Ice Dogs (4 page)

“Anyway, just get in. We've got to hurry.” I push him down into the sled bag and run back for my first-aid kit. The dogs scream and lunge forward, and I jump on the runners just as the snow hook pops.

The dogs immediately fall silent as we lurch ahead. I lean forward to make sure Chris is settled. He's perched on top of the gear, sitting upright with his knees bent and his head and shoulders leaning back against the handlebar. One hand grips the side of the sled bag, and the other awkwardly presses on his bandage. He stares at me with wide eyes. I gesture with the top flap of the bag to get him to tuck it around himself to keep the snow out.

We head into a narrow, twisty section of trail and I have to concentrate. The extra weight in the sled slows us so it's harder to steer around trees. Snow falls steadily, so thick that it shrouds Bean and Blue from my view. I glance behind us and notice our tracks are covered almost as soon as we make them.

This trail is out of Dad's old trapping area. I've never been here, preferring to stick to the trails I know. I'm relying on Chris to lead so when we get to a fork I ask which way and Chris says left and that's what we do. At another fork we go right and after nearly an hour of narrow corners and fallen trees, my apprehensions about Chris returns. How could he have come through here with his snowmobile? And why?

J
UST AS I NOTICE THAT
I'
M
squinting to see through the gloom ahead, we break out of the trees into a marshy area dotted with black spruce. Snow fills the air like a swarm of bees stinging exposed skin. Now that we're in the open, I realize how much the wind has picked up. I hunch my shoulders to cover my bare neck.

“Are you sure we're going the right way?” I glance down and notice with alarm that Chris's eyes are closed and his face is pasty. “Hey, are you all right?”

“B-b-brilliant.” His blue lips quiver as he talks.

What am I doing? He's hit his head and he's just going to get worse if I don't start thinking. He needs to lie still, not jerk around in a dogsled. And he has to get warm. Right now. I stop the team and set the hook.

“Good dogs.” I grab the picket line from beside Chris in the sled bag. “Stay in the bag for a minute. I have to settle the team.”

I string the cable between two spruce trees, and then unhook the dogs one at a time to transfer them to the drop lines on the cable picket. Each dog scratches and sniffs and circles around in the deep snow as if this is a perfectly fine place to catch a nap. Whistler waves her butt in front of Gazoo and then snaps at him when he pokes his nose too close. My heart swells with what a good job they've done today and how hard they've worked. They're going to need snacks.

I turn back to the sled, and bend to help Chris out. “We'll stay here a while—maybe it'll stop snowing.”

He wobbles and leans heavily on me. He smells like winter.

When he's got his footing, I sort through my gear. “I'm going to make a fire . . . there's a sleeping bag in here somewhere . . . you'll be warm then . . . where is it? Ah, you were sitting on it.”

I pull out the bag and send a silent thank you to Dad for reminding me to bring it. Once I've grabbed the rest of the gear we need, I close the sled bag so snow doesn't get in.

“You g-g-got a hot tub in there?” He stands with his arms wrapped around himself.

I know you start getting confused with the onset of hypothermia. He doesn't realize how serious this is.

“Or maybe a cell phone?”

“Cell phones don't work out here.” I hack spruce boughs off the trees with my hatchet and spread them out, making a thick pile under the hanging branches of another spruce. “Perhaps if you were dressed properly . . . ” I hear the condescending tone in my voice and try again. “You'll have to take off those stupid jeans, they're wet and only making you colder.” I hold up my spare woollies. “I'm not sure these will fit, but they stretch.”

“Th-they're pink.”

“Yeah, present from my mom. Sorry 'bout that, but beggars can't be choosers.” The sleeping bag crunches in the cold as I pull it out of the stuff sack. “Come sit here.”

He slumps down on the branches and takes the bag with shaking hands. When he tries to climb in, I see how uncoordinated he is. I squat down and help him into the bag, flipping the hood over his head and zipping it up to his chin.

“We've just met and you're already t-trying to get me in the s-sack.”

