White Christmas for Dog-lovers

Since we were going away for Christmas, which I don't typically like doing (even if it was my idea), I wanted to do something really special and unique on Christmas Day. That ended up being Eden Dogsledding, about thirty miles from our Vermont resort. After a phonecall with Jim Blair, the owner, we booked for Christmas Day with the advice to obtain a four wheel drive vehicle to manage the hill road.

Renting a four wheel drive car in Virginia is not an easy task, but the Toyota dealership said they could do it, so we reserved one. When we went to pick it up on the 22nd, we found ourselves with a vehicle that had a snow mode and big wheels... but was not four wheel drive.

We were a few hours from departing for Vermont, and we had no fallback plan, so we took the car, demanded a discount and hoped for good weather. By the time we reached Smugglers' Notch the following evening, a blizzard was predicted for Christmas Day. My brother and his wife had originally intended to stay with us through Christmas morning, and drive down to her grandmother's for Christmas dinner, but once they saw the weather forecast, they decided to extend their stay with us.

Easy for them. We needed to figure out a fallback plan to get to Eden. My husband spent yesterday evening making phone calls to Jim and various people at Smugglers' Notch to see what our options were. Smugglers' Notch thought they might be able to provide us with transport (at a cost) and we also found there was a taxi service with four wheel drive, but ultimately, Jim kindly offered to meet us at a general store on the main road and give us a lift the rest of the way—this is not normally part of the service, and we appreciated the extra effort he went to so we could make our booking.

The kids woke up this morning to find that Santa had filled their stockings and left a handful of presents (the rest are waiting under the tree at home.) The adults woke up to find that most of the snow had dumped overnight, and while more would blow through in the middle of the day, it wouldn't be as bad as first predicted.

This mean we had a fairly straightforward drive through snowy roads under clear skies to the car park where we'd wait for Jim. When he arrived, he came with a passenger: Rose, a fifteen year old former sled dog, who was horrified to discover that she had to share her backseat with me and the kids. The kids were delighted, but Rose was just a preview. When we got there, there was immediate barking and jumping up from the shelter next to us, and then we went inside to find another dozen dogs scattered through the waiting area.

On the sofa with Leonard and Mufasa.

The dogsledding experience was three hours of time with the dogs: forty-five minutes of it, out on the sled, and the rest was interacting with them. For me and the kids, the dog-lovers of the family, this was paradise, and even my avowed cat person of a husband got a kick out of getting to know the pack.

We spent almost an hour loving and playing with the group, while Jim figured out who would make up the team that day. He brought in a handful of other dogs and showed us how to harness them, before we all bundled up to head outside and hitch them to the sled.

Our seven strong team: Aslan who not only knew his commands but knew to choose the other way when we came back to the same intersection. Mitzy (so little!) who was still learning her gee from her haw, but jumped up at us to give kisses. Jersey who hid in his corner under the television until it was time to go, gazed at us devotedly during the post-ride treats, and then went straight back to his hermit spot once they were done. Princess (she must have had some black lab in her) who shivered when we stroked her but stood boldly on her hind legs for treats. Rambo whose blue eyes gazed lovingly into mine, and who pawed me every time I stopped stroking him. Brima, the only one who could care less about the treats, but adored every scrap of attention we gave her. Leonard, the lone runner, who ignored us from his preferred corner on the sofa, left it reluctantly to be harnessed and reclaimed it the moment we returned. Mufasa, who had the other end of the sofa, but tapped us to get our attention so he could be loved too. Finally, Phyllis, who did not follow us outside once harnessed but sneaked back to get the bed she wanted and had to be retrieved so we could start.

Harnessing Brima while Princess and Rambo wait for their turn.

Besides these guys and Rose, we also met Simba who followed us around, pawed us and leaned into any attention we gave him. (Mufasa, Aslan, Leonard, Simba and another dog called Llewellyn were all part of the same July litter.) Bandit, the skinny one, who was originally going to be on our team, but Jim looked him over, gave him the day off and hauled Leonard on board instead. Grettel, Waffle, Lucky, and Flint, also hanging around and taking caresses where available. Ben and Jerry, the ten month old puppies who were racing around the outdoor pens with another dog, watching for the sled to go by. And a few more of the thirty-six dogs total.

Sympathy strokes for Ben and Jerry who so badly wanted to be in on the action.

After all our concerns that we were going to be sledding through a blizzard, trying not to freeze, the conditions ended up being absolutely perfect. Fresh snow on the ground, no wind to blow it off the trees, and the sun peeking through just a little bit. The trails criss-crossed all through the forest: uphill was sedate going, allowing us to admire the wintry scenery; downhill was a thrill ride, especially on some steeper hills. The sled had a 350lb passenger weight limit, so I did twenty-five minutes with the kids and then swapped out for my husband to enjoy the second half of the ride.

