Ice Dogs (6 page)

Trees snap and crack in the cold. The wind has died and the hushed winter bush sounds are all around me. I spy the line of snow-covered birches gleaming in the sun and I let out a little breath. Every tiny finger of branch has a thick coating of snow that sits like whipped topping.

“Wake me when it's summer,” Chris says.

The snow crunches under my feet as I move. I find a wide tree, check to make sure I can't be seen from the sled, and crouch down to pee. Crunching snow is good. That means the temperature isn't much colder than zero. If the snow squeaks we're in bigger trouble. I'd hate to think about our night if it were January instead.

I check the color of the hole I've made in the snow and smile a little in relief. Light yellow means I've been drinking enough. Only once did I see it a dark amber color. That was during the Fur Classic, just after the accident.

I had fought hard to enter that race, too. And I was desperate to win—to have Dad's name in the papers and on the radio. But I was so sick and useless to the dogs, I had to scratch the whole race. I had thought that by putting all my attention to the dogs' needs, we would win for sure. Checking their feet, pulling down their lower eyelids to see their skin color, snacking them—none of that was enough. Without drinking or eating anything myself, it wasn't long before I hardly had energy to pedal the sled. When I started throwing up, I knew our race was over. I swore that wouldn't happen again.

The snow feels plenty cold as I rub a handful into my bare hands to wash. I quickly scrub my face and then stand, pushing the water off my freezing cheeks. I shake my hands and tuck them in my armpits. My face tingles and the skin pulls when I smile.

“Come on, Chris. We should look at your head.”

“Everyone keeps telling me I need my head examined.”

I rummage in the bag that hangs from the back of the handlebar. Where did I leave that first-aid kit? “Sounds like you're well enough today to help with the chores. We need another fire to boil water for us and melt some chicken to water the dogs.”

“I've got to water a tree first.”

I try to remember the last time I saw the kit. Oh yeah, I had it in my anorak pocket with the map—
the map!

“And seriously, is there like, room service? I'm so hungry, I could eat a dog.”

I had completely forgotten about the map last night. Chris was going to show me where he lived. But I never saw it after that. I feel a bubble of panic.

“Chris, what did you do with the map I gave you?”

“What map?”

“The
map
. The map I gave you last night, remember?” The panic bubble expands.

“Um . . . I don't remember you giving me a map.” Chris's head pops up from the sled bag and he glances around as if he's looking for it.

“You said we weren't far from your house! You were supposed to find the slough on the map.”

“Oh . . . that map.” Chris rubs his face with his hand. “Um, yeah. I forgot to mention . . . ”

“What?” A sneaky dread creeps up my throat.

“It sort of . . . fell in the fire . . . ”

“What? Did it burn?”

Chris wrestles with his jacket and reaches into the pocket. He pulls out a limp and blackened piece of useless map. “The wind grabbed it.”

“AUGH! Idiot!” I snatch the thing from his hand. Delicate ashes fall like butterflies from the corner and I can't even tell which corner it used to be. I feel dizzy. I take slow deep breaths but it doesn't help.

“Do you even know where we are?” I yell. “Do you recognize this slough?”

“I just moved here from Toronto four days ago. That was the first time I've even been out on my snowmobile.”

“Toronto?” Of course, he's from a city. That explains a lot. “Then how could you know where we were going yesterday?”

The anger seethes through my clenched jaw. I don't even try to keep the panic out of my voice. Why does everything in my life get screwed up? The dogs raise their heads and study me.

“Well, I thought I knew . . . ” Chris stumbles out of the sled. He stands in his boot liners with a purple goose egg on his forehead, crusted blood across his eyebrow below the bandage, and pink woollies that are four sizes too small.

He scratches his butt.

His forlorn expression tells me everything I need to know. This conversation is pointless and it's up to me and the dogs to get us home.

I
STOMP AROUND CAMP, PREPARING
for another day, and try to decide what to do next. As I see it, we have three options. We can just stay here and hope that we're found. I immediately reject this idea. There's no way I can sit still and wait for someone to help me.

