by John Smelcer
“Stay warm and be safe,” her mother replied, giving her a hug.
Then Denny walked over to Silas, standing beside the snowmobile.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, punching him in the shoulder through his thick parka.
“That hurt.”
He smiled, rubbing the place.
“You don’t know how strong you are.”
Like most Alaskans who live in one of the hundreds of remote villages, Denny had flown in small airplanes before. She skillfully climbed into the cockpit and closed the door, making sure it was latched properly. After the pilot motioned for Delia and Silas to move far away from the propeller, he shouted “Clear!” and pushed the starter button. The small red plane coughed several times and then roared to life, belching smoke for a few seconds. When he was satisfied with the reading on the gauges, especially the oil pressure, he steered the plane to the far end of the airstrip, turned it into the wind, and gunned the throttle. In no time at all the craft was airborne. As the plane noisily clambered toward the low cloud ceiling, Denny looked at her village from the side window. She could see the school, the little medical clinic, the one church, the cemetery on the hill. She even saw her own house and the little dog houses in the yard. From the air, the village in which she had lived all her life looked as small and insignificant as a sigh.
The city below sprawled between mountains on one side and the churning gray sea on all three others. More than a quarter million people lived in the tiny, crowded homes beneath her.
From so high up, Denny could see the main highways, the boulevards and streets; the slow-moving and congested traffic looked like ants, what her grandfather called nadosi. Astonished and even horrified by all the traffic—more automobiles than the largest herd of caribou she had ever seen—she created a new word to mean “ant roads.”
“Nadosi tene,” she whispered, smiling at her cleverness.
Her grandfather had told her it was okay to invent new words. “Language always changing, always adding new words or taking away old ones,” he once said by the flickering light of a campfire, sparks flying into the night like stars. “Languages are like rivers, never the same for long.”
As the descending plane approached the mid-town airport, Denny stared at all the motion beneath her. The downtown area was roiling in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The whole scene reminded her of streams of ants on the march, searching for food or returning it to the colony. Everything was in motion. Denny thought about all those lives below—coming and going, getting and spending, scrambling over one another in their desire to get ahead, measuring everything and everyone by what and how much they owned, living every day with the same indifference as the day before. She felt dizzy just thinking of all those people living out their days in such a cramped space.
She thought up a word to mean ant city.
“Nadosi kayax ce’e,” she whispered, feeling the words form in her mouth.
And from her perspective, it truly was a city of ants.
After an almost perfect landing, a white van pulling a covered trailer arrived to take Denny to her hotel and to transport the team to a kennel for the night, where they could rest for the big race in the morning. The sled and all her gear would be stored in the locked trailer for the night. Denny had arranged for the logistics and accommodations using the Internet at school. She had planned for everything.
Except, of course, for how she was going to get home.
A hundred dollars wasn’t enough for lodging at a nice hotel in the city, especially during the well-publicized race when visitors flock into the city to see the start. Denny’s motel was on the edge of the downtown area, far from the nicer hotels where tourists paid exorbitant prices for a night’s stay and dined at fine, clean restaurants. Denny’s room was dreary and depressing and smelled of cigarettes, despite the posted “No Smoking” placard.
It’s just for a night, she sighed, while looking out the smudged window facing the concrete wall of an industrial building not ten feet away.
After fiddling with the television for ten minutes, trying to get it to work, Denny decided to go for a walk and to find someplace to eat.
Though barely even dinner time, it was already dark outside. Two men standing beside a car with a door ajar were arguing in the parking lot near the poorly lit entrance. The car stereo was blasting a rap song into the night. Denny tried to look away as she passed.
“What you lookin’ at?” one of the men growled.
“Nothing,” Denny whispered while contemplating her shoes as she scurried by.
As she walked toward the downtown skyline, Denny passed men and women alike sleeping on the sidewalks, their bodies pressed up against buildings to escape some of the biting wind. Perched as it was at the edge of the sea, the city was almost always windy in late March and early April. Denny couldn’t help but notice that most—if not all—of the homeless appeared to be from villages, come to the city in search of dreams or jobs, only to find the dreams and jobs were like snowflakes, melting away in their palms when they tried to grasp them. The dream was almost always out of reach. Age and gender didn’t matter. Perseverance and work ethic didn’t matter. With the city’s broad back turned against them, and with their village a faraway and sometimes unwelcome memory, the cold and mean streets became their rootless home. Now, instead of wives or husbands or children, empty bottles of cheap whiskey lay beside the uncomfortable sleepers.
Even from her village, Denny had read newspaper accounts and heard stories about how police in the city often discover the rigid corpses of drunks and the homeless in the snow banks, especially during the coldest, darkest months.
The victims were almost always from villages.
Denny’s grandfather had once taught her the Indian word for whiskey.
“Kon’ tuu. It means ‘firewater,’ because it burns the mouth and throat going down.”
But seeing the wretched men and women on the streets, sleeping off a binge or panhandling for change, Denny wondered if they call it kon’ tuu because of all the lives and homes it burned to the ground.
