Lake Baikal - extreme sports!

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Ok that's it! Trepidation has returned. I did try – I promise. As those who know me will attest, extreme sports and I do not exactly have a happy relationship. Walking, fine; although I did draw the line at walking over the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge. 'You should challenge yourself', said an ex-brother-law. Remaining firm to other statements of equally subtle persuasion my resolve remained firm. I managed to steer away from extreme sports of any persuasion.



Dog sledding. Now how dangerous could that be, I pondered? Visions of Lara, wrapped in furs, shushing softly through the frozen landscape led me to say, yes, that would be fun.



Two surly Siberians and one slightly more genial youngster gestured at us to put on camouflage jumpsuits, jackets and pressed felt boots. Feeling ever more like Michelin men we waddled over to the sled and traces to the accompaniment of yowling dogs eager to be off. The younger man stepped onto the back of the sled, ' You lean this way for right, this way for left and this-stop.' With that detailed instruction Graeme took his place and the dogs shot off. Was this a test run? A trial to see if he could manage with me on it? Whatever it was, after 10 minutes the remaining dogs started howling as they heard the sled coming around the bend. I declined the invitation to drive the sled and settled into the seat expecting Graeme to drive me around. The surliest of the men jumped on the back and I watched the bounding backsides of the dogs as they rapidly took off.



The dogs frantically try to pee as they hop along on three legs. So happy to be out, they attempt defecating and the crisp air is charged with a more earthly aroma. The wall-eyed lead dog doesn't miss a beat as he charts the sled. I am just beginning to relax and lean cautiously first right and then left to help stay on track. We turn a corner, I notice a tree stump to the left towards which we seem to be heading. But surely the driver knows what he is doing? But no he didn't; the image of the sled bounding on top of the snow bank skimming the trunk to our right disappears with the advent of a sickening crunch. The plywood sled splinters, I register a pain in my ankle and left rib as the driver falls on top of me.



Ok? he asks. Too shaken to answer with more than a curt nod I curse my lack of knowledge of Russian swearwords and mutely get back into the sled now extracted from its impaling and continue the ride, squeaking at every bump and bounce and very nearly coming off again. I flatten myself down to minimise harm and continue moaning quietly.



'Did you enjoy that?' Graeme asks eagerly.



So..apologies? Explanation? So sorry you've just spent 1500 roubles to be unceremoniously smashed into a tree? Explanation to our guide? Nah, none of the above. And there we have it. No more extreme sports ever! I am still having nightmares caused by this grouchy Siberian dog sled driver who needs a few lessons in courtesy, let alone skill. He must have been absent when the customer service unit was taught!



Addendum:



Examples of extreme sports undertaken last year and their consequences.

 • 
Attending book club – walking briskly, slipping in mud

Graeme in charge
and cracking a rib on the curb
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Eating out- slipping into the gutter and twisting an ankle
 • 
Office work- suffering from vertigo

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