We can go back the way we came. I think of all the new snow covering yesterday's tracks. Trying to follow our path through those ugly trails doesn't hold much appeal. But it's the known route—if we can find it, we probably should do that.

Or, we could continue this way. I stand, watching Whistler lick her paws with slow, methodical attention. If I remember the map right, the main trails are west of us. This trail we're on seems to be heading in that direction. If we find the main trails, we can follow them, and most likely cross a road. I'm sure of it. Lots of roads around here have dog team crossing traffic signs. And maybe heading west will be even faster than traveling the whole day backwards.

Or we could all freeze to death as we look for trails that aren't there.
I finger the scar beside my ear, and feel a moment of regret over yesterday's decision to head north. I should have stuck to a trail I knew. Now I'm traveling blind out here. But I can't look back. Always moving forward—Dad's favorite saying.

Blue yodels softly at me and snaps me out of my funk. I move closer to him, his butt swaying back and forth with fierce wagging.

“You think that's what we should do?” I ask, rubbing his cheek. “Keep moving forward? You remember Dad saying that, too?”

I blow out a slow breath and whisper, “I'm not sure what to do, Dad.”

I swallow hard and remember Dad's confidence in Blue when he was still a yearling. I can almost hear him that day on the trapline.

“See what Blue is doing, Vic? How he's looking ahead past the leaders? You watch. He'll make a good leader someday.”

The dogs had been breaking trail and we were plodding next to the sled to help lighten the load. The sled was full of wet beaver from the trapline, and the team worked hard through the deep snow. Blue pulled like a dog possessed, and peered ahead as if he wanted to see what was around the next corner.

We'd arrived home late that night, like so many other times, and I was exhausted. And cranky. I wasn't much help, but Dad didn't mind. We tromped single file through the snow for the third trip unloading the sled, when he reached up and tapped the snow-laden branches hanging above us. Before I could catch myself, I walked right under it while the snow came down into my collar.

“Argh, Dad! Stop doing that!”

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Icky—whoa!”

I'd crashed into his knees to knock him over, but he stood rock solid. Always solid.

My chest feels hollow as the memory mows me over.
I don't have time for this. I have to get us home.

“Forward it is, Blue. Good idea.” The cold from the snow I'm kneeling in begins to seep through my leggings. Rocking back on my heels, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't know if this is the right decision, I just know I have to find our way out soon. I think of the dog shed in the backyard full of frozen chicken and fat pallets, cooked rice, and vitamin packets. Fuel for working dogs. We can't spend another night out here; we have to get out today.

Once the dogs have been watered with the last of the chicken, we eat a breakfast of smoked sausage and a granola bar—the last of the food. It's still morning, but already I feel exhausted with worry. I can go hungry, and Chris can certainly starve to death for all I care, but my dogs cannot.

As we pack the sled, the silence between us could be cut in half with my hatchet. I grab our two water bottles that I refilled with boiled water from the slough, and stow them in the sled bag.

Chris jogs in place, bringing his knees up high, and then catches me staring at him. “This is not even cool,” he says. “My jeans are so stiff, I can hardly move.”

“If you weren't the biggest milquetoast loser I've ever met, I'd feel bad for you.”

“Look, I'm sorry about the map, okay?” Chris glares down at me. “But who gives a map to someone who's sitting next to a fire? And it was so windy.” He fingers his forehead, which reminds me I was going to check his gash. I gesture for him to bend closer so I can see it.

“You're supposed to be some sort of wilderness expert,” he says. “Why don't you have a GPS like a normal—ow!” He straightens, holding his hand to his eyebrow after I rip off the bandage. “Hey!”

“Why do I need a GPS when I can read a map?” I snap back, gesturing again for him to bend closer. The lump over his eye is still red, but the dried blood around the gash makes it look worse than it is. I'm pleased the edges are closed. The bleeding seems to have stopped.

