Day One: Expedition Journal

“Well that was embarrassing,” I said to my boys as they ran up onto the dyke to see if they could help. “Heavy.” I wrestled the sled back onto its runners and drove the icehook into the snowpack.

Earlier, it had taken the three of us to lift the loaded sled off the dog trailer. The sled, built by the legendary Maine musher Don Hibbs, was twice as heavy as my traditional sleds, but it was an unsinkable ship—perfect for what I was about to do.

It was loaded to the gills with two days of supplies for my dogs and myself. In keeping with tradition, I christened the sled after the primary sponsor of the expedition—The Cynthia. Cyndi Robbins, owner of Poland Spring Resort, was there to see me off alongside my wife and a small group of well-wishers.

The team was screaming to go. With a few final farewells, I gave my consent and we sailed off westward towards the logging village of Allagash. Our first miles took us from Fort Kent through St. John along the old railroad Heritage Trail. The Saint John River lay frozen to our north, serving as the border between the U.S. and Canada.

In Saint Francis, I had my first equipment malfunction: a screw fell out of a wheel dog’s specialized harness. Later, as darkness rose, I realized I hadn’t trimmed the dogs’ paw hair short enough; ice balls were forming between their pads. Every twenty minutes, I had to stop, pull off my gloves, and thaw the ice out with my bare fingers to prevent sore feet.

As the sun set, the local local local hunting guides Wade Kelly and George Turner met me on snowmobiles to check in. They informed me the total distance was 55 miles—much further than I had anticipated. By now, it was well below zero; my breath was freezing to my beard and my radio battery died within a minute of turning it on.

Descending into Allagash, we had a close call on the Allagash River Bridge. My leaders, Druid and Frost, tried to hug the right side of the road just as a large truck and trailer rounded the bend. I had to pull the sled across the narrow bridge as quickly as possible to avoid a collision. Crisis averted.

Soon, a bonfire came into sight. It was 10:00 PM and minus ten degrees. I had arrived at the famed Tyler Kelly Camps. Darlene Kelly had lit a fire to guide us in, and sitting next to it was a fine bottle of imported scotch.

My sons helped me unharness and feed the team. Inside the cabin, cook Cheril Turner had a feast waiting: Lobster Rolls and Moose Ball Pasta. It was nearly midnight when I finally slid into my sleeping bag. It had been a trying day, and I knew tomorrow would be even more challenging as we moved deeper into the wilderness.

Join me next time as I share the journey from Allagash to Round Pond.