Every place has an origin story. For Bearhill Husky, ours began not with a business plan written in neat columns, but with two young people, a couple of huskies, and a stubborn dream that there had to be another way of living with and working with sled dogs.

 

Beginnings in sled dogs

My first exposure to sled dogs came when I enrolled at Taivalkoskii Forestry School to study on a new sled dog guide program. The course was still in its early years, designed to train guides in sled dog tourism, and I was lucky enough to get in.

Through that course, I got my first work placements. In winter, I guided tours in Ivalo for a company called Kamisak (the original Kamisak under its first owners). Veronika, meanwhile, was pursuing her bachelor’s degree in tourism and marketing. Between seasons, I moved between jobs – helping at other kennels in summer, working tours in winter, and spending time with Veronika whenever I could.

But all along, I had a restless feeling. I loved guiding, I loved the dogs, but I wanted to try things differently – to test ideas, to see if we could create something better. Eventually, I managed to convince Veronika that we should try to start something of our own.

 

Searching the eastern border

We began looking east, toward the remote border communities of Lieksa, Kuhmo and Ilomantsi. Back then, the culture of sled dog racing in eastern Finland was strong, with active races and well-established trails. The snow was plentiful, the landscapes wild, and the idea of working out there appealed to both of us.

So whenever we traveled to those towns, we made a habit of stopping to look at real estate listings. Sometimes we’d even tour old border guard stations the government was selling off. On paper, they looked ideal: multiple rooms, semi-professional kitchens, plenty of space, often right next to the wilderness. In reality, they were money pits. Most were heated with oil, poorly insulated, and burdened with high electricity costs. We could see that buying one would sink us financially before we even got started.

Still, the idea lingered. On hiking trips with our two dogs, Buck and Naya, we’d wander through the forest trails and wonder aloud about what it would take to make a life here.

 

The day in Ruunaa

One autumn week, we decided to go hiking in Ruunaa, a recreation area near the eastern border known for its rapids and loop trails. The air was crisp, the colors brilliant. We sat by a lake cooking dinner as a flock of geese flew overhead, heading south for the winter. I joked that the geese were wiser than we mushers – off to warmth, while we always seemed to chase the snow north.

A few moments later, a couple of shotgun cracks echoed through the forest. Perhaps those geese never made it south after all. It was one of those odd, memorable moments, stitched into the story of that day.

When we finished our hike, we stopped, as usual, in Lieksa to peer into the real estate office window. And that’s when we saw it: a listing for a remote farmhouse with about 15 hectares of land, close to the national park, surrounded by a web of forest roads. Immediately I checked the map – yes, the training possibilities were there. And the price? Surprisingly low.

 

A house in Kontiovaara

We toured the property with a real estate agent. The house was old and worn, but it had one enormous advantage: it was cheap to run. Heated mainly by wood stoves, with its own patch of forest, we could keep the place warm with firewood we cut ourselves.

It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t turnkey ready. It needed work … lots of it. But it was within our budget, or at least within the risk we were willing to take. With some help from family, we could buy it. And unlike the old border stations, this house wouldn’t bleed us dry with upkeep.

The farm was in the village of Kontiovaara. If you’ve followed our blog, you’ll recognize the name – it’s where Bearhill comes from.

 

From Naïve Dream to Reality

We bought the place. At first, the idea was to offer something very personal: a guestroom in the house itself, where visitors could live alongside us and the dogs. It was humble, but it was possible.

Later, of course, we learned all the realities of owning a remote farmhouse in eastern Finland. The isolation. The strange neighbors. The old stories of the house – including a rather notorious one about a murder, which we’ve written about before. We learned the hard work of maintenance, of heating with firewood, of fixing things ourselves.

But we also discovered that the land around Kontiovaara was one of the best places we’ve ever known to run dogs. The network of forest roads, the terrain, the geography – it was all ideal. Especially in the snowless months, it gave us trails that few other places could match.

Looking back now, I still think it was one of the best choices we ever made.

 

The lesson

We were young, naïve, and, truth be told, city people with no idea what we were getting into. But that’s how Bearhill Husky began: with two stubborn dreamers, a couple of huskies, and a cheap farmhouse on the edge of nowhere.

Sometimes, the best beginnings aren’t the ones you plan. They’re the ones you stumble across in a real estate window after a long hike, when the geese are flying south and you’re foolish enough to believe you can build something different in the snow.

 

— Valentijn Beets & Veronika Butinova

Bearhill Husky