While it was true that there were few jobs in most villages, at least no one was homeless. No one slept on the freezing streets or begged from passersby. Even the poorest in the community lived with relatives or in a cabin of their own at the edge of a village, surrounded not by the indifference of cold steel and glass and asphalt, but by the beauty of mountains and forests and pristine rivers created from melting glaciers high in alpine valleys.
Denny saw her grandfather and grandmother in the defeated faces of the street people. She even saw her own mother. She shuddered at the thought.
How could this happen? she questioned the hook of moon rising above the tallest building on the skyline. Don’t their families care about them? Why don’t they just go home?
The moon frowned silently.
Though it was a clear night, Denny couldn’t see the stars through the lights of the city. She wondered what it must be like to live in a city and never really see the stars, never marvel at the cloudy, outstretched arm of the galaxy.
For almost an hour, she explored the streets and alleyways until she found an all-night diner. She had breakfast for dinner figuring it’s pretty hard to screw up pancakes, ham, and eggs. Later, when she walked out the door, she couldn’t remember if she should go left or right. She looked at the downtown skyline, but that didn’t help. With no friendly stars to guide her, she decided to go right, thinking a storefront up the street looked familiar, but after wandering aimlessly for an hour, she was sure she was lost. She couldn’t even ask for directions because she couldn’t remember the name of her motel or the street it was on. The room key in her pocket didn’t help because the white plastic tag only had a room number etched in black: 26.
She was utterly lost and afraid. In the darkness, the flashing neon lights, the shadows cast by buzzing street la
mps, and the roving street people looked menacing. The used-up women selling themselves outside of bars frightened her the most.
“Hey, Honey!” one woman with too much make-up snapped at her. “This is my corner! Find your own place!”
One drunken man offered her a swig from the brown paper bag he clutched like a prayer.
The occasional sound of sirens didn’t help.
The race was in the morning. Denny needed to find her hotel and get some sleep. She began to panic, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Her insides felt as if they were being squeezed.
It’s ironic, she thought as she turned and walked briskly up a street going away from the downtown area. City folks would feel the same way in the woods.
Denny noticed a tall man walking behind her. He was wearing an old, green Army jacket with a dirty hat pulled low across his scraggy face. She thought perhaps he was following her, stalking her the way a fox stalks a rabbit. After two blocks, she decided to shake him, as they say. She turned into a dark alley and walked faster. Seconds later, the man rounded the corner and followed her into the alley. Denny increased her gait almost to a run, nervously looking over her shoulder several times, almost stumbling on the uneven asphalt. When she emerged onto a dimly lit street, she turned left. Moments later, to her alarm, the pursuer also turned left. He seemed to be walking faster, gaining ground on her. He had both hands in his pockets.
Denny was genuinely frightened.
Here she was, a teenage girl all alone in the big city. If she disappeared, no one would ever know what happened to her. She reached into her pockets for some kind of weapon and pulled out the motel key. It wasn’t much, but the rough-cut edge could be effective as a weapon, especially against the soft flesh of a face. She gripped it so that her knuckles turned white. After another block, Denny passed a bar with loud music pouring out the glass door propped open by a chair.
To her great relief, the man went inside, and that was the last she saw of him.
Finally, Denny recognized some landmarks, a coffee house and a pawn shop into which she remembered peering through its darkened windows. She was on the right street. Five blocks later, she was standing in front of her cheap motel, still clutching the room key like a switchblade. Two men were standing close under a broken street light exchanging something, looking around them furtively. When they saw Denny watching, they turned and walked away.
She found room 26. After some struggling with the lock, she managed to get the door open. After fixing the night-latch chain, she breathed deeply, turned on the fluorescent overhead light, and sat on the edge of the too-soft bed. She thought she was going to cry but held it back. After another deep breath she undressed and took a hot shower. Afterward, she sat on the rickety chair at the rickety desk with the busted lamp and wrote two sentences in her diary.
Nellie:
I HATE the city! I can’t wait to get out on the trail.
Denny
Exhausted, relieved to have found the motel and relaxed from the shower, Denny crawled into her bed and immediately fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of a million ants crawling all over her.
14
Denny’s yuuł tezyaa
Denny’s Journey Begins
By midmorning of the following day, Denny and her team arrived at the race starting point. Aside from the dozens of teams entered in the race, many hundreds of spectators, perhaps thousands, wandered amongst the racers who were unloading their sleds and dogs and hooking the dogs up to the rigging. Several teams came from out of state, and a few from Canada and other northern countries. Barking and yelping filled the air. Local, national, and even some international news crews from television and newspapers busily interviewed racers.
Once each team was ready, officials made sure the required gear was onboard. Eleven hundred miles through the teeth of an Alaskan winter is a long way. Because of the inherent dangers, racers are required to carry specific survival gear on their sled. Failure to comply means disqualification.
