Ice Dogs (7 page)

Mom.

She's got to be freaking with the dogs and me not coming home last night. She'll know I'm out, but she won't know
where.

The more I think about it, the more ill I feel imagining her at home alone. My heart aches as I recall a year ago last January. When we both sat at home—waiting. I think of her fragile show of cheerfulness, how it could buckle with this added pressure. She probably got home last night tired, expecting dinner. She would have been annoyed at first, then, as it got later, the cold dread would have crept in. I blink several times. Even with the anger that has boiled in my gut for over a year, I still don't want to see her hurt.

But I would never forgive her.

After Dad died, I heard her talking to Nana on the phone. She kept her voice low but I avoided the squeaky spot on the floor and crept close to her room. That's how I know Nana was trying to convince her to move back to Seattle. Mom used to be a city girl before she met Dad at a course they both took in the city.

Dad liked to improve his mind, always reading books and taking classes. He was probably the smartest fishing guide in Alaska. He convinced Mom she could work as a real estate agent in Spruce River, since he obviously couldn't trap or guide in the city. I don't think Nana ever let go of her grudge over that. Grandpa died years ago, and she's alone down there.

Mom hasn't really loved Alaska. Not like Dad and I do. I've been to the city to visit so I can tell it's not the place for me. Too many people, too much noise, too many cars on the roads. Not enough dog trails.

“You think we're close?” Chris asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, we've got to cross a road eventually. Unless we get to your place first. Let me know if you see anything familiar.”

We're on a slight downhill and the dogs pick up a little speed. Chris and I can both hop on the runners and ride. I make a show of digging in on one side of my runner and pulling the handlebar to steer the sled over to one side of the trail. I can't help stealing a glance to see if Chris is watching but he's busy gawking at the trees.

“Everything looks the same to me here. I used to live downtown on Bloor Street, surrounded by sidewalks and buildings. I've never seen this much snow in my life.”

“You live in Canada and you're not used to snow? What kind of Canadian are you, eh?”

“She jokes!” Chris slaps his thigh with mock laughter. “Why do all Americans think we say ‘eh' all the time? That's so lame. And I'm from
Toronto
. We don't get much snow. Our winters are just cold.”

“I'm an
Alaskan
—so don't clump me with ‘all Americans' or confuse me with some New Yorker you might know.”

“Well, at least where I'm from you could tell by the stores where you were. Or just look at the street signs. Or hop on a streetcar. I'd give anything right now for a streetcar.”

“I've never been on a streetcar.”

The dogs are running faster, but I hardly take notice.

“You've never . . . Wow. Okay, they run on rails cut into the pavement and travel at about this speed. You usually have to stand and get bounced around kinda like this, too. But they're warmer. Oh, the warmth. Then we could hop off and hit a Tim Horton's. I'd kill for a Timmy's. And a cruller.”

“A what? You mean
crul
-ler. It's pronounced with a short
u
.”

Chris glances at me. “You don't have many friends, do you?”

I repress the urge to kick him. “Why did you . . . ” I begin, but before I can react, the dogs completely disappear over a ridge.

I snap to attention, but too late to do anything but brace myself.

The sled launches over a dropoff that's at least as tall as I am. The dogs run low to the ground in a full sprint. The bottom falls out of my guts as we go airborne. I grip the handlebar even tighter when the sled tips sideways.

Chris screams as he flies off.

All I can do is hang on until the sled hits the ground. And when we hit, it knocks the wind out of my lungs. I hear an awful crunch. We continue plowing down the trail. The dogs drag the tipped-over sled with me still clinging to it, gasping for air. I'm sliding over the trail on my stomach. With one hand I reach for the brake while I clamp down on the stanchion with my other. I force the brake down, straining my arm with the effort. It takes a few moments for the dogs to slow down, but the sled finally stops.

“W
HOA
! W
HOA
, B
EAN, WHOA
.” I'
M
afraid to stand. If I've broken something, I don't want to know. I gingerly push up from the ground and test my legs. Everything seems to be working. Chris runs up behind me.

