As I lay in bed on a Saturday afternoon, there was no indication that a leisurely dogsled race was about to sear a northern brand onto my southern soul.
Then a “ping” came out of my Samsung cellphone on a Saturday afternoon. It was an email from my managing editor Mike Bryant and Canadian Championship Dog Derby representative Dianna Beck.
“Hi Dianna, I cc'd Michael Hugall. He might be interested in the (participating in the media/sponsors) race,” wrote Bryant.
My heart-sank, but I kept reading.
“He will be at the banquet tomorrow, I have company so I can't do it,” it continued.
I had been living in the North for six-months and had successfully avoided any truly northern activities, but curiosity and the desire to advance my career took over.
“I can participate... just need the time and the place and I will be there,” I responded.
Boom, let's do this.
At 11 a.m. Sunday morning on the Dettah Ice Road, I would be initiated into the NWT lifestyle.
The next morning, wearing jeans, a toque and what I figured were a warm pair of gloves, I grabbed a gas-station coffee and headed for the site.
Pulling up to the course, I parked my truck next to a trailer full of sled dogs and was immediately overcome by a mix of confidence, fear and excitement.
See, in Windsor, Ont. the term “dogsled” is non-existent. If there is talk about dog mushing the first reaction is laughter followed by stereotyping and then an association with Cuba Gooding Jr. and the movie Snow Dogs.
Little did I know that my own fish-out-of-water experience would be almost as unpleasant as that tiresome film.
After registering for the race, I enjoyed coffee, cupcakes and homemade soup in a warm shack; this was by far the most pleasant part of the experience.
I was oblivious of what lay ahead, but then a little girl came up to me and shattered my ignorance.
“Are you ready for the eight mile race?” she asked.
“Umm.....,” my leg went numb.
I was unaware that the race I would be participating in was eight miles long.
“Yes! I can't wait,” I responded.
The thought of being pulled that far by a pack of dogs made the 10 minutes of waiting feel like three hours.
Standing on the sled at the starting line, the countdown was on.
“Go Michael Hugall!” yelled the voice of the time-keeper. I was off.
Before the first-mile mark, my cold-weather gear was failing me. A race official following alongside on a snowmobile noticed my distress.
“Are you okay?” he shouted.
“Yes, but my hands are cold,” I replied.
“Do you want my gloves?” he said, concerned.
All I could muster was a head nod. He drove up about 100 metres, got off the machine and rushed to a spot in the middle of track preparing for a football style hand-off. Having been an offensive lineman in high school, I made sure I wasn't going to fumble those gloves. The hand-off was clean and eventually his gloves restored heat to my hands.
At about the four-mile mark, the material in my hat was no longer keeping my head warm. Again the gentlemen alongside noticed my comfort level was dropping.
“Do you want my hat?” he said.
I looked at him. The expression on his face was concerned, but he couldn't help smiling (probably because he realized this was my first time and I was not prepared).
Feeling like I didn't want him to experience the same agony I was going through, I did not accept his hat.
After making it past the halfway point, the wind settled down and the feeling in my limbs returned. Remembering this was a race, my competitive nature started re-emerging. To my left another competitor and her dogs pulled up, looking to take the lead. We were neck-and-neck heading into the six-mile mark.
“Let her pass,” yelled the official. “Step on the pad-break and let her go by.”
I relented and lifting my right leg, I stepped on the (wrong) break (No one told me a dogsled has two breaks) and started to slow down. I felt like a trapeze artist walking a tight-rope, an accurate analogy considering this had become a circus.
That's when I lost my balance and was thrown into a snowbank.
Laying there looking up at the sky I prayed for God to take me already. Eventually I picked myself up from the, surprisingly, comfortable snowbank and began chasing after my team.
Luckily the race official helped me catch them before they got too far and I hopped back on the sled and found the will to finish the remaining two miles.
Frozen, defeated, wearing different clothes than when the race started, I retreated back into the warming hut. It felt like someone had ripped my ears off as I took off the grey toque that had failed me.
It was the pain of frostbite, but this was not a typical case. This was symbolic. This was the branding of a new Northerner.