(This article first appeared in the November/December 2006 issue of Michigan BLUE Magazine and is reprinted here with the permission of the writer and MichgianBLUE Magazine)

If you’re ready for an adventure that takes you off the beaten trail, head for one that’s gone to the dogs.

Learning to mush sled dogs across the Upper Peninsula in 20-degree weather may not be everybody’s ideal travel excursion.

But I happen to produce a television program that features outdoor adventures that families can enjoy together — activities that are a bit off the beaten path, maybe, but aren't so extreme as to preempt the average viewer from considering getting off the couch to try them.

This is how I discovered Iditarod racer Ed Stielstra and his wife, Tasha, who are sled dog mushers in McMillan. Their business, Nature's Kennel, and passion, breeding and raising dogs to run the Iditarod, are found less than one hour from the Upper Peninsula's scenic Tahquamenon Falls State Park.

From first snowfall through early May, the Stielstras (who own just over 100 adored and enthusiastic canines) conduct dog sledding adventures for the general public. You can take a two-hour ride with them from their kennel in McMillan; you can also catch sled rides from them at Boyne Highlands in Harbor Springs on most winter weekends. Or if you have an adventurous spirit; Ed and Tasha will teach you to drive your own five-dog team.

Equipped with the right attitude, a little training and a willingness to immerse yourself in the challenges and elation of an Iditarod participant, you're ready for a 25-mile, overnight trek through rarely seen wintry regions of the Eastern Upper Peninsula.

My two-day, overnight excursion began at 8 a.m. with greetings and breakfast at the Stielstras; McMillan home and kennel. Our group, at the maximum of six. then headed out for our first sled driving lessons. We learned how to harness a dog and drive the sled before embarking behind a guide along a three-mile practice loop. After lunch at the Stielstra home, we packed our own hobo dinners of meat, potatoes and vegetables in foil packets for cooking later over a campfire. Then we broke apart to each meet our personal team of five dogs.

Mine, Hairy, Dill, Jack, Feta and Violet, included overactive players who couldn't wait to hit the trail. These guys are all wired to run, noted Ed, who was the ninth musher to register for the 2007 Iditarod. The ones who get left behind get pretty upset (Maple, lying pitifully on his doghouse, head on paws, illuminated that sentiment).

For me, the challenge of learning something new is always enjoyable. Ed, Tasha and their guides spent a significant amount of time with guests, teaching us how to properly harness the dogs, hitch them to the sleds and fashion them with booties, if needed. They also demonstrated what to do if we slipped off.

Hooking up the team and leaving the kennel are probably the most intimidating parts of the whole trip. There is no slow acceleration, there is only go! It's a balancing act that entails a little adjustment and a short practice run. Physically, it isn't difficult at all: 70-year-old women and 12-year-olds have made this trip, including winter camping, which is surprisingly warm. (Participants on our run were shedding layers after our first long trip.)

Transforming from timid, uneasy spectator to confident, excited participant is an exhilarating process, and our trip was more than I imagined. The trail system gently wound through an endless array of pine forests, inland lake shorelines and serene, open fields. Frost glinted on various leaves and thistle stalks lining the trail. Once running, the dogs quickly quit barking. The silence was amazing.

As quickly as the day started, it came to an end: Meeting the love of your life on a dinner date and talking for hours straight through until dawn comes to mind as a similar experience. Winter camping is less romantic, unless you can appreciate that you are experiencing exactly what mushers do at an Iditarod check point.

Ed earned 46th place in the 2006 Iditarod. The ultimate dog sled race, stretching from Anchorage to Nome, is equivalent to driving from Detroit to Atlanta in sub-zero weather with minimal food, safety gear, one big gun, the unpredictability of an Alaskan winter — and good odds for an untimely demise if you or one of your dogs gets hurt. The indescribable bond between musher and team is the fuel that drives their spirit on the frozen trail. Survival depends on each taking care of the other. This deep simplicity emerged as we anchored the sleds, removed the dogs from their leads, checked them for bruised or cracked paws, supplied hay for sleeping and fed them their evening meal.

The camp consisted of a rustic outhouse and two tents: one for the guides, one for the guests. Ours was a canvas-walled enclosure outfitted with basic bunks and a steadily burning wood stove that kept the interior 40 degrees warmer than the outdoor temperature. It was no Sheraton, but there was real joy in cooking our self-made hobo dinners over a blazing campfire, while sharing hot cider, coffee and stories from the day's journey.

Bundled on the bunks in insulated sleeping bags, fleece hats and, in some cases, long johns (although I was completely comfortable in shorts and a T-shirt), sleep came easily and quickly for everyone.

A haunting, wolfish howl shattered the silence at dawn, followed by another, then a dozen more. Soon the cacophony of yelps, barks, dog chains and banging tin pans enveloped our camp. We were greeted by sun just cresting jack pine and birch, and the smell of eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes and coffee wafting from a crackling campfire.

The dogs were yelping in excitement, another run lay ahead. Adrenalin closed in. None of us could wait to leap into the wind and onto the winding trail leading home.

Byron Goggin hosts the Emmy winning Wild Weekend. Lisa Jensen is editor of  MichgianBLUE Magazine.