“Are the dogs okay?”

Now he's worried about the dogs. “Yeah, they stayed on the ground. That was fun for them. I'm good, too, thanks for asking.”

When I bend to pull the sled upright I notice Mr. Minky is dangling at an awkward angle like a loose tooth. The solid ash handlebar between the upright stanchions has split in two.

“Oh, no!” This was Dad's favorite of all the sleds he had made. I watched him build it. He shaped the runners and brush bow with steam and then pounded them into the molds. I'd sat cross-legged on his workbench and handed him tools. I was also in charge of keeping the wood stove going so the workshop stayed warm. Dad explained every stage to me as if I was another adult musher learning to build my own sled. My throat tightens.

Stupid, stupid.
I should've paid more attention.

Chris inspects the two ends and pushes them together as if they'll magically meld. “Can you fix this?”

Pull it together, Victoria. You can fix this.
“Of course.”

I glance around at the saplings near the trail.

“What is this thing?” Chris pulls at Mr. Minky and I slap his hand away.

“None of your business.”

The dogs roll in the snow as I kick the snow hook in, then pull out my hatchet.

“We'll splint it together with a couple of alders,” I say. “I've got some duct tape in the sled bag. Can you find it?”

I spy two perfect saplings. After I cut them to length, I take off my mitts and use my fingers to hold the wood in place. The cold immediately attacks my exposed skin at the ends of my fingerless gloves. Chris finds the tape and stands next to me. I place the two pieces on either side of the broken handlebar.

“Tape it here,” I say, and point with my chin.

“Say ‘please.'”

“What?”

“I'll do it if you remember your manners. You have to say ‘please.'”

“Chris, I swear to—”

“Okay, okay. Hostility!” He begins to whistle as he winds the tape around.

“Tape it all the way across so it's sturdy.”

Chris's bent head is so close to mine, our frozen breath mingles and rises up as one cloud.

“This tape is strong. Like you could tie up a person with this stuff.”

My blood freezes. “What?”

“I'm just saying . . . this is what they use in movies. It might work on the sled. Think it will hold?”

“I know it will.” I try to ignore the unease of what he just said. Why would he be thinking of tying someone up?

“I've done this before when my dad broke his old sled. Well, I watched him do it. This will hold until we get back.” I pull on my mitts and stow the hatchet deep in the sled bag. I glance at Chris.

Chris indicates behind us. “It's like someone came along with a backhoe here and dug out a rippin' hole in the trail.”

“Yeah, it must've been a mudslide,” I say. “Anyway, you have to stay on the sled. If you fall off again, I'm not coming back for you.”

I enjoy the image in my mind of waving goodbye to him as he lies on the trail.

“Did you see my lift-off?” Chris sweeps his hand in an arc. “Cra-zy. I got serious air.”

I muffle a snicker then refocus on the sled. It's about time to start using my head. I pull out my snowshoes from the bag.

“We should all take turns breaking trail.” I slip my mukluks into the bindings and then shuffle toward the leaders. Bean groans as I rub his ears. “Good boy.”

He grins at me with his tongue hanging as if he's having the time of his life.

Sometimes I wish I could trade places with the dogs. They only have to worry about running and eating. They love fiercely and don't worry about things they can't control. And when someone dies, they can sit on top of their house, throw their head back, and howl. Then they can begin a new day.

I stomp into the fresh snow in front of the lead dogs and they both step on my shoes.

“You have to ride the brake!” I turn to see Chris clutching the handlebar with a steel grip. His round eyes are studying the wheel dogs.

“Well, I don't know how to do this,” he yells.

“I'm not going as fast as they are. Just don't let the leaders run me over.” How did I let myself get into this situation? Alone out here with a guy I don't know anything about. And one who obviously doesn't know anything about the outdoors.

