Ice Dogs (11 page)

When I hook the dogs back up, I put Drift up front with Blue and move Gazoo into wheel beside Dorset. Not every dog can lead. Some won't even run at all if they have dogs behind them. Too much pressure. Drift is my best option right now without Bean. I hop on beside Chris and call to the dogs.

“Ready? All right!”

We continue on, heading directly into the sun that's sinking fast behind the trees over the next ridge. My belly rumbles. A shiver runs down my back from the dampness of my sweat-soaked shirt. I glance down at Bean curled up in the bag. All our lives depend on what's ahead.

D
USK COMES WITH THE SAME SWIFTNESS
as the previous night. I keep listening for sounds of traffic or snowmobiles—anything to give a hint of where we are. But there's nothing except the panting of dogs, the shushing of the runners sliding in the snow, and the light tinkling of the dogs' neckline clips.

Even as I wish for a road, my jaw tightens with the knowledge we're going to have to spend another night out here.
What am I going to feed the dogs tonight?
What comes after that, I no longer allow myself to think about.

Perhaps we should've stayed back at our last camp. We could've tried to make a trap or fish hooks. I could maybe make a fish hook using the small forked branches on a tree. Maybe Chris's idea of a spear wasn't far off.

I shake my head. Then we wouldn't have found that wolf kill. We desperately needed those scraps of moose meat. But now, I don't think we'll be as lucky tonight.

I shiver again and adjust Dorset's dog coat around my head. It may look ridiculous, but without my hat, my ears and head were going to freeze. I had to improvise. The coat isn't really working, with a big open hole at the top, but at least it's blocking the wind from going down my neck. We're in serious trouble now. I can feel the onset of hypothermia like a snake slithering down my back.

I busy myself studying the dogs. Drift is an easily distracted leader, but thankfully Blue is keeping her straight. Everyone seems to be pulling, ears forward, tails straight, tuglines tight—except for Whistler.
Why is she limping?

When I stop the team, they all dive into the snow. I leave the sled to Chris and walk down the line of dogs. Whistler snuffles in my ear as I bend over her. I inspect each foot separately, spreading apart the toes with my bare fingers. She has always had tender feet. Her fur seems to collect more snowballs than any of the other dogs'. I check her right front paw and see irritated red skin on the webbing between two toes.

Oh, no.
With my fingers, I try to break apart the ice chunks stuck to her fur. The center ball is too tough to break, so I use my teeth. She licks my hand.

“Whistler, I'm sorry, girl.”

“What's wrong?” Chris asks.

I trudge toward the sled and search for the bag of dog booties. “Whistler is getting a rub on her foot. It's from this grainy snow. If I don't bootie her, she'll get a blister.”

I tear through the gear in the sled, and Bean watches with interest. “Have you seen a blue bag full of fleece booties in here?”

“No.”

I thought I had brought the bag. Did I bring the bag? I can't remember.

“You didn't dump it when you were looking for the tape?” I ask.

“I didn't dump anything. Would you give me a break?”

“Well, it's not in here. Great. What am I going to do without booties?” I hear my voice quaver and I take a breath.
Do not cry over missing booties
. The extra stress adds to my list of worries, and knots the narrow space between my eyes.

“Can you use like a mitt or something?”

Chris has been learning about dogsledding so fast, I forget how much he still doesn't know.

“No.”

My shame at forgetting the booties tastes like bile in my mouth. “And besides, she'll need four booties. All her feet are going to look like this soon.”

“Okay.” Chris's reasonable tone irks me even more. “Well, we should be close to home now, right? We'll probably get there before she needs four booties.”

I think Chris understands full well that we're probably
not
close to home. There is a big empty space of what we're not saying and it hangs over us like a vulture.

I sort through what's left in the first-aid kit and find Vaseline. Dipping a finger into the cold goo, I coat the fur between her toes to stop the snow from sticking. I think of the special Musher's Magic Foot Ointment that's also in the bootie bag. But I can't fix the fact that I didn't bring it, so I double-check her other paws to make sure they're free of ice balls then coat them with the Vaseline, too. My bare fingers quickly grow stiff with cold. I have to keep tucking them into my armpits.

