Ice Dogs (2 page)

“Yeah, but we couldn't catch Cook and that other team. Who's the other one, anyway?”

A bucket full of bloody, chicken-laced water sits on the ground near the back tire and the first four dogs all try to stick their heads in at once.

“I dunno, but that Cook has himself some fast dogs.”

“Git! Out of there, wait your turn.” I wrestle the dogs over to the drop lines attached to the truck and clip one to Bean's tug to keep the line straight.

If our time puts us in the top ten, we qualify for the White Wolf Classic. Imagining Dad's pride if he knew I made it to the White Wolf this year fills me with a yearning so thick, I can taste it. The need to win has been the most important thing in my life this winter.

I grab the bowls off the tailgate and toss one to each dog down the gangline. “We're going to make it to White Wolf, right, Uncle Leonard?”

“You bet, kiddo.” Uncle Leonard leans toward me, his face all graying whiskers and tanned squint lines.

“I heard some interesting rumors while I was waiting,” he says, in a gruff attempt at whispering. “Seems Cook lost his job at the mill. May be getting out of dogs.” He gives me a pointed look with his brown eyes peeking out below his fur hat.

I glance over at Cook's truck with all his champions bent over drinking. Out of dogs? I've run with Cook on our trails at home. I can't believe he'd be getting out of dogs. He loves his dogs.

Drift rakes her front claws down my shin and stares up at me.

“Sorry, girl. I'm getting it.”

I stir the bucket with the long-handled scoop. Bits of pulpy chicken gobs float around in the red liquid. We bait the water in winter to get the dogs to drink it before it freezes. The only problem is that it spoils them and they get fussy drinking plain water.

I start at the leaders and scoop the raw- smelling water into their bowls, then continue down the line. Drift bounces up and down. Whistler dumps her bowl over to eat the chunks off the snow.

“Picky girl.” I'm pouring more water in it when Drift suddenly scuttles sideways under her partner, Dorset, as far away as her neckline reaches.

I turn to see a man approaching wearing a puffy, light green parka. As he marches closer, he takes off his fancy North Face glove and holds out his hand. His face is red with a flat nose. Surrounded by the thick coat, he looks like a stuffed olive.

“Russell Price from Endurance Dog Food,” he says.

“Um. Victoria from Secord Kennels.” I take his hand, but remember too late I still have on my dirty fingerless gloves.

“Yes, indeed. Harold Wicker tells me you're quite the racer. Says your dogs eat Endurance from his store.”

“Yeah. My dogs like it.” My voice sounds small and far away as blood charges through my veins. Why did he come to talk to me? Is he checking out my team for future reference? Maybe as a contender for the White Wolf?

“Your team does quite well in the racing circuit. And you run the kennel yourself, I understand?”

“Yes, I run and train them myself. I think we do well since I'm a lot smaller than most of the mushers here—less weight for my dogs to pull.” There's a short silence that I rush to fill. “Well, I'm small for my age. I'm almost fifteen. Anyway. My size is good for dogsledding—not so great when I try to find clothes without Disney princesses all over them.” I'm horrified to hear some kind of gargled giggle come out of me, and my face heats up.

Russell scratches his nose and scans the dogs. He looks over at the dog truck and the sled. The pause in our conversation feels thick with significance. Thankfully, the slurping of the dogs licking their bowls clean covers it. Gazoo and Whistler have a short scrap over whose bowl is whose. While Drift is busy watching us, her partner leans over and steals her bowl by dragging it with her teeth.

“Well, congratulations on your smart finish. Guess you'll have to wait for a while yet to know your results. But very impressive. I wish you well.”

I watch him walk over to Cook's team next, and I kneel down to bury my face in Gazoo's neck ruff.

“I wonder what brings the Endurance food rep out to this race,” Uncle Leonard says. “Think he's looking for the next team to sponsor?”

“Yeah. And I didn't say anything except to tell him I shop in the kids section.”

“I think he senses a winning team.” Uncle Leonard claps me on the shoulder as I stand. The softness in his eyes looks so familiar, I get an ache in my throat.

“Yeah. Now we really need to up our training. Wouldn't that be something to win the White Wolf?” I take off the dogs' harnesses as I look over at Cook's team. A new plan starts to form.