Post-run refueling.

Aslan rolls in the snow to cool off

After the dogs had been taken care of, we had hot chocolate and cookies. The snow had started falling as we fed the dogs, and using Jim our chauffeur became a problem when his afternoon group arrived an hour early in an attempt to avoid the worst of the snow. This decided Jim on never giving lifts again (Sorry, future customers! Our bad) as they had to wait in their car, while he drove us back down the hill—this time Aslan insisted on riding with us. We packed ourselves back into our lesser vehicle, and thanks to Vermont's on point snow-ploughing, we made it safely back to Smugglers' Notch. There, the kids decorated the gingerbread house my sister in law had brought and the grown-ups chilled out on the sofa.

The evening's experience was snowmobiling—in the dark. This was the one I was terrified of. I'd much rather put my life in somebody else's hands but my brother and sister-in-law were not taking responsibility for having one of our kids as a passenger, so I had to drive myself and my daughter. I nearly bailed when the guide sternly told us that they lose one sled a year from somebody accidentally pushing the throttle while trying to steer.

However, this felt like a face-your-fears kind of thing, so I resolutely set off with my daughter riding behind me. It was bumpy and wiggly, I couldn't accelerate or brake without jerking us around, and, terrifyingly, my visor misted up at one point, forcing me to stop and open it. Equally unnerving, I couldn't tell whether or not my daughter was still behind me, so I had to put my faith in the knowledge that she has a really good sense of balance.

Going up the mountain was a nerve-wracking experience, but I didn't die, and I had to admit it was pretty cool when the headlights suddenly illuminated snow-covered boulders as we zigzagged through the switchback trail. On the way back, I started getting into it, going faster over the bumps and having confidence through the curves. I could feel my daughter squeezing me with her knees on occasion and saying something impossible to hear through the wind, but after careful listening, I was pretty sure it was Christmas carols. This was so like her that I cracked a smile: I was proud of myself for facing my fears, and delighted that we had done this as a family.

Yay us!

From my daughter's perspective, things were very different. 

She had handled the climb up pretty well, enjoying the new experience and adventure, but as I sped up on the descent, things became scarier. One of her gloves started coming off, so she was clutching that to her chest and holding on with only one hand. Every bump and jiggle became a jump-scare of "Will I fall off?" while her gloveless hand gradually lost all feeling. What I had thought was singing was actually her shrieking to no avail: "Mummy, please stop! Stop! Stop!"

I finally figured out what was wrong when we paused to gather the line of snowmobiles before getting into the trees. She wanted to be done then and there, but our only option was to continue. I was close to the back of the line anyway, but I waved my brother ahead so there was only a guide behind me and then I slowed right down to a snail's pace. The rest of the group disappeared into the distance almost immediately, and the ride back in the dark with the (incredibly patient) guide seemed interminable, though my husband told me we got back only a few minutes after everybody else.

I am never snowmobiling again.

My daughter was a wreck by the time we got her off the horrormobile. She'd lost her glove somewhere along the way, and the guides had to help us off with our helmets so we could hug each other. I gave her one of my gloves and the guides told her they would look out for her lost one. (They found it on the next trip up and we collected it after dinner.) In the end, the only thing that actually consoled her was the suggestion of breaking out the nail polish set she'd got in her stocking that morning.

So as we got dressed for Christmas dinner, we all (brother and uncle included—Daddy somehow missed our pop up salon) had our fingers done with Claire's finest water-based nail polish. We had packed some relatively smart clothing. My brother and sister-in-law hadn't been planning on still being here but my sister-in-law is always prepared for such occasions, so it was only my brother letting the side down with the casual look.

They had to miss out on the Christmas crackers though, as we had only brought four with us. I've done Christmas dinner at pubs in the UK before, but this was the first time I've done it in an American restaurant, and we drew some odd looks as we pulled our crackers and put on the paper crowns inside. Being British, we were too polite to show our pity at their ignorance, but shout-out to the little boy at the next table who was openly amazed and delighted by this tradition.

Afterwards, we had a shuttle ride back to the condo, where the kids were packed into bed and the adults played the 80s / 90s trivia game from my husband's stocking—all of us completely failing at the (American) sports questions. 

It was a very different sort of Christmas, and one that often didn't feel like Christmas—especially without the proper dinner. I missed roast potatoes and alcoholic gravy. But there was enough snow to make up for the forty green Christmases that came before, and—aside from the Snowmobile Ride of Horror—it was insanely fun.