Ice Dogs (3 page)

“Vicky, you can't set up a yurt yourself. And I don't know how to set it up. It may as well be used by someone who needs it.”

I couldn't argue with that, but it still felt like selling off a piece of Dad.

Running with Cook's dogs is how I know they're stars. I press my lips together as I think of all the years Dad raced, and not once did he come in first. He said he probably never would with trapline dogs. Why didn't he get a couple sleek racers then? Well, now I have that opportunity, so I have to do it for him. The need to do something for him burns behind my eyes.

After an hour of solid running, we arrive at another fork.

“Gee, Bean . . . that's it, Blue! Good boys!” We veer right. Good command leaders like Bean know their right—gee, from their left—haw. The dogs charge down the trail. We don't usually run this way and they love exploring.

I glance up and notice the darkening sky. There's a hazy ring around the sun—a sun dog. If I look for it, I can see the little prisms of color. There's snow on the way and I forgot to check the forecast before I left. Crap.

Hopefully we'll be back home by the time it gets too thick. But first, we should take a break. To slow the team down, I step on the strip of snowmobile track that's hanging between the runners. It bites into the snow.

“Whoa, whoa . . . good dogs.” I throw the snow hook down and stomp on it.

Gazoo dives into the deep snow on the side of the trail and chomps mouthfuls of fluff. I dab at the base of my cold nose with the back of my glove. After many chapped lips, I've learned to stop licking away the salty runoff. I walk up the line, patting each dog.

Bean rolls on the trail scratching his back, all four feet waving in the air. In the quiet of being far away from anywhere, the only sounds are the grunts and soft snufflings of the dogs. I take a moment to close my eyes and listen to the world around me.

Savor it.

The trees are still with hardly a breeze. We're beside a stand of tamaracks, my favorite trees. Their needles, soft green in summer, burst with vivid yellows in fall, and then drop off leaving them to stand naked in winter. An evergreen that isn't always green. A tree that's different.

A gray jay's sharp trill makes me jump and open my eyes. I pull out the map from the pocket of my anorak. Our route will take us along this trail several more miles before we cut across to the trapper's trail.

“You up for a little cross-country, Blue?”

He looks up at me with his mismatched eyes. One soft brown, the other frenetic blue. I like to imagine this makes him able to see the world in two ways. Maybe see both sides of an argument. He certainly seems to switch easily from goofy to serious. His wide-mouthed grin is fringed in an icy rime.

“Deep snow will make extra work,” I say.

He pokes his nose between my legs and pushes until his head is wedged under my butt. I laugh at his favorite game and scratch his back. He leans into my hands until he nearly topples over.

When I head back to the sled, the dogs stand and watch me behind them. I climb onto the runners and bend to the hook.

“Ready?” My foot presses on the snowmobile track as I hang the snow hook in front of me. The dogs scream and jump in the air. “All right!”

They leap forward in unison and we take off again running flat out down the trail. Then they settle into a ground-eating trot. I reach into the sled bag and pull out the insulated water bottle, take a sip, and put it back. It's so easy to get dehydrated out here.

The willow thickets lining the trail along this stretch all look the same. It's hard to tell where we should try to cut across to the other trail. So finally, I just call haw and we veer left and stop at the tree line. My stomach flutters a little with the excitement at doing something new. I have to make sure that I don't make any mistakes out here. I pull out my round bear-paw snowshoes, the kind without tails so it's easier to back up or turn around, and then take a bearing with my compass.

“Okay, guys, you can follow me now.”

The snowshoes punch through deep drifts as I head into the trees. I glance over my shoulder and see the dogs jumping behind me like marten through the snow. The lower tree branches droop beneath the weight of their loads. Everywhere I look is white powdery freshness.

Each movement is deliberate with my large shoes. My feet sink down a little as I step, and I flick my ankles to knock the snow from the webbing. Bean continuously jumps on the backs of them.

“Get back, you little turds.” I rub Bean's head affectionately.