The rest of the team lies on their bellies, shoveling mouthfuls of snow as they wait for me. Their mouths are covered in frost. I decide to check everyone's feet while I'm at it, even though there's nothing to be done if I do find more rubs. It puts my mind at ease to see everyone else has happy paws.

When that's done, I shove my frozen hands into my mitts, and head back to the sled to check on Bean. His shoulder is still tender and swollen.

“You take good care of them, Secret,” Chris says quietly.

This small kindness is meant to make me feel better, I know, but it only makes my throat tighten. I lift my chin, call to the dogs, and we continue down the darkening trail.

As we go, I plan how we're going to find supper. We should definitely make more tea. I could get Chris to build a fire while I set snares. Dad taught me to do that when I was eight. But what can I use? Laces from my mukluks? Who am I kidding? I need snare wire.

I stare at Bean while I think.
Poor Bean.
Is he getting thinner, too, or is it just my imagination? My concern about feeding the dogs is ripping a hole through me.

The more I think about food, the more my stomach tightens and cramps. That wolf-killed moose this morning seems like days ago. I rub at the headache between my eyebrows. It's dangerous to be working like this in the cold without food. Especially now that we're wet. And especially for some of us wearing cotton jeans.

We should stop here and build a fire to get dry again. But the tiny hope that we're close to finding a road makes me want to keep going while we still have some light. I peer around us and consider camping right here. Just the thought of trudging through deep snow without snowshoes to look for firewood exhausts me. I feel as weak as a newborn puppy.

“I'm pretty hungry,” Chris says. “And I'm really cold.”

“You talk a lot for someone who burns maps.”

Chris looks at me sharply and I give him a slight hip check. He mock punches me in the arm, then grabs at the handlebar again as we bump over a ridge in the trail.

I watch Whistler and wonder if I should put her in the sled bag, too. It will seriously slow us down, but what else can I do? We need the dogs to get us out, so I have to take care of them. But we also need to make time. Our clock is running out. The problem spins 'round and 'round in my head.

I desperately wish I were a child again, riding in the sled, all wrapped up in blankets. Without any responsibilities or fears. Dad would lean over and peer down at me with gentle eyes. “You all snug, my little bug?” he'd ask. I could let Dad worry about everything. Just watch the dogs running, and enjoy the trees flashing past, and dream of the day I'd be old enough to run a junior musher race. Dad could worry about his trapline, and his guiding business, and making enough money to feed the dogs, and training the yearlings, and wondering why Blister had gone off her feed, and what to bring with us to stay warm and dry, and how to stay vigilant for when the wild woke up angry.

“You'll make such a good little musher, Icky. I'm so proud of you.”

It seemed as if he'd always be there.

After the accident, it was impossible to believe he was gone. It wasn't real. Now, it seems the more I grasp at these memories, the more slippery they become.

Blue glances over his shoulder at me. I feel the dogs pick up and pull harder. Something must be on the trail. I peer into the shadows ahead. The moose has haunted us for these last few hours. Every dark trunk is a charging moose. The constant worry around each corner has my nerves swollen and exposed.

The dogs definitely sense something ahead. My pulse quickens. Blue looks back at me again and I stop the team.

“What is it, Blue?” My stomach drops. I grab the hatchet from the sled bag and hurry up the line to stand in front of him. What I'm going to do with a hatchet, I'm not sure. I keep trying to swallow down my fear as I peer down the trail. No sign of any moose, but she's still ahead somewhere.

“What now?” Chris asks.

“I don't know.” My voice is high-pitched. I clear my throat. “Let them follow behind me.” I keep plodding through the snow in front of the leaders with knees that feel like putty. My tense muscles spasm in the cold and I have to stop as a violent shiver goes through me.

We creep around a sharp bend grown in with dogwood and willow and I try to peer through the spaces between the trees. My mouth is dry. I wipe at the base of my nose.

I see nothing ahead but more snow. Darkness cloaks the trail as the sky bleeds into the trees. My arm is almost numb from the death grip I have on the hatchet and I try to relax my fingers. I switch hands and swing my arm in circles. I'm just about to turn back when a glint in the trees makes me snap my head around.

