For a few hours, my life went to the dogs. And I wondered: why do dogs get such a bad rap?

Six canines showed me one of the best times I've ever had, and I've had a couple.

I have to admit I was a little nervous. OK, I admit I was a lot nervous. My anti-perspirant was struggling to keep up.

I wasn't worried about offending my doggy dates. I was worried about whether my husband would still claim me after plastic surgery and if my underwear was good enough for a trip to the emergency room.

All that worry was as pointless as barking at the moon. Afterward, I wanted to kiss each and every one of those darling Alaskan huskies right on the lips.

Thanks to them, not only had I run my own dog sled, Iditarod style, I had stayed upright, conscious and unharmed the whole trip.

It was about as easy as falling off a dog sled, only I didn't. I said that already, but I wanted to say it twice. Three times is the magic number for getting a point across.

I got the chance to go dog sledding because of a remarkable man, Brad Pozarnsky, who lives in the heart of the Turtle Mountains.

Some of you know Pozarnsky, a true mountain man in looks and laid-back manners. He's a longtime employee of the state Parks and Recreation Department and the only North Dakotan to ever run the Iditarod, an Alaskan dog-sled race that took him two full weeks to run.

When I called to ask if I could experience dog sledding, he only had one question: "Want your own sled?"

I flashed to a mental picture of an Olympic finish line, the crowds going nuts, the paparazzi, and I responded, "Well, yeah."

Those were words I would have pulled back in a heartbeat when I got to his place in the woods, with a 1906 farmhouse, actually saw the sled and heard all 28 dogs in the kennel yard wildly begging for the chance to go.

It took a while for Pozarnsky to get eight dogs harnessed to his sled and six to the one that would be mine.

He told me that if the dogs started to fight, not to stick my hand into the middle of the action. I flashed to a bloody stump that had once been the hand at the end of my arm. It was a little like telling a person who's afraid of heights not to climb the water tower at night. No problemo.

He introduced all the dogs by name, but I couldn't hear much for the blood rushing in my head. I'm deeply ashamed of that now. If I pulled someone 17 miles through some hilly terrain the least I'd expect is they'd know my name afterward.

Pozarnsky's instructions were harrowing. First thing he showed me was how to use the brake, a kind of flap down between the runners.

I knew from experience that my own golden retriever can run about 12 mph. I blondly multiplied that by the six dogs on my sled and computed we'd be traveling an average of 72 mph. My math was right, even if my premise was screwy.

He told me to just let the sled "fly" around the corners because braking would pull the sled the wrong way.

He told me a few other things, including the fact that he'd weighted my sled with 100 pounds of dog food to slow the whole thing down.

"Ready?" he asked.

I did a mental sign of the cross.

He took off. A few seconds later, I let go of the rope and we were off after him, with a bounce and a jolt that felt exactly like 72 mph.

It seemed like in no time at all, we were out on the wide, snowy trail, the dogs moving at a fast trot and the blurry fear of the beginning already settling into something I could feel and do.

The Turtle Mountains were calm beneath a sky the soft gray of turtledoves, the birches and the bushes detailed in brilliant white frost.

The temperature was just above zero and I was glad for the fur-hooded anorak Pozarnsky had kindly lent to me.

I had wondered if I should bring my boy's hockey bag, with crash helmet and padding for every conceivable body part, including some I don't have.

He turned back and hollered, "What do you think?"

It was amazing, really, to be moving along under the power of quiet, strong animals through air so pure and crisp on a winter day prettier than a picture postcard.

"This is awesome!" I hollered back.

I have always loved winter the best for the exhilarating contrast between the warmth of physical exertion and the tingle of cold on exposed skin.

And because snow is so beautiful.

But dog sledding is all about the dogs. They take up a lot of room in the visual foreground, and it was fascinating to watch them, tirelessly loping along. Better yet, they all were getting along.

I expected that, at some point, all six of them would skid to a stop, turn to me and say, "Your turn to pull."

They never did.

Pozarnsky said the dogs can run all day. Even 100 miles is entirely within their range.

When he ran the Iditarod, Pozarnsky said he learned the trick of sleeping while standing up on the runners behind the sled.

On our trip, he was a terrific teacher, checking back often to see how I was doing and giving me tips for the terrain ahead. I think he could tell the exact instant my grimace of fear metamorphosed into a genuine smile of pleasure, about the same time I quit braking into the curves to enjoy "flying" around them.

I wanted to throw off the extra weight, hitch up more dogs and go faster.

A couple of times, he hollered to ask if I was ready to turn back.

"Oh, not yet," I assured him.

We went to the end of the trail and turned around, the miles falling away too quickly under the sled runners.

As we neared Pozarnsky's place, the dogs in the kennel yard barked as they heard us coming.

I got off and helped take some of the dogs back to their individual kennels in the yard and to put the harnesses back on the board.

These were gentle dogs as eager for a rub and kind word as my lazy retriever back home.

I realized I had survived to tell the story, wishing we were only starting out instead of done so soon.

My first and maybe only chance to run a dog sled went by much too quickly, but the best times in life always do.

(Reach reporter Lauren Donovan at 888-303-5511 or lauren@westriv.com.)