I think of last night and how his body had been wrapped around mine and the pit of my belly feels warm. Sarah would flip if she knew. She's totally into guys, and they're into her, too. Which makes sense because the Athabascan side of her gene pool gifted her with stunning looks. With her long, silky straight hair that shines like a pelt around her perfect tawny skin that seems to glow from within, and deep brown eyes, she can have any guy she wants. And she's always going out with someone. As if she doesn't want to be alone, which is dumb since she has me. And about four thousand brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles. I'm so jealous of her big family. I think I first started hanging out with her so I could go over to her house and sit in the middle of all that chaotic noise and energy. Especially when her older brother dropped in with his dog team. Sarah kept teasing me because she thought I had a crush on him. As if. It was the dogs I was interested in.

But her interests are more southern. As soon as we graduate, she's gone to California. Her dream. She dresses as if she lives there already, which is another reason guys like her. She is a fun, loud, and wild center of attention, and hard to resist.

It's not as if I've never gone out with anyone. I grimace thinking of my short and tragic past with Randy Fuller. Maybe I felt sorry for him. Maybe he wore Bart Simpson T-shirts every day because his development was stunted. Back in grade school, he fell asleep at Mark Hamilton's birthday party, and they super-glued his finger to the inside of his nostril. That kind of humiliation is hard to get past in a small town. So in eighth grade I called myself his girlfriend. I even let him hold my hand in the school hall. I shake my head at the memory. It feels like a lifetime ago, even though it was only last year.

We're moving through a stunted black spruce stand. It crowds in thicker and thicker, which tells me it hasn't been maintained in a long time. Which means we've gone seriously wrong with choosing to go this way. No self-respecting trapper would use this trail, so it's highly unlikely we'll run into anyone messing around in here.

Soon, I hardly see a path through the coarse branches. They twist and grab at us as we go by. My hair snags on a branch. Sharp needles rake my cheek. I take another step and my hat gets knocked off.

I'm bent over holding up a long branch for the dogs to come through, when I hear a droning noise.

“A helicopter!” I yell to Chris.

He looks up. Black spruce branches tangle together above our heads with a few little windows of overcast sky between them. The chopper blades beat the cold air with a staccato that echoes in my ears. But when I glimpse it, it is farther away than it sounds. We both jump up and down waving our arms as much as we can within the scrubby bush.

“HERE!” I scream.

“HEY!” Chris yells. “We're right here!”

Look down, look down, look down, look down
. Are they seeing us? My pulse races.
Please, see us.
We could be home.

With food.

Safe.

The dogs safe. I could stop being responsible for everyone.

My heart pounds, then deflates when the helicopter continues on its way.

“If we can't see them, they can't see us.” The disappointment is so bitter, I almost choke trying to swallow the lump.

“NO! No, no, no, no.” Chris covers his head with his arms, then savagely kicks at the snow and falls to his knees.

“They were so close,” he rages. He pounds his fists into the snow. “Why didn't we just stay in the open field? They would've seen us then!”

I feel a quick pain as if I've been jabbed in the stomach.
He's probably right.

Since we left the swamp, we've followed the narrow trappers' trails that are overgrown and hidden. No one will see our tracks from the air. Even our tracks from this morning will probably just look like a pack of wolves had been there.

We've gone so far now we can't turn back even if we wanted to. I highly doubt I'd be able to find the trail. We can only keep going. But how far? We could be out here for days before we cross a road. I imagine all the wide green space on the topo map.
What if we are going the wrong way?

An icy dread runs through me. We could all die out here running straight through to nowhere. If I could just study my map one more time.

“If we had a map, then we wouldn't be here, would we?”

“If we had a GPS, then we'd be home eating cheeseburgers,” Chris barks back. I can see the fire in his eyes from here. “Or if we had snowmobiles, instead of these stupid dogs!”

I suck in my breath as if he's slapped me. I'm about to scream back, but then his expression reveals the fear he's been hiding.

Chris quickly rubs his face with both hands. A silent moment stretches between us. The only sounds are the constant wind moaning through the tree branches and the dogs grunting with contentment as they scratch their backs in the snow.