I stare at him. He either thinks he's charming, or when he hit his head, he damaged his social skills.

I open my mouth, then think better of it and push the water bottle at him. “I'm going to collect firewood. Stay here. Drink. And take off those jeans.”

He burrows into his cocoon and I slide the sled beside him as a windbreak. With the trees at his back cutting the south wind, and the sled bag blocking the swirling winds from the west, it should be a warm enough spot once I get a fire going.

Southwest winds.
I curse myself for not paying attention to this. They usually bring storms.

As I break off dead branches, I remember winter camping with Dad. “That's it, Vic,” he had said. “These spruce needles will be good for insulation under our tent. And the bark off the birch makes a natural fire starter. We have everything we need to survive right here.”

One ice-fishing trip we camped just for fun. We stayed for three nights. When we took down the tent, the melted indents in the snow where our bodies had slept proved he was right; the spruce needles underneath had kept us warm. But in the end, all the bush knowledge in the world couldn't help Dad.

Because I wasn't there.

I close my eyes and tap my forehead with the back of my glove, and then light the pile of tinder I'd gathered. I hang over the flame, using my body as a windbreak, and coax it to grow by feeding it some bigger sticks. It's amazing how much better everything seems with a fire. It pops and sparks and immediately warms the skin on my neck and face.

Whistler lets loose a long, slow howl. Seconds later, the other five point their muzzles in the air—black lips ringing in an
O
. The song undulates and wavers with layers of different voices. As if the conductor had waved his arms in finale, all the dogs stop at the same time. I always wonder how they do that.

“Whoa.” Chris is staring at the dogs from his sleeping bag. I notice his lips look better—less blue.

“They're hungry after all that work saving you.”

“Well tell them I'm not that tasty. Pretty stringy actually. Why is the big ugly one staring at me?”

Ugly?
“Listen, genius, my dogs are the only things that are important right now. They're going to haul both of us out of here, so they deserve some respect.” He obviously doesn't know a good dog when he sees one.

“Whoa,” he says again, arching his brows. “Sorry, they seem like very nice dogs with big teeth. You haven't even told me your name.”

I grab the bag with the fist-size chicken chunks and march over to the dogs. “Victoria Secord,” I yell over the dogs' demanding screams.

“Longoria?”

“Victoria.” I toss a chunk to Dorset. She snaps it from the air and turns her back on Blue, who's reaching for me with front paws outstretched.

“Victoria Secret?”

Oh, so annoying. “You're hilarious.” I sweep my arm toward the dogs. “I race sled dogs. I'm one of the top junior mushers.” I'm not sure why I feel the need to tell him this.

“Oh, yeah! I thought I recognized you. I saw you yesterday at the race.” He takes a swig from the water bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his glove. “The pink tights fit, but they're a little short. They only go to my knees.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing and turn away. “You were at the race?”

I throw a chunk to Blue, who has worked himself up to such a frenzy that he has to put the chunk between his feet and pant over it before he can start to gnaw.

“Yeah, Mom and I went to check it out. Some jerk sideswiped us, though. Took the mirror off my mom's Chevette.”

I blink. “Uh, sideswiped? You see who did it?”

“No, happened when we were parked—”

Chris is interrupted by Drift, who screams as if someone is ripping off her toenails. I toss her a chunk and she grabs it expertly from the air.

“So . . . ” I change the subject. “Which school do you go to? Fairbanks?”

“I'll be starting at Spruce River High on Monday. I'm a sophomore . . . er . . . that was the plan. So I'm guessing I'll have the privilege of your cheery personality greeting me in the halls?”

He grins and I almost smile at how ridiculous he looks, sitting up with his broad shoulders stuffed into the bag and the red scarf tied lopsided around his head. Flickering light from the fire glows on his face. When he turns to me, I notice the startling colors in his deep-set hazel eyes.

A gust of wind blows sparks and snow pellets against both of us. Chris tilts his head and shuts his eyes. He tucks farther into the bag.

“So, why did you start racing sled dogs? I mean, it's cool, but sort of different.”

