I'm a Midwesterner who visited Alaska for the first time. Here are 8 things that surprised me.

I went to Anchorage, Alaska, in the winter to follow my oldest friend's 20-year dream to be at the start of the Iditarod, the annual Alaskan dog-sled race that runs roughly 1,000 miles from Anchorage to Nome.

As a Midwesterner living in Seattle, Washington, I was excited to see Alaska and I wrongfully assumed our trip would have lots of cold, dark downtime. It didn't.

Anchorage and the areas around it that we visited were awesome.

Although we didn't see the Northern Lights and only spied one baby moose, here are some things that surprised me about visiting Alaska in the winter for the first time: 

Anchorage is sandwiched between the Chugach Mountains to the east and the mudflats of Knik Arm and Turnagain Arm to the west.

I'm from Chicago, Illinois, so any mountain is a novel sight, but having this range just 13 miles from downtown was stunning.

They were beautiful and constant companions during our adventures downtown. We stopped in the middle of a cross-section more than once just to stare at them — especially at dusk when the sunset painted the white peaks with brilliant oranges and pinks. 

I had anticipated ice and snow but was surprised by the sheer amount of it, plus how many people were out embracing it. 

The walking trail near our lodging had a constant rush of people out on their skis or fat-tire bikes. A patch of a lagoon had been turned into an ice rink, and some brave souls even used the frozen water as a shortcut to the other side of town.

Although the snow was mostly cleared off of the paths — plowed into banks thick enough to sit on like a bench — the sidewalks were slick with inches of ice, and most of downtown was quite slippery.

Luckily, our host had told us ahead of time to pack our hiking Yaktrax (traction cleats) and microspikes for walking around town. I was very glad I had. We tried our luck cleat-less a handful of times, but after our third wipeout, we stuck with the spikes.

As a current resident of Seattle, I've become quite spoiled by easy access to good beer, but I was surprised to find myself falling hard for the local brews. 

We spent a full day bouncing between brewpubs, tasting some of the most creative and crushable drinks.

One award-winning beer — aptly named Smök — from 49th State Brewing Company tasted exactly like eating s'mores at a campfire.

Plus the tasting-flight pours were consistently on the larger end at 6 ounces each.

The official start of the Iditarod was 70 miles north of Anchorage in a town called Willow. To get there, we were advised to rent a car with all-wheel drive and studs in case of icy road conditions.

Maybe it was because of the Iditarod, but the roads out of town were surprisingly clear despite the foot of snow the previous day. 

Even when we traveled beyond Willow and further north to Talkeetna, the closest town to Denali National Park, the roads were ice-free.

The road crews' hard work was evident throughout the drive, and the tall snowbanks on the side of the street made for excellent spots to snap radiant pictures of Denali at sunset.

There are two beginnings to the Iditarod —  a ceremonial start on Saturday and an official start on Sunday. 

On Saturday, we walked to join the crowd growing in downtown Anchorage and could hear the dogs barking from half a mile away.

The festivities were in full swing by the time we got to 4th Street, which doubled as the start of the mushers' 11-mile downtown course and the hub of the Fur Rondy, the official party of the Iditarod.

Sidewalks teemed with spectators snapping photos, volunteers handing out wearable foam dog ears, and vendors selling everything, from fresh donuts to reindeer sausage. Fat snowflakes fell like confetti, adding to the celebratory mood.

As they lined up, the dog-sled teams were announced with a bio and countdown. The crowd would look up from their food and phones to give a cheer that followed the musher and their crew through the streets of downtown.

Although the ceremonial start seemed like one big party, I felt much closer to the action at the official start in Willow. 

We joined the spectators lining the official trail to watch the 49 dog-sled teams start their journey north. At one point, a Midwestern musher zooming by leaned over to high-five a guy wearing a Chicago Blackhawks hat.

Watching the dog-sled team run down the trail was almost like waiting for a plane to take off — I still held my breath until I saw the heads of all 14 dogs coming around the bend, even if I knew they would pull the sled forward.

Although these weren't my dogs and I hadn't trained my whole life for this, my heart literally swelled with pride watching the pups rush by.

As a nervous flier trying to "embrace the moment," I agreed to join my crew on a flight-seeing adventure over Denali National Park in a tiny, 10-person plane.

Although I white-knuckle clenched the seat in front of me the whole time, the hour-long flight was incredible. 

In just 10 minutes, we were above the snow-capped mountains of the Alaska Range. At one point, we were so close to a cliff face that I could've tossed a baseball out of the window and hit the stone.

Though I definitely had to force myself to keep my eyes open when we leveled with Denali, the highest mountain peak in North America, some 20,000 feet above sea level. I was filled with equal parts joy and nausea.

It only made sense that our trip should include a firsthand dog-sledding experience. We snagged a last-minute tour with the aptly named Hardcore Huskies led by Heather Siirtola, a four-time Iditarod musher.

Between the barking at the ceremonial start and the cacophonous welcome from Heathers's team of Alaskan huskies, I expected a rowdy ride. But the instant the musher gave the signal to go from the back of the sled, the dogs hushed, focusing on running and their commands. 

With only the dogs' panting and Heather's occasional signal, the sound of the sled runners gliding over the crisp snow calmed my soul. Paired with the mountain range in the distance, this all made for a truly magical experience.

And as a final surprise, sled dogs poop while they're running — an incredible sight to witness from 5 feet away.