“I'
M NOT TAKING YOU TO ANOTHER
dog yard.” My mom thumps her briefcase down on the kitchen counter and grabs her cheese and cucumber sandwich from the fridge. “Jeremy Cook's dogs aren't any better than the ones you already have. A dog's a dog, Vicky. And we've already got too many.”

“Well, that shows how much you know about it, since a dog is definitely not a dog.” I raise my chin and stare at her.

Every time we have this fight about the dogs, I brace myself. For months now I've been waiting for her to say she wants to move back to Seattle. I can see it in her eyes when she talks about growing up in the city. Whenever Nana calls, I know she's trying to talk Mom into moving closer to her.

She looks at me as if I've just proved her point. “You have sixteen dogs to choose from. I'm sure your uncle can figure out which ones to run in the wolf race.”

“The White Wolf. And he doesn't choose, I do.
Dad
taught me to choose.” I know it's a dirty card to play, but I do what I have to. And if she tells me we're moving, I already know what I'm going to say. She can move if she wants, but I will choose to stay. The dogs and I are staying, end of discussion.

She presses her lips into a thin line and a heavy silence descends around us. If she knew dogs, she'd see why I need a couple of Cook's leaders. Even just two of his best race leaders may mean all the difference for us. I wish she knew dogs. A cold ache spreads through my body and I miss Dad as if the loss were fresh.

“I don't have time for this today.” Mom breaks the stalemate with a slump of her shoulders. “I have to work.”

“Of course you do.”

“Make sure you do your homework,” she says, ignoring my tone. “And can you make dinner for us? I should be home around five.”

Mom grabs her gear for the open house, sees my sixth-place ribbon from yesterday on the table, and hesitates. She turns back to me. “Oh, Vicky. I'm sorry I forgot to ask you how your race went. You did well.”

I shrug. She looks tired and drawn, her eyes peering out of sunken sockets. I suddenly notice how much older she seems, as if she's aged a lifetime this past year. Well, so have I.

She opens her mouth as if she's going to say something, then runs a hand through her graying blond hair and turns away. Our conversations have stuttered like this since the coffee shop incident.

The bell hanging from the doorknob tinkles and I'm alone.

The dogs outside begin a howl, the song gaining strength as all the dogs join in. I can pick out the individual voices. Bean isn't hard to pick with that awful bawling—his version of a howl. He's got a little too much hound in him. Drift's voice is gorgeous, full and throaty like a wolf howl.

Listening to them makes me more determined to carry out my plan with or without Mom's support. Her car crunches over the snow as she backs out of the driveway, leaving the dog truck just sitting there. I can't talk Cook down in price over the phone; I need to do it in person. And I need to check out all his dogs. I wish Uncle Leonard wasn't going ice fishing today, but I don't need him either. I can get to Cook's myself. Really, what does a couple more years matter? It's not as if I don't know how to handle the truck now. A license is just a piece of paper.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry to the closet to find the topographic maps. I'm not exactly sure which roads to take to get to Cook's. I mentally kick myself again for leaving the race yesterday before I spoke to him. He and Dad were friends, but I've never been to his house.

The dogs' song ends abruptly just as I find the topo map. I lay it out on the kitchen table and bend over, tracing a path with my finger all the way to town—if you could call tiny Spruce River a town—then on to the other side.

I grunt a little in annoyance. There's really no way I can drive there without traveling the main roads. Any cop who happens to glance over and see what looks like a nine-year-old peering over the steering wheel will surely pull me over.

I finger the chicken-pock scar beside my ear. Maybe I don't need the truck. If I follow the trail network behind the dog yard until the power line, I could cut through the brush there, hook on to the trappers' trails, and eventually get to Cook's. If I drive, the trip is maybe fifty miles, but cross-country it's more like thirty-five. One good thing about living in the Tanana Valley, there's lots of trails to run.

I glance out the window at Bean. He's standing on top of his house, watching me. Reading my mind. Our eyes connect and he throws his head back and barks a command to go. We really need to get to Cook's today. He has champion dogs. If I wait too long, someone else will get there and I'll lose my chance at the best picks. Having a champion team will be a good reason to stay in Alaska. Hard for Mom to argue with that. How can I race dogs in the city?

