole.com.

* Jackson Hole Chamber of Commerce, 307-733-3316, www.jacksonholechamber.com.