“Map reading is a skill anyone who comes out here should know,” I continue. “Not like some people who prefer zooming around on some smelly machine thinking a little device will tell them where they are, batting their pretty eyes at whoever comes by.” Absolutely not what I meant to say. At all.

Chris's mouth opens as if he's about to retort, but then closes. He looks at me with surprise. “Pretty eyes?”

“Pretty idiotic eyes, yeah.”

“Think this will scar?” He strikes an exaggerated pose, blinking at me. I want to punch him.

“Chicks dig scars, right?”

“If you're going for some kind of freakish anime look, you've succeeded.” I grab the sled and yank it onto the trail. “We need to go.”

The dogs are pumped. They've been watching my every move and now that I've touched the sled, they leap to their feet. They scratch the ground and yawn with excitement when I look at them. They never complain. Never hold a grudge. Always trust.

I toss a harness to Chris. “Here, help me get the dogs ready. That's for Dorset, little brown girl on the end.”

His amused expression turns to alarm. “I . . . I . . . don't know how.”

“It's easy—just watch how I do it.” I straddle Bean and hold up the harness. “See how I fold it at the double webbing? Yes, like that.”

I slip it over Bean's head and the dog does the rest. Chris approaches Dorset as if she's a poisonous tarantula with Ebola virus. It's obvious he's afraid of dogs, but he still tries with the harness. I guess it's not his fault he's incompetent. But Dorset doesn't notice. She wags her tail furiously at his approach and it gives me a little warm feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I hook up Blue with Bean in lead. When I turn, I see Chris sliding toward the sled behind Dorset.

“Pick her front feet off the ground.” I take her and hold the harness up so she's hopping on her back legs. “Shifts the four-wheel-drive down to two. Much easier.”

As Chris struggles to harness Drift, I harness Gazoo and Whistler and hook them into the center of the gangline. They're in the team position. Drift and Dorset, closest to the sled, are the wheel dogs. They tend to be the strongest dogs, though you wouldn't think it by looking at little Dorset. But if the sled gets stuck, they will both throw themselves into their harnesses and rapidly pop their tuglines until the sled is free. Drift, my crazy little tornado, is already lunging forward as I clip her in.

Frozen hard circles where the dogs had slept create icy dents that look like a plastic egg carton. I can tell which circle was Bean's; his metabolism cranks out so much energy he'd sink to China if we stayed here long enough. I worry about his weight, and wish I had brought extra fat for him.

I wind up the picket line and store it back in the sled, then step on the brake and motion for Chris to get in. The dogs' frantic screams ignite the air around us. Chris spastically trips and falls into the sled.

“Ready? All right!” We charge down the trail for about thirty yards and then it becomes obvious our travel today will be slow. The snow from yesterday's blizzard is so deep, the dogs have to jump like weasels. And the trail is really only a vague indent. I should've known this, but I was too busy showing off for Chris to think about it. I'll be glad when I drop this guy off at his house.

I
STOP THE TEAM
. “Y
OU'RE TOO HEAVY
. Get out of the sled and help me back here.”

“I'd rather not.” But he climbs out and stands beside me. His face is tight and I feel a twinge of remorse for snapping at him. He seems defenseless, scared.

“What do I do?”

“You stand on that runner. I'll stand on this one. Hold on to the handlebar . . . it's like skiing, but you get to hang on.” I have to yell above the dogs' frustrated barks. They don't like to stop when they've just started. I pull the hook again. “All right, Beanie!”

Chris looks frozen with fear, but after a few moments of smooth riding, his easy charm returns and he flashes me a wide grin. “Hey, this is fun.”

“For now. They'll slow down soon and we'll have to pedal with one foot, or run beside the sled.”

In fact, for most of the morning, no one is running. We plod through the snow, climb over broken and uprooted trees, and jockey the sled around tight corners. I keep hoping that around the next corner, the trail will widen out and I'll recognize where we are. But around each corner is more tangled mess and I curse my luck.

This has to be the thickest brush in Alaska. I sincerely wish we lived in an area that has cell coverage. With that thought, another rushes in.