Riding with Norway’s dog sled champion

 Aspiring documentary maker Kelsey Eichhorn witnesses first-hand this unique marriage of man and animal…

At 7.00am in late October I am just beginning to get the  feeling  that  something  is  not  quite  right  with the sun they use up here in Norway.  It is pitch black outside my window, but despite my body’s protests I throw back my warm quilt, shiver as my feet hit the cold floor of my apartment, and shuffle to the kitchen  to  put  on  water  for  tea.    Returning  to  the bedroom I am faced with the first challenge in many women’s day: what do I wear?

Yet today I am not concerned with fashion or style. I couldn’t care less if my hat matches my top or even if my jeans are clean or dirty, because the thermometer  outside  my  window  reads  1.6  degrees  Celsius. Even in the morning darkness the clouds overhead are  ominous.  I  am  preparing  to  embark  on  a  day-long  exploration  of  the  world  of  dog-sled  racing  – one  of  the  few  sports  I  know  nothing  about  -  in  a forest north of Oslo that I have never been to, with a man I have never met. All that I am sure of right now is that I will be outside and it will be cold.

You see, I am a documentary filmmaker and we revel in the  unfamiliar,  the  under-the-radar  world.  This  is where the stories are.  I also know for certain that I am already running late. 10 minutes later, camera bag slung over my shou-der, tripod under one arm, I am running down the hill  praying  that  I  don’t  miss  the  morning  bus  to Gardermoen airport where I have arranged to meet Robert  Sørlie.  He  is  the  defending  3-time  Iditarod champion, and the pride of Norway in this enduring  arctic  sport  that  embraces  this  country’s  passionate love of nature, and of alliance between man and  animals.    I  am  equipped  with  Robert’s  mobile number  so  that  when  I  arrive  at  the  airport  I  can ring him. Yet the precaution seems unnecessary, for when I disembark from the bus at the Oslo airport terminal, a large Ford 4-door pick-up truck, painted  from  headlight  to  tailpipe  with  a panorama of huskies thundering across the frozen  tundra  greets  me.  Something  tells me this might be my guy.

In my two months of study at the University of Oslo, I have only semi-mastered the Norsk language:

“Hovrdan hard u det?” (How are you doing?)

“Hva  koster  det?”  (What  does  this cost?)

“Jeg  vil  gjerner  ha  en  glass  øl.”  (I would like a glass of beer)

“Jeg vil gjerner ha en glass øl til.”          (I would like another glass of beer.)

From  our  email  exchanges  I  have  determined  that Robert’s  command  of  English  is,  albeit  better  than my  Norsk,  only  slightly  so:  this  is  going  to  be  an interesting  day.  The  car  ride  was  as  anticipated,  a slightly awkward experience that I was willing with all my might to be over quickly. It is much easier to avoid  social  awkwardness  from  behind  the  lens  of a  camera.  The  safest  topic  of  conversation  seemed to be cultural comparisons, and a constant exchange of a Norwegian’s favorite phrase: “Hva betyr *blank* om  engelsk?”  (What  means  *this*  in  English?)

All the while my eyes were glued to the truck window as we climbed higher into the hills and drove deeper into the forest. The  Jeppendal  Kennel  in  the  Hurdal  Forest  is  a modest  affair,  housing  the  50-odd  dogs  that  make up  “Team  Norway”,  and  abutting  the  houses  of their owners: Robert Sørlie, Bjørnar Anderson and Kjetil Backen. A cozy dog-sled community shrouded in evergreens and half an hour  from  anything  most  Americans would  associate  with  civilization.

C.Vinterdans.com

The dogs greet Robert with controlled excitement, obedient in their  silence  yet  eager  in  their tail-wagging, as he invites me inside,  introduces  me  to  his  wife and prepares a breakfast feast fit for  a  Queen.    Then  he  politely yet  hesitantly  asks  me  what  it is that I am doing.

Pause.

“Um….” Panic seizes as I realise that I don’t  exactly know what I am doing. I am a film-maker, and while I may revel in the unfamiliar and adventurous experiences of the world, I also dread the impromptu. Collegiate film students depend upon a network of academic peers and community volunteers  to  make  our  projects  a  reality.  I  hadn’t realised  until  now  how  much  I,  as  a  student,  rely on  this  safety  net;  yet  here  I  was,  in  an  unfamiliar culture with no resources save my small hand-held camcorder  and  my  “Directing  the  Documentary” text book, ready to film what I hope will be a successful  documentary  exploration  into  the  culture  I have come to love. And I realise suddenly that documentaries  don’t  depend  on  plans,  they  depend  on life.

