Gone to the dogs

“Um, they like to hear: ‘Ready! Hike!’ ’’ whispers my tutor, Jim Blair, a champion driver who sits bundled in the sled, ready to guide me through my maiden run. OK, no problem.

“Ready! Hike!’’ I snap louder, bending at the knees as I prepare once more for a jolting start. Again, nothing, and this time the dogs don’t even bother to turn around.

In my mind, I can see Blair rolling his eyes. Then, in desperation, Blair quickly sounds an authoritative “READY! HIKE!’’ The dogs burst from the chute with an explosive start that forces me to grab the sled’s handles, hurriedly check my feet, and flash a frost-dappled grin as the team bounds for the forest line.

The sled drive is on, and these mixed-breed dogs, bred to run, dash for a winter’s paradise in which freshly groomed trails, spectacular mountain scenery, and countless snow-cloaked trees await their churning legs, bobbing heads, and unflagging willingness to haul 300 pounds of human cargo up and down their Green Mountain home.

This is the snow-globe domain of Eden Dog Sledding, a 75-acre retreat in the midst of 3,000 acres of Vermont conservation land. Here, Blair maintains 30 bounding, yapping, athletic dogs that carry visitors year-round on rollicking tours through pristine woodlands 25 miles from the Canadian border.

The sensation is exhilarating, but also unnerving, as the sled accelerates from zero to 20 miles per hour. These dogs seem in complete control, I think, and I’m only the neophyte flatlander tagging along for a trip through the wilderness. Besides control, they also have intelligence. They barrel toward a fork in the trail, maintaining their pell-mell pace to the last instant, waiting for the driver to shout out the right direction.

Those commands - “Gee’’ for right, “haw’’ for left, and not a hint of “mush’’ - bring an immediate reaction from the leaders, who don’t break stride as they charge toward the chosen path. I was wary as I pre pared for my first command, assuming the dogs would ignore me once again. Would they run straight ahead, crashing into a tree in the ungroomed snow? Would Blair and I be thrown from the sled, buried in thigh-deep snow because of my bumbling ineptitude?