Gripping their harness tightly, I try with all my might to stop the eager pack of husky dogs from tearing loose.
But not even a fleet of armoured tanks could halt these powerful animals and dampen their desire to run.
Blue eyes glinting wildly in the violet wintery half-light, lead dog Simbad burrows his paws into the thick snow as if revving up an engine.
Barking, wailing and howling impatiently, eight packs of dogs are raring to take their, understandably nervous, passengers on a ride through remote Arctic valleys visited only by a fortunate few.
As the noise rises and my fingers turn blue, the starting signal is given and the magic of this wild and other-worldly landscape takes hold.
Lying just 1320km from the North Pole, Longyearbyen - the capital of Spitsbergen which is part of Norwegian archipelago Svalbard - is one of the northernmost settlements in the world.
The former mining town attracts tourists during summer, many hoping to catch a glimpse of the irresistibly enigmatic polar bear. But visitors are now coming in winter, to experience activities such as dog sledding, ice caving and snowmobile rides.
The climate is "mild" enough to make visits possible throughout the coldest periods - it's only minus 20C during our dog sledding adventure with the Green Dog yard in Bolterdalen, 10 minutes outside Longyearbyen.
As night falls, owners Claire and Martin invite us into their traditional trapper's hut to warm up in front of a crackling fire with a traditional Arctic meal. As minke whale and reindeer are cooked on hot slates, local guide Anneka, an Australian, says why she came here.
"For me it's the extremes of light," says Anneka, who's been here for more than five years. "The polar nights are some of my favourites, and we know there are always longer days to look forward to."
There are 41 nationalities residing in Longyearbyen, impressive for a town of 2000 people.
Our visit coincides with Longyearbyen's return of the sun festival, which takes place on March 8 every year. This year, the town bathed in hazy orange light, with the sun hovering above the horizon since mid-February, clawing back half an hour of daylight every week.
I'm told the festival commemorates the moment when the sun's rays finally stretch above the mountains and strike the old hospital stairs, one of the town's few historical monuments (the hospital building has long since disappeared).
We climb the slippery path to the stairs past groups of children in thermal suits and ski goggles wearing collars shaped like sun rays, some carrying bright solar-themed banners.
But despite singsongs, a TV crew and a speech from the mayor, the sun fails to come to the party at 12.18 - as it has done, with only a couple of exceptions, for the past 15 years. But no one seems perturbed.
The festival is just one of many peculiarities which make Longyearbyen such a fascinating destination: the town has a colour consultant, responsible for selecting the nature-inspired shades of houses; the absence of any social security provision means the average age of residents is just 37; and the number of snowmobiles far exceeds residents.
With only 46km of road, cars are practically useless, and the best way to explore the wilderness is on skis.
Spitsbergen Travel organises snowmobile safaris through the Arctic Desert, a vast, dry, icy expanse that forms the second largest desert in the world (after Antarctica), and receives about the same amount of precipitation as the Sahara.
Clinging tightly to my driver as we zigzag through narrow valleys, I experience a mixture of panic and exhilaration. We plough through pristine snow, taking paths that appear untouched.
About 60 per cent of Svalbard is glacial and, during winter, it's possible to go caving into ice chambers below Longyear glacier.
While wondering if warmth will ever return to my toes, I'm bundled into the back of a snowcat, a windowless sardine tin on caterpillar treads, which hulks and bumps up the side of a mountain.
Every year, scientists bore a tunnel into this 200-year-old glacier, which I'm reassured is stable.
Kitted out with crampons and a hard hat, I enter an igloo to find the cave entrance - a gap the size of a manhole that descends into darkness.
I lower myself using a rope into the frozen chamber, where rocks and debris from the mountain appear encased in clear glass cabinets.
In places, the ice has formed tubular bells, which chime different notes. Our guide Annamarta tells us a band, armed with drumsticks, even came to play music here.
Scientists also discovered a flower in this natural deep freeze, Annamarta says. The fact something so delicate could be preserved in such as hostile place is astounding.
But Svalbard is a place that seems to thrive on such extremes.
* The writer travelled as a guest of Hurtigruten.
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