“It's a cabin!” I press a hand over my chest as the tension drains from my body.

I
FEEL SO GOOD
, I
ACTUALLY CLAP
my hands and hop in place like some moronic cheerleader. But with a hatchet, instead of pompoms.

“It's a trapper's cabin!” I turn and hug Blue. He knew it. He had tried to tell me about it.

“Woo hoo! Think there's food?”

“I hope so! Come on, let's go check.” I don't see a trail from where we are so I plunge off the path, eager to make my own. And sink to my waist in soft powder. “But not this way.”

I climb back to where the dogs are watching me with amusement. Blue's tongue hangs in a silent laugh. I motion for Chris to let the dogs go and I grab the sled as it slides by. Chris beams at me from his runner and then grabs me with one arm and awkwardly crushes me into his side. I grin right back with abandon, feeling absolutely giddy with joy. Our eyes connect with the shared delight of the moment.

“But do we still get to sleep in the sled bag?” he asks.

“You can if you really want to. I'll be inside in a bed.” My smile feels as if it's cracking my frozen face in half. We found a trapper's cabin. We're on the right trail.

When we pull up to the front porch, I'm disappointed there aren't any fresh tracks. No snowmobiles or movement. But there are signs of use. A gas can sits under the layer of snow on the front step. Cut and split wood is stacked under an open-air shed. There's an indent in the snow from the cabin to the outhouse where a trampled trail lies under the fresh snow and another one that heads behind the cabin. The cabin is in good shape, too. Curtains cover the windows and a pair of willow-twig chairs sit in a corner by the front door.

I tromp up the steps and check the door, which is locked.

“What the heck is this?” Chris points to strips of wood under each window that have nails facing pointed-side out like porcupines along the length.

“Bear proofing,” I say. “That's a big furry animal with long claws that likes to break into camps when no one is home.”

“Okay, okay. City folks actually know what bears are. We've seen them in Coke commercials.” Chris cups his hands to his face and presses it against the window where the curtains separate. “Are we gonna break in?”

“Give me a second.” I follow the trail to the outhouse and peer into a coffee can with a lid. Inside is a roll of toilet paper, and a key. I don't know this trapper, but I know about trap cabins. Ours was passed down from Grandpa to Dad. Then to another trapper shortly after Dad died. I've never been back there.

I reappear from the outhouse and triumphantly hold up the key. Chris whistles appreciatively.

“My dad was a trapper,” I say.

“Was?”

“Um, yeah.” I pause. “He died over a year ago.”

Chris raises his eyebrows.

“He was out alone last January, without me or the dogs. He fell through the ice and got swept downstream. He drowned.”

Chris watches me for a beat, and then nods in silence.

“Ah,” he says simply.

I take a moment to breathe. This is the most I've ever said about Dad's death. Everyone already knew what happened; I didn't have to explain. And I didn't talk about it with anyone. Not with Sarah, not Uncle Leonard, especially not with my mom—no one. Now that it's done, I realize telling Chris wasn't that hard.

“I'll settle the dogs.” I hand the key to Chris, nodding toward the cabin, then turn to the team.

Bean is still in the sled, asleep on top of the gear, but lifts his head when I approach. His tail thumps on the sleeping bag. I struggle to pick him up, but I'm so weak that it brings on the shakes in my legs and my breathing becomes wheezy. He limps heavily toward the front of the team and I have to fight back tears. With that injury, he shouldn't be moving around at all.

I wonder if he'll accept coming into the cabin where it's warmer. Though it might be too warm for him, and stress him even more. The dogs would rather be outside where they are acclimated. I agonize over what to do as I stake out the rest of the dogs along the drop line. They are unusually quiet—so tired and hungry.

My eyes strain in the darkness of the woodshed until I find what I had hoped. I let out a huge breath. Bales of straw are stacked along the far wall. Maybe the trapper has a husky, too. Smiling, I lay out bedding along the drop line as the dogs frisk and roll in it with glee. Dorset collects a big pile with her paws like a gambler raking in chips and rolls her neck over it.