I imagine crossing the finish line of the White Wolf in first place.
Secord Kennels—that's Michael Secord's daughter, isn't it?
they'd say.
He was a real musher; he taught her well.

Mom has never understood.

It will take less than four hours of running if the trails are hard—longer with the cut through the brush. We'd keep it easy after the long run yesterday, but we could go and be back before it gets dark. I'd tell Mom we'd been gone for a regular training run. Yeah, one where we found a few extra dogs.

I grab the map and sprint up the stairs to my room. I have to push on the door to move aside the books and gear on the floor. My closet doors haven't been able to shut for years due to my gear collection: tent, Therm-a-Rest, insulated pants, sleeping bags, camp stove. I glance over the pile assessing what I'll need. Extra woollies, dry socks. Should I bring a sleeping bag? It's not that far.

When I was younger, I went on what was supposed to be a short run with Dad. We didn't make it back home until the middle of the night and as I sat shivering but silent in the sled, he muttered over and over, “Why didn't I bring the sleeping bag?”

I take the bag.

I throw everything in a duffel and stop in the kitchen just long enough to grab some snacks.

Go hungry—get cold
. I can almost hear Dad's words over my shoulder.

The bag is heavy as I lug it to the yard.

When I step outside, the dogs erupt into a frenzy of high-pitched screams and barks. I feel like a rock star with sixteen adoring fans.

Bean studies me while I pack the sled bag. It's a dark blue, thick canvas bag that's fitted to the dimensions of the sled. The plastic sled bottom makes up the floor, and the sides reach up to attach to lines going from the handlebar down to the brush bow. The top flap is sealed shut with Velcro and keeps most of the snow and ice off the gear inside. I give Mr. Minky a squeeze hello.

“Hey, Bean, want to go on an adventure?”

He stares at me with expressive, ice-blue eyes. His tail wags slowly.

Straddling the dog, I slip a harness over his head and he punches his legs through the openings. His coarse reddish-brown fur quivers in the places it sticks up over his shoulders and ruff. We lurch over to the sled and I hook him in lead. He leans into his tugline, holding the gangline tight behind him, and barks down the trail.

I hook up Blue, Whistler, Dorset, Drift, and Gazoo, each dog adding a decibel to the frantic barking. Hookups are always wild. The dogs are so jazzed to run; their mouths foam, their eyes sparkle, the air vibrates with an intensity that raises the hairs on my neck.

I yank the snub rope that's tied to the spruce beside me and pull the snow hook. The sled takes off as if I've just punched the hyperdrive button. Each dog in the team instantly stops barking and starts pulling, focused on the trail ahead. The noise behind me from the dogs I didn't take fades fast as we whip through the trees.

I
GRIP THE HANDLEBAR AS I LEAN
into a turn. We skid sideways with a fan of snow. The dogs' feet kick up tufts of ice crystals as they dig, and the cold wind on my face energizes me. I let out a whoop, feeling savage. Watching them run gives me such a visceral sense of belonging, I can't imagine being anywhere else. Bean swivels his ears back toward me but keeps running straight down the trail.

“It's all right, Beanie. Keep ahead, that a boy!”

I wish I could talk Sarah into coming along. It would let me spend more time with her, and I'd get to show her how amazing my dogs are. Why wouldn't everyone in my class want to see this? Uncle Leonard says dogsledding is a dying art. That it's too much work for most kids and I'll soon see it isn't the popular kids from school that end up worth anything, but the ones who are brave enough to be different. He has to say that, being Dad's twin brother.

We follow our own trail until we arrive at the fork where it veers into the main snowmobile track. The trail is lined with shrubby willows and spruce. Crystallized snow piled on the branches contrasts with the sea of pale and dark greens.

The Cooks, Mr. Oleson, and I all use this trail sometimes to run our teams together so we can practice passing and leading. Mr. Oleson is our closest neighbor; he lives a subsistence lifestyle in the bush with his dogs, his garden, and his gun. He doesn't race, but he likes to run with other mushers. Sometimes he used our yurt. Most mushers around here use these portable, round tents for base camps. But our yurt has been taken down. My hands clench the handlebar when I think of Mom selling it to Cook.