Every team was also inspected by a veterinarian, who looked to see that each dog was healthy. In the old days, dogs were sometimes run to death from exhaustion. Over the years, rules developed to protect the dogs, a kind of doggie Bill of Rights. At strategic check points along the 1,100 mile route, veterinarians would again examine every dog. Many would be scratched from the race because of exhaustion or dehydration or injured paws, among other ailments. Since losing a dog or two during a long race was commonplace, many teams start off with as many as twelve to eighteen dogs on the main line.
Denny only had eight. She couldn’t afford to lose a single dog.
As the youngest racer in the field, Denny received a lot of attention. One reporter took a bunch of photographs of her wearing her old-fashioned parka and mukluks as she handled her team, hooking them up to the main line, her handmade seal-skin gloves hanging from their strings.
“You look like one of them old black-and-white postcards,” said the reporter while squatting to get a good angle on one picture. “I can just see the caption: Eskimo girl and sledge.”
Denny didn’t smile.
She wasn’t Eskimo. She was Indian.
Behind her, crews from ESPN and the BBC were interviewing Jasper Stark, the three-time winner of the race and the favorite to win this year. Jasper had numerous big-time sponsors. Corporate logos adorned his expensive jacket and his shiny, red pickup truck, the way a race car is covered by logos.
“What’s your prediction?” asked the reporter from the BBC, his British accent unmistakable.
“Well, there’s a good base of snow. If the weather holds, I think a new record could be set,” replied Jasper adjusting his sunglasses. “This is a tough field, but I’m pretty confident. I’ll try to set the pace early on. We’ll see. Should be a great race.”
After chatting back and forth about issues having to do with weather and trail conditions, the reporter posed a question.
“There are a lot of good teams here from the villages. Do you expect a challenge from any of those contenders?”
“Well, I expect two or three of the Native teams will give it a go. But, frankly, I think my team is the most experienced in the field. As you know, we won two qualifying races earlier this season. And some engineering students at the university redesigned my sled. It’s made of the most durable and lightest material available. She’s fast. Like I said, I’m pretty confident.”
Jasper smiled broadly as he spoke.
The reporter sensed an opening.
“Are you overconfident?” he asked, pushing the microphone at Jasper.
“It’s not about confidence. It’s about experience and trail knowledge, and no one knows this race course as well as I do. Like I said, I predict a new record will be set.”
The reporter thanked Jasper and then turned to his cameraman and drew his finger across his neck, the signal for “cut.” Then he saw Denny hooking Tazlina to the front of the line. She was wearing her grandfather’s red flannel shirt.
“Let’s interview the girl,” he said to the cameraman.
“You’re Deneena Yazzie, aren’t you?”
Denny looked up from her work.
“Yes. That’s me. But most people call me Denny.”
“We’re from the BBC. That’s in England. Can we speak to you for a minute? Do you mind if we put you on camera?”
“Sure. That’s okay with me,” replied Denny. “Just let me finish hooking up my lead dog.”
When she was ready, the cameraman gave the signal and the camera’s little red light beamed like a laser.
“I’m here with Deneena Yazzie, the youngest racer in the field this year. How old are you, Ms. Yazzie?”
“I’m sixteen, but I’ll turn seventeen in a few weeks.”
“Good for you. Can you tell me about those lines on your chin?”
“They’re tattoos
made from bear grease and ash. They’re part of my heritage,” Denny replied proudly, holding up her chin so the cameraman could focus on them.
“That’s a good-looking lead dog,” stated the reporter. “What’s his name?”
“His name is Tazlina. I call him Taz for short. He’s a wolf,” Denny said matter-of-factly.
“He’s a . . . wolf?”
“Yep.”
Both reporter and cameraman took a step back.
“He won’t hurt you,” said Denny.
The reporter collected himself.
“We just interviewed three-time champion Jasper Stark. Have you met Mr. Stark?”
Denny looked over at Jasper, standing beside his diesel pickup truck—the one he had won last year in addition to the cash prize—signing autographs for two boys. She imagined that if she won first place she’d probably sell the truck, which was worth $50,000. She needed the money more than she needed a big, fancy truck like that in the village.
“Not yet, but I know who he is, and I’m a fan. He’s great.”
“Stark says he’s confident in his team, in his equipment, and in himself. He says there’s no one in the race this year who can challenge his team. What do you say to that?”
“Well,” said Denny looking around at all the teams preparing for the start, “there sure are a lot of teams here, and some of them look really strong. My own team is pretty fast, thanks to Taz here.”
The cameraman caught Denny patting the wolf on the head and scratching him behind his ears. The wolf made a low groaning sound.
“Stark seems to think conditions are right for the record to fall. I guess that means he would have to beat his own best time. Do you think he can do that?”
Denny thought for a moment before she answered.
“If anyone knows this race, it’s Jasper Stark. But, this race is so long. How can anyone predict what will happen? You just never know.”
“You heard it folks. It’s anyone’s race. Even a 16-year-old girl might win. On behalf of our millions of viewers around the world, I wish you and Taz the best of luck.”