Deep breath. I smile, look up at Robert and say, “You do what you do, and I’ll film.”The walls of Robert’s equipment shed are covered in drawings and letters from young children. I peruse the  wishes  of  “good  luck”  while  Robert  organizes the harness lines, and outfits me with the smallest weather-defying  jumpsuit  in  his  collection.  Images  of  the  pioneering  documentary  “Nanook  of  the North” flash through my mind, as I secure the zipper  of  the  still-too-big-jumpsuit  under  my chin.  I must have been a sight, as Robert stifles a laugh. The grey  skies  of  early  morn  have  given  way  to  steady showers; no matter for this is the reality of the sport – you train in any weather. While the temperatures flirt with the freezing point, there has been no major snow accumulation in the forest yet, and so Robert trains  with  an  ATV  until  the  Norsk  winter  arrives in full.

Roll Film.

Unleashing  the  dogs  4  or  5  at  a  time,  Robert  calls them individually to him to take their place in the waiting  harness  lines.  The  excitement  is  audible, as yips and whines crescendo throughout the yard. Dogs thunder through the gate past my camera, some oblivious to my presence, others pausing to sniff my boots  and  the  most  courageous  barely  slowing  as they leap through the gate to plant their large paws firmly on my shoulders, deeming the camera lens worthy of an upclose and personal inspection. Eighteen  powerful  huskies  harnessed  to  the  ATV strain against the lines in poorly contained anticipation until Robert finally gives the command and we are  off.

C.Vinterdans.com

Beauty  as  I  have  never  seen  before  passes before my eyes, as the ATV surges through the hills under the vigor of the exuberant team. The majesty of the forest rests in its solitude, and is emphasized by the rhythmic breathing and echoing thunder of paws on the rough trail. Though I could understand just half of the steady stream of Norsk conversation between  Robert  and  his  team,  the  encouragement and energy with which he addressed his team paralleled his eagerness to assist me with my film. Despite the relentless rain the afternoon of filming was both enjoyable and successful, as Robert was more than willing to alter his training regime to accommodate my cinematography requirements.

I could not help but anticipate the warm house and dry  clothes  awaiting  us.  Releasing  the  dogs  from the  harness  and  returning  the  equipment  to  the shed, Robert comments that I look like a drunken cat.  Odd,  I  thought,  but  oh  well.  At  the  house,  a new  face  hands  me  a  towel  and  points  me  in  the direction of the guest bathroom – Robert’s blonde-haired,  blue-eyed  22  year  old  son…and  I’m  sure  I am absolutely stunning in my dripping wool hat and muddy jeans. Hastily retreating to the shower, I emerge refreshed and cleanly clothed.

Supper in Norway is no joke, and the family affair that awaits me is revitalizing and hearty. Traditional caribou stew, a first for my somewhat discerning palette, is surprisingly delicious. Robert regales the stories of the afternoon for his wife and son, ending with his reiteration that I emerged from the experience looking like a drunken cat.

“Um, I think you mean drowned cat” I said hesitantly. The son, whose command of English is somewhat better than his parents’ begins to laugh as I explain that  drowned  cats  have  fallen  in  the  water  while drunken cats, if there is such a thing, are inebriated house pets. Robert laughs at his own expense.

Robert Sorlie competing. C.Wikipedia

Life  in  Norge  is  different.  I  am  living  in  a  foreign land,  in  a  foreign  culture,  with  foreign  students from  all  over  the  world,  endeavouring  to  submerge ourselves in the Norsk society. And in this day, as in all other days here that I interact with the Norwegian  people,  I  am  touched  by  their  generosity. A  stereotypically  “shy”  culture,  I  have  found  the Norsk  to  be  anything  but.  Reserved,  perhaps,  but undoubtedly friendly, eager to please and eager to share. Though my film has yet to be edited, and the audio is not yet mastered, the experience of that day foretells success.

 Kelsey Eichhorn