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“Here we are,” I thought to myself as sleet plastered my glasses. “Royally stuck in overflow, and it’s NOT my fault!”

Of course it wasn’t really Quinn’s fault, either. Although previous snowmachine traffic had packed the well-marked trail across Hotham Inlet east of Kotzebue, no one had passed over since the last storm obliterated the edges, making it all too easy to drift off the invisible solid surface. Once over soft snow, the back of the machine plunged down through thigh-deep snow and found the 10 inches of hidden water lurking beneath.

(”Salt water!” Julie pointed out to me, beaming as she tasted the exotic overflow.)

Having spent his life in the area, Quinn Iten was unruffled. He cheerfully unhitched the big sled with its open-topped plywood dog box containing the four race dogs he was hauling home. With some effort, the Scandic Julie had been driving behind dragged his big machine back to the safety of the trail. Unloading the watery sled, he soon had it extracted as well, and we all blazed off down the trail again.

Not bad for a 16 year old.

My sister and I were heading out to look at a of couple Icelandic horses that Quinn’s father, Iditarod racer Ed, had for sale. Even though one was too old and one was too young — an untrained 4-year-old — the price was right and the temptation of visiting the Itens’ remote home on Saqaugiin Creek, 26 miles outside of Kotzebue, made the trip worthwhile whether we ended up with a horse or not.

Ed was off running the Kobuk 440 sled dog race, but after a warm welcome from his wife Ruth, we visited his five woolly horses in their pole corral. Like many Icelandics, Ed’s horses combined spunk with a controllable temperament, being friendly and engaged but not pushy as they gathered around us. As we worked them from the ground, Snekka, the older mare, and Mayla, the 4-year-old, politely lifted each hoof for examination and willingly backed away when asked.

The recent warm spell had turned trails to mush, and when we took Snekka out she bogged in belly-deep snow, so we rode her inside the corral on the hard-packed surface. The dark bay mare moved easily but without the nearly-uncontrollable rush some Icelandics show. She felt safe. Allowed to free-range from spring until deep snow, and used for hunting and bush trekking, she’d fit right in with our bush-trained horses.

Ruth laughed when, curious about how they fished under the ice, we suggested that we help her run their sheefish nets. “Oh, that’s our dog handlers’ job,” she replied.

But with the two handlers also gone on the 440 race, she reconsidered. The following afternoon found Julie and me mushing 10 retired Iditarod dogs behind Ruth’s nine-dog team of yearlings guided by an older leader, on the six-mile trail back to the Inlet.

The 50-pound dogs sped through stands of shimmering green spruce, past bald mountains, out onto open tundra and down to the sea ice, now dazzling under a clear sky. Colder temperatures made for a brisk run, and when we reached the tall pole and collection of tools marking the net, the dogs hardly seemed ready for a long break.

Ruth had warned us this could be a big job. Although we check one of our under-ice whitefish nets in one to two hours, we soon saw the difference: Instead of a 2-foot hole under a foot of snow, the main hole between the two nets lay under four feet of heavy drift and an entire moose hide barely covered it. The three of us took over an hour just to excavate the hole, and by the time we finished shoveling we stood on the edges of a snowy pit big enough for a small dugout igloo.

At least the ice had barely frozen over the net hole, giving way with a few chips with Ruth’s ice chisel. There we found a rope from the outer net had frozen into the ice. Without knowing just how it was set, we didn’t want to start chopping; one misplaced blow and we’d lose the end of the net. But a few minutes of chipping freed the end of the shore-side net, and its smaller shore-end hole didn’t take much work to open.

Heaving on the heavy net, the three of us hauled it 30 feet at a time from the icy, brackish depths. Sheefish, big and silvery, splashed out one after another onto the snow. By the time we finished picking the net, 40 or 50 sheefish and one pike lay heaped in two piles — one of live fish for human consumption, the rest in a dead-fish pile for dog feed.

The 15-pound fish made our little 3 and 4 pound whitefish look pretty wimpy. Best of all, after the dogs hauled us home with our booty, Ruth treated us to a delicious supper of fresh fried fish before helping us fillet eight nice ones with her razor-sharp ulu for us to take home.

The colder weather froze trails solidly by the next morning, allowing us to ride out on Snekka. Even leaving her herd mates behind, the dark bay mare scampered up and down the trail showing off her strong trot and, most importantly, her quick and safe response to our signal to STOP.

The brilliantly sunny afternoon found us mushing out with Ruth, her little race dogs drawing us swiftly across a glistening frozen trail-less crust, over the tundra under nearby mountains and into a narrow magical valley curving around a high dome. Three moose, nearly immobilized in deep, heavily-crusted snow, eyed us suspiciously from across the valley as our two teams swept by on a four-hour run.

Ed showed up around midnight, his tired race dogs riding in the dog box behind his snow machine. Even though he’d only had a few hours of sleep in the last four days, by the following morning he was out riding horses with us.

Because Icelandics should not be ridden until they turn four, Mayla had been trained only to lead and be handled from the ground. Ed has so much faith in her that he simply put a snaffle bit in her mouth, a saddle on her back, and climbed aboard. The little bay filly accepted him without question as he circled the corral a few times. Stepping off, he turned to us with a grin. “Next?” he inquired.

With me aboard, Julie led Mayla around. Following Julie’s familiar directions from the ground, the youngster began to understand what my light rein and leg guidance meant. Although we couldn’t try out her gaits, with the right training I felt she would someday make a sweet, confident riding horse.

Ed’s connections paid off when he talked Phil Meyer, the Kobuk 440 race veterinarian, into making a 50-mile round trip, accompanied by the ever-useful Quinn, to do pre-purchase exams on the two horses. Although lean after a long winter north of the Arctic Circle, both proved sound and healthy, winning comments on their easy temperaments to boot.

Because we wanted two thoroughly started young horses, we’d have to think things over. In the meantime the search for a perfect Icelandic or two may take us as far afield as British Columbia, where we can pick from a dozen horses instead of just two.

Exciting, of course, but it could never compete with a shopping expedition to the Iten place.