Prone to Wander: Who Is with Me?
If I am ever lost and alone in a remote, frozen place I want to be with a pack of sled dogs. I learned this in 2019, when I had the opportunity to visit the subarctic region of Sweden to look for the northern lights via dogsled.
Our group of four shared two sleds – rickety contraptions with eight dogs hooked up to the front of each to guide and pull us. Each “musher” was given one headlamp, worn over our thick hats, with hoods pulled up for added warmth. After very little instruction by the owner, Keijo, we set out at what felt like warp speed into the pitch dark of night. Keijo took the lead on a snowmobile.
“Over the river and through the woods” took on new meaning as we raced across a frozen river and through winding, narrow trails deep into the sub-arctic forest. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and the coldest I’ve ever been in my life, despite multiple layers, hand and foot warmers, and a giant snowsuit.
My youngest son and I were in the rear. About halfway through the ride, we stopped to switch drivers – it was my turn at the helm. My son sat in the sleigh while I perched on runners behind him, carefully fitting the headlamp around my hat, then pulling up my hood.
As we took off again, I wasn’t sure which was scarier: riding in the sled with no control or balancing on the two-inch runners and holding on for dear life in the back.
Minutes later, we entered what seemed to be a large clearing. I wondered if we were riding over the frozen Bay of Bothnia, but I didn’t have much time to think about it because my light slipped down on my head. I quickly tried to adjust it, but holding the sled with just one hand was not wise. Then the light went out.
I managed to jostle it back on briefly while simultaneously trying to slow down the sled, but then it went out for good. Running with the dogs using the bright headlamp to see the path had been daunting, but rocketing into the unknown without any light was brutal. The blackness of night in such a remote location was like being blindfolded.
Grappling forward, I handed the headlamp to my son while stomping on the weak brake with all my might. We continued onward for longer than was comfortable until I was finally able to stop the eager canines.
We were alone in the darkness. The only thing we could see was the fading light of the other sled way ahead of us, disappearing into the woods.
Where were we? What should we do? Would the dogs chase after the other group if I released the brake, or would they drag us away from safety? I worried about timber wolves, coyotes, and moose, and whatever else might be nearby. And I worried about the cold. It was frigid while we were active and moving, but once we stopped, it was bone-chilling.
I didn’t know how long it would be before Keijo noticed we were missing or how hard it would be to find us. The only thing fending off panic was the baying of the pack – a homing beacon for our search party, and hopefully a deterrent (and not an attraction) to any wild, hungry animals in the woods, looking for their next meal.
As I weighed our options, I finally saw a tiny light coming toward us and realized that the owner was returning. Relief flooded me as he arrived and replaced the lamp, and we were on our way again.
After the ride, Keijo explained that the dogs knew their way home and would have gone there, with or without the light or a leader. We could have kept sledding in the total darkness, and they would have known where to go.
This knowledge would have been incredibly valuable for my peace of mind while we waited for help, alone and scared. It would have been comforting to have trusted those animals - to have known that, even when I didn’t know what to do or where I was going, they knew.
I was quick to jump on a sled pulled by dogs in the middle of nowhere, flying through the woods and over frozen bodies of water with almost zero knowledge of the pack's power or abilities. I had blind faith in them at first; but when things became difficult, that faith disappeared like the misty air coming out of my lungs.
Oftentimes, I find myself living as a Christian this way – seemingly full of faith in God when things are going well, but easily forgetting to trust Him when the lights go out. Then, when darkness comes – through relational conflicts, health scares, accidents, new seasons, loss, or for no reason – my first inclination is often to panic and despair.
In my brief moment of terror in northern Sweden, I didn’t know that the dogs could safely deliver me home, but I do know God. And as life continues pitching forward into new terrain, I want to know Him more and more, so that, rather than waffling in doubt and uncertainty when hardships come, I can wait in trust and peace.
Life is much more than one crazy trip through the tundra — it’s a lifetime of vulnerably riding through massive uncertainty and foreign territory. Knowing God means being able to release fear and control, trusting Him to safely take us home, even when we can't see the way. Because He not only knows the way, He is the way.
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