“I like being different.” My voice sounds a little too loud. “And it's not that different. Lots of kids my age race.”

I try and think of something profound to say about why I run dogs. About how I'd been around dogs my whole life with Dad and how I can understand them. How I feel alive when I run them, how they take me to a magical place that I can get to only behind a team. And how running the dogs makes me feel close to Dad.

“And I like racing.” Less profound than I wanted. “I'm good at it.”

I give up and add more wood to the fire.

Chris shrugs and huddles closer to the flames. Falling snow swirls around him and I suddenly notice how dark it is. And cold.

I
GIVE THE REST OF THE DOGS
their meal and pick up the hatchet again. Judging by the cloaking darkness settling in, I'd say it's around six thirty. During the winter months, the only thing I hate is the short days. Now that we're into March, the stretching daylight feels like a gift.

With the approaching gloom and the blowing snow, I can hardly see beyond the pale light the fire is giving. The trees around us appear as one black blob. The wind gusts noisily through the branches. When I look up, I see the tops of the spruce whipping around like angry fists shaking at the sky.

I hack off more boughs from the closest spruce and carry them over to the dogs, who rest just on the edge of the fire light. They jump up when I approach. I lay the boughs in a flat pile next to the dogs, making sure the layers overlap to give them insulation. Dorset sticks her tongue up my nose when I bend over her. Blue grabs the branches to arrange his own way, then spins in two circles and flops down on top of them, tail curling over his black snout.

I whisper to Bean, “We're going to have to stay here.”

The tension of this thought travels up my spine and tightens my neck muscles. I rock from one foot to the other. I'll have to find enough firewood for the evening and water the dogs somehow. And feed us. I stretch my neck from side to side.

It's okay
, I try to tell myself. It's not as if I've never slept out in the woods before. Plus, I've spent enough time alone on the race trail with just my dogs. In fact, that's how I prefer it. My dogs always understand me.

And it's not as if there's a horde of people lined up to come along.

Uncle Leonard says I'm a loner because I'm an only child. I would have had brothers and sisters but, as Dad says, I came out fighting and something happened when I was born that made Mom unable to have any more kids.

Mom doesn't have brothers or sisters either and she likes to do weird things by herself, like go to the movies. She's been doing that even more this past year, just leaving by herself. Well, she used to ask me to come, but after the coffee shop incident, she stopped. I close my eyes and rub between them, as if I can rub away the memory.

“What do you want, Vicky?” she'd asked me.

“I don't care.” We were sitting in the booth farthest away from the only other people in the shop. I was staring at the sign on the wall:
COFFEE. DO STUPID STUFF FASTER AND WITH MORE ENERGY.

“Well, you must have an opinion? How about a hot chocolate?” Her voice had sounded strained. Brightly fake. She leaned across the table and smiled at me. A blue vein under her eye twitched.

“Sure.”

We didn't say anything else until our orders were ready. Then we probably should've kept on saying nothing. But we didn't.

Mom: Oh, I can't tell you how much I love this chai tea. Something about the smell of it reminds me of when I used to go out with your Nana and we'd shop and have mother-daughter time.

Me: Huh.

Her: So. Tell me how school's going.

Me: Fine.

Her: How is Mr. Mowat's new baby?

Me: Great.

Her: Sarah's mom told me his wife brought her in to the school for a visit.

Me: I don't know.

And that's when she did it. That's when Mom reached across to take my hand and I jumped back, knocking my hot chocolate over. It was as if the brown liquid pouring out of the cup and running onto the floor was rushing to escape.

“Look.” I started in what may have been a whisper. I think. But it didn't stay as a whisper. “I don't know why we're pretending everything is okay. It's
not
okay and it never will be okay. Ever. So don't act like we're carrying on with our lives. I don't want to sit around pretending to be your buddy! You never understood the dogs. You never understood
him!
” I shrieked the last part, but managed to cut myself off from saying what was next. A
nd whose fault is it that he's gone?
But the damage was already done. The color drained from my mom's face. Her eyes went red, welled up, looked away.