After about half an hour I stop and peel off my hat to keep from over heating. The sun has disappeared now behind a dull gray and the air is suddenly choked with snow. I thought I had much more time before it started. A tendril of worry snakes into my gut.

I take out the map again while the dogs mill around me, and brush off the fat flakes that immediately cover it.

“We should be there by now,” I say, trying not to sound concerned. The last thing a sled dog wants to hear is hesitation from his leader.

While I'm studying the map I notice I'm holding my breath, and let it out in a rush. The frozen cloud hangs in front of my face. I glance up with eyes half closed to shield them from the snow floating down and melting on my face.

Where is the trail?
I check my compass again and take a bearing on the tallest spruce ahead.

When I take another step forward, I pitch into the snow. “Oof! Bean! Get off my snowshoe!”

Bean and Blue jump me while I'm down and the snowshoes flail in the air as I roll around pushing at furry dog legs. I feel as if I'm trying to surface in a pool of quicksand as I sink in the soft, deep snow. An icy trail of snow trickles down my neck. Bean offers to help by cleaning out my ear.

When I finally roll to my feet, I keep my voice light for them. “Let's go find that trail.”

We plod onward. Finally, I see a break in the trees ahead.
The trail!

I whoop and punch my fist in the air. Just as we're about to reach it, a lime green object shines in the trees. What is that?

Creeping closer, I finally recognize what it is—a snowmobile. And it's pretty thoroughly wrapped itself around a birch. There's no one around and no footprints in the snow. I stomp onto the trail and take off my snowshoes. Once I string the dogs out straight, I set the snow hook.

Where the heck did the snowmobile come from? Who drove it here and left it? How did they leave without footprints? I wander behind the sled and scan the woods.

“Hello?” I call. Then louder, “Anyone here?”

The dogs watch me with intent eyes, heads tilting. The falling snow mutes any sounds and closes in on me as if I'm in a padded room. It feels as if it's just me and the dogs in all the world. Except for whoever was on that snowmobile. My traitorous mind suddenly envisions a psycho creeping up behind me in the silence, and I spin around with my heart pounding.

“Stupid! Get a grip.” I scan the ground, but the fat flakes are laying a cover over everything so perhaps the footprints have been hidden.

Blue lets out a bark, and that's when I whip around and finally see him.

Crumpled in a heap several yards from the sled is a man lying face down. I stumble past a black helmet that's been smashed in the visor. It's not until I kneel beside him that I see all the blood.

“Oh! Not good, not good, not good.”

Now that I'm closer, I see he's not a man, but a boy about my age. I stare at all the blood starkly red against the snow, and my mind freezes for a moment. I wish Dad were here to tell me what to do. But I'm the only one around.

Bean croons at me long and low. When my focus snaps toward him, my head clears, kicking into gear. I set my mouth in a determined line and take a deep breath.

B
LOOD COVERS MOST OF HIS FACE
but I can still tell I've never seen him before. I move to turn him over, then stop, thinking about first-aid classes and not moving someone with a suspected head injury. I bend closer and feel for a pulse along his neck. A soft breath warms my cheek and I let out my own with relief.

I lurch back to the sled and brush off the layer of snow that has built up on the bag. Tearing open the Velcro, I dive into the gear, searching for the first-aid kit.

What to do?
Think, think, think.

Snow continues to build in the air and falls in thick sheets, turning my whole world white. In fact, I can hardly see the snowmobile's tracks. Which way did he come? Should I leave him here and go get help? No, he'll freeze. But I can't move him to put him in the sled bag.

I kneel down beside him again and use a handful of snow to wipe the blood from his face. More blood seeps from a gash above his right eyebrow, contrasting with the chalky white of his face. I'd probably freak out with all the blood if I hadn't helped Dad on his trapline since I could walk.

I wipe the new blood away to inspect the gash. He's wearing a ski jacket and blue jeans. Jeans? Obviously he doesn't get out much. They're thoroughly soaked, and now will only make things worse for him. He's going to freeze for sure.

I run through a mental list as I find a large gauze pad in the kit. First, I need to stop the bleeding.

