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The wind howled through the frozen wilderness, sweeping great gusts of snow across the tundra as Leonhard Seppala fought to control his sled. The blizzard had come in fast, a wall of white that threatened to swallow him whole if he lost his way.

But Togo would not let that happen. The lead dog hunkered low against the gale, squinting into the storm with eyes that pierced its fury undaunted. His ears flicked back and forth, catching every nuance of sound on the wind. He knew where they were going – and he got them there.

Seppala grinned with relief as his team pulled up outside a remote trading post. They’d made it through one more trial together, but even as they stretched their legs and lapped at the snow for water, he knew their respite was all too brief.

He’d been running dogs in Alaska’s frozen north for more than a decade now. Mushers like him relied on teams of huskies to carry out vital mail deliveries during the long winters when ice locked rivers and roads alike; plough-drawn sleds were useless against the snowdrifts.

It was tough work and dangerous too: temperatures plunged below minus 50°C; blizzards could kill you in minutes if you lost your way. But it paid well enough for him and his wife Constance to eke out a living on their isolated homestead – just about.

This year though, something was different. A deadly new epidemic had struck Nome, a town some 700 miles further along their regular supply route. Diphtheria – an infection that caused severe breathing difficulties – was spreading fast among its people, including many children.

With no vaccine available locally, supplies would have to be brought in from Anchorage – 1,000 miles away by sea or almost twice that distance via overland route. The situation was critical. Nome needed its serum, and fast.

The man in charge of the town’s dog-sled service knew there was only one team capable of making the gruelling, near-700-mile round trip in such brutal conditions: Seppala’s. But even he doubted whether Leonhard and his dogs could do it – at least, all in one go.

Togo had other ideas. The scrappy little husky forged a bond with his master like no other dog before him. He wasn’t just Seppala’s lead; he was his soulmate, telepathically attuned to his every mood and movement. And he knew that if anyone could accomplish this impossible mission, they could – together.

Seppala agreed to take on the job, but under one condition: Togo would lead the most gruelling stretch of the relay run – across Norton Sound, where ice floes could crush sleds and men alike without warning.

Winter tore at their backs as they set off into the night. It took all Seppala’s skills to keep control of his sled as Togo strained forward into the teeth of a blizzard so fierce it threatened to sweep them away.

Gripping tightly on to each other for support, musher and dogs battled on as night gave way briefly to a grey twilight before plunging them once more into blackness. They ran by instinct alone now. Time ceased to have meaning; all that was real for them lay within their tiny sphere of light cast by the flickering lantern lashed onto Seppala’s sled.

Somehow though, when everything told them it must be time to rest, Togo kept going – and so did they.

At last came a trace of warmth in the wind, scented with salt that told them they were nearing Norton Sound itself. As dawn broke over a frozen ocean stretching away as far as they could see beneath a cloudless sky, they were almost too exhausted to take it in.

But there was no time for wonder. Sea ice is at its most treacherous at this time of year, thawing and re-freezing with the tides that crash huge slabs against each other and tear them apart.

The locals – mostly native Inuit people who relied on dog sleds for their own survival – gathered at a safe distance along the shoreline to watch as Seppala prepared to run the gauntlet.

He checked his lines one last time, making sure Togo was securely fastened in front of his team of seven dogs. He’d been training these animals all their lives for this moment – and even so, many would not return.

As they set off across the frozen sea, Seppala had never been more proud of his dogs. Each knew his part in this perilous dance: when to run flat out and when to hold back; how to avoid cracks hidden beneath a thin veneer of snow; which route was least likely to bring them face-to-face with an open lead or an impassable pressure ridge.

But even so, disaster struck just yards from where they’d started.

With no warning, the ice gave way beneath Togo’s paws. He yelped in fear as he tumbled into the freezing water below before being dragged under by his panicked team-mates.

Seppala waded in after him without a second thought. The saltwater should have acted like an anaesthetic…but with every heartbeat, he knew he was losing precious warmth and strength

At last, he felt Togo’s collar under his numbed fingers – but it took both hands to haul him up onto what remained of the ice shelf above.

They lay there panting together until Seppala could feel some strength returning then struggled back onto their sled.

It wasn’t until that evening that they made it safely to land on the far side of the Sound and collapsed into a well-earned sleep. But when Seppala awoke to find his dogs gone, he thought maybe he’d died and gone to heaven.

For there they were, lapping at a hole in the ice not 20 yards away where seals had been basking in the sun. They’d even caught one between them – enough food for them all.

It was almost as if they’d known, like Togo did, that this was their last chance to rest before continuing their journey to Nome.

By now news of their exploits had spread around the world: newspaper reporters and photographers lined up alongside TV crews desperate for an interview or a close-up shot as Seppala hitched up his team for one last push towards their goal.

But that didn’t matter any more. As Togo led his team through the streets of Nome, every pang from his aged chest forgotten as he sensed victory at last within reach, all that mattered was getting these vials of serum safely home – and saving those children’s lives.

And they did.

Seppala and Togo became instant heroes, feted wherever they went. Life would never be quite the same again for either of them – but both knew fame wasn’t what it was really about.

As Togo lay down one last time on a bed of straw in Seppala’s warm stable, ready at last to sleep forever after 16 years of running through a hundred dreams together, he felt an old tingle down his spine that told him somehow this wasn’t goodbye – not really.

And so it has proved. Every year since then dog teams gather in Alaska to run the Iditarod Trail in memory of Togo’s great relay run; statues have been erected in Anchorage and New York City immortalising him as one of history’s greatest canine heroes; even Disney made a movie about him.

But none of that would have mattered a jot to Togo. All he cared about, from the moment he burst on to the scene like a furry meteor in Seppala’s dog yard all those years ago, was being the very best husky he could possibly be.

And that’s exactly what he was.