Scooting closer to his head, I take a quick breath and press the gauze to his gash. He moans and rolls his head away. His eyes open and we stare at each other.

“What . . . what happened?” His voice is small and thin.

“You crashed your snowmobile into a tree.”

He struggles to a sitting position, and looks around. He raises his hand to his head and pulls it away, looking at the blood on his glove.

“Yeah, I was just getting to that. You're still bleeding.”

“I have to get home!” He tries to stand but his face goes even whiter and he crumples back onto the snow.

I reach for him. “Take it easy. Slow down.” Where is his home? I wonder. Who is he?

“Where did you come from?”

“Um . . . ” He jerks his head around, grabs at it as if it made him dizzy, and closes his eyes. “That way.” He points down the trail behind him.

“You came from that direction? You're sure not from there?” I point in the opposite direction.

He opens his eyes again and they seem more focused. He looks into my face and shakes his head a tiny bit. “No.” He fingers his forehead gingerly.

“How far is it to your house?”

“Not far. I think.”

I rock back on my heels. Should I bring him back on the trail that I came from? It's pretty far, plus there's the hike through the trees. I dab at the base of my nose. He'd have to get out of the sled and walk through the deep snow. What he needs is to get warm and dry in a hurry. But I'm not sure if we should go the way he says he came from. I haven't been on that trail before. What if we get lost?

I don't know what to do.

Through the swirling flakes, I peer north at the trail he pointed to. Then I look back the other way. I could maybe take the south trail like I'd planned and see if we can make it to Cook's. I'm guessing it's another ten miles though. And there's this blizzard building. I let out a long breath. Sounds as if his place is closer.

“Okay, we better get going before it's dark . . . but your head.” I hold up the gauze. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

He takes the gauze and presses it to his head, wincing as he looks at me. “Feels great,” he says with a half-smile.

My shoulders slump forward to see him smile. He must not be hurt as bad as it looks if he's smiling. Head wounds always bleed a lot, I remember from first-aid class. As I tape the gauze into place a suspicious thought suddenly hits me. Why is he smiling when he has a head wound? I narrow my eyes a bit to study him again. His face is square and open with the hint of stubble on his upper lip. A dimple in his left cheek deepens with his grin.

“If you live close, how come I've never met you? What's your name?”

“My name?” He blinks at me with confusion and he looks so vulnerable that I immediately feel dumb for asking. “It's Chris.”

It's not as if I know every single person in town. Lots of kids bus to Fairbanks for school. Larger centers offer more programs than my tiny rural school, Spruce River High. I shake my head and resolve to stop watching slasher movies.

I unwrap the scarf from around my neck and tie it around his head to cover the gauze. His dark brown hair flops over the top across his forehead.

“How do I look?”

The scarf is red and covered with black dog paw prints. He looks a little like a pirate, but I ignore his question. I help him stand and have to crane my head to see him towering over me. My head comes to his armpits.

He sways back on his feet, leans on me, and staggers to the sled. Then he seems to notice the dogs for the first time.

“Augh! Where's your sled?”

“This is my sled.”

“No, your real sled. Your snowmobile.” His voice cracks slightly.

“This is way better than a snowmobile,” I say. “It doesn't wrap itself around trees.” But then I remember the time I did break the brush bow on a tree that had jumped in front of us and Dad lectured me for days about being too reckless. I argued right back that the dogs were completely fine, so what was the big deal? If I could take back every argument I had with Dad, I would.

The dogs bark with excitement when they see us moving toward the sled. Chris shrinks back and glances around with cornered eyes.

“Um, I don't think they like me.” His gaze darts from me to the dogs, then back to my face. He seems to study me, as if recognizing me from somewhere.

“They don't even care about you. They're not barking because they want to attack, they just want to run. Huskies aren't guard dogs.” My words are harsher than I intended, but I stand tall ready to defend them. Part of me wishes for the easy way that Sarah has of talking to boys. Maybe I need to start spending more time with other people like she keeps telling me.