by Sue Henry
In half an hour, she and Anne were ready to go, team hitched to the gang line, sled packed, and both women dressed warmly against the cold, for a chill wind was blowing from the north, bringing more than a hint of glaciers on its breath and adding a significant windchill factor. The soft new powder was blown into the air around them like a mist, and its fine grains scoured their skin when they faced directly into it.
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Anne was wearing borrowed winter clothing of
Jessie’s, having brought none of her own. Through the years Jessie had accumulated a collection of warm wearables, most of which she wore on training runs and in the yard as she cared for her dogs, for they exhibited the prints of dog paws, food stains, and general grime that would not wash out. The somewhat grubby green parka Anne had on was also decorated in several places with duct tape to keep its down from leaking out through holes caused by dog nails and teeth and the sparks from fires Jessie had built on the trail. She had pulled a black ski mask over her head before raising the hood and tying it securely under her chin. Thick down mittens covered her hands, and a pair of heavy winter boots a little too big made walking awkward.
Jessie thought it was odd to see her clothes on someone else.
I’d better get a new parka before I begin to resemble a bag lady, she told herself.
“You may not be fashionable,” she told Anne with a smile, “but you won’t freeze.”
“I’ll be fine—really. Where do you want me?”
“The sled’ll be a little crowded, but there’s a sleeping bag for you to sit on if you want in the back. The rest of our stuff is packed in front. Get in and I’ll tuck the other bag over you.”
“I’ll take the padding. I’ve bruised my butt in sleds before with nothing between me and the flat bottom—
don’t want to have to eat standing up.”
When she was settled securely, the sled bag snapped up far enough to keep out blowing snow, clutching the day pack she had adamantly refused to leave behind,
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Jessie checked to be sure the truck and dog box were locked, pulled the snow hook, and let Tank start the eager team west along the road, following the snowmachine tracks.
Pete and Lucky followed Tank, behind them came
team dogs Sunny and Wart, Mitts and Elmer, Bliss and Cola, then Darryl One and Darryl Two in wheel position next to the sled. Each of the three young dogs—
Elmer, Bliss, and Cola—was paired with an ex-
perienced partner and, as Jessie watched, were doing well in pulling their share and keeping in line with no problems. She was glad she had brought them. It made her feel less guilty over disrupting her training schedule and would have been part of her plan for the next week or two anyway. This night or two spent away from their usual boxes in the yard was just happening a little earlier than she had calculated, and on a different trail. As the team trotted quickly forward, the dogs, full of energy and eagerness, soon broke into a lope.
For a few minutes, she let them go as fast as they wanted on the straight, flat surface of the snowy road, getting this enthusiasm out of their systems early. After a mile or two, she called Tank to a slower pace. There would be plenty of work for them on the off-road trail ahead.
The Petersville Road, on which they traveled, had been built by gold miners in the 1920s. When home-steading began in 1948, permanent settlers had began to collect in the area, and the population had continued to grow slowly for the next twenty years. With spectacular views of Mount McKinley on clear days, it had remained popular with those who wanted to avoid an
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urban existence and live close to nature, and who didn’t mind driving seventy miles to a shopping center.
Ten years earlier, the idea had appealed to Jessie when a cabin was offered to her for the winter. Though she had had no particular trouble carrying enough supplies to the isolated cabin for a long cold season, the rough trails and distance had finally convinced her she would do better closer to Wasilla, where it was not so far to a doctor, dentist, and, especially, a veterinarian.
She had also grown tired of hauling water or melting snow for all her needs and those of her dogs—she had never realized exactly how much water was required of one lone musher, until it came only in five-gallon cans that had to be transported on a sled or melted over a fire built of wood she had to chop.
In five miles, they came to Forks Roadhouse, where the road swung north again toward Petersville and the mining country that lay in the folds of the hills under looming Mount McKinley. Here, rather than continuing to follow it, they swung left onto snow-buried track leading to the Little Peters Hills that lay to the west.
This trail was familiar to Jessie, though she had not been over it in years and no longer recalled each rise, drop, and turn as she once had. It ran along the south-ern exposure of the Peters Hills, crossing creek after frozen creek in the gullies of the rolling landscape.
Peter must have staked a pretty big claim some-
where nearby, Jessie thought, as they crossed what she recognized as Peters Creek. A lot of things were named for him, whoever he had been—some kind of
topographer with the USGS at the turn of the century, she thought she vaguely remembered. But dozens of
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other creeks had been named by the miners who
worked them in their search for gold. She remembered the names of some of them as she rode the sled runners into the wilds: Black Creek, Sand Creek, Big Creek, String Creek. Beyond the Peters Hills, in the valley between it and the Dutch Hills, were Coal, Slate, Grant, and Trout creeks, along with Thunder, Dollar, Lucky, and Short creeks, and a place called Nugget Bench.
Someone had evidently thought they had staked a winner there; but many gold-rush names, she knew, were deceptively optimistic. Windy Creek and Pickle Creek had piqued her imagination during her time at the borrowed cabin and—even more—Hungryman Creek.
Some miner must have had an interesting story about the name for that one, and had obviously survived to tell it and name the creek. There was even a tributary called Creek Creek. Had everyone run out of names?
The trail they traveled had not been used recently, perhaps not for days, and was worse than Jessie remembered—an unmaintained route full of twists and turns now covered with new powder that concealed many hazards. She took it slowly and carefully, afraid some rock or root under the surface would snag a paw and injure one of the dogs that was still anxious to pull, as always at the start of a new run. She also had no intention of battering the sled any more than was absolutely necessary to get them to the Holman cabin.
Replacing the sled would take money she needed for many other things.
The team was now breaking trail through new snow but had no trouble, for it wasn’t too deep. Somewhere under the fresh powder was a track that had been
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packed by passing snowmachines earlier in the winter.
The dogs had all settled into a steady trot, and even the young ones were minding their manners and doing
well. Perhaps eight inches of snow had piled up in the past two days, but it was possible to follow a slight depression that indicated a trail left by snowmachines before the storm. Parts of this dent were filling with drifting snow, but the wind was less severe here than on the more open road.
On either side of the road the country was flat, with scattered stands of thin spruce, alder, and a few birch between swampy areas that were impassable during the summer. Permafrost, a few feet under the surface, refused the questing roots of the spruce, forcing them to remain shallow and the trees above them thin, with stubby branches. Jessie had always thought they
looked more like dark pipe cleaners than real trees.
As they traveled onto the flanks of the Peters Hills, the trail began slowly to rise. The few scattered birch disappeared, l
eaving spruce and alder; and there was lots of brush on the rolling slopes around them. She remembered that this was a prime berry-picking area in the fall.
Jessie stopped the team as they gained one of the first ridges, to look back the way they had come. A faint whine caught her attention, and she watched two drivers pull their snowmachines into the snowy parking lot at the roadhouse. More than half the sky had now cleared, though clouds still shrouded Mount
McKinley’s summit. The wide Susitna Valley spread itself out for miles, a glory of light in the sunshine that created a million sparkles on the new snow on the
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ground and in the wind, a blue finger of shadow reaching north from each slender spruce. How, she wondered, could anyone say that winter was boringly colorless? It had a thousand hues, each different, clean, and lovely.
A raven swept onto a nearby tree branch and
quarked a ragged call, perhaps alerting others to the passing sled as a potential food source, if they were lucky. He was doomed to disappointment, for Jessie seldom left anything behind on a trail, and a scrap or two wasn’t enough to justify their following her for miles. The bird seemed to realize this, for, spreading its wings, it soared off, sliding down the wind toward the roadhouse, where it might find better pickings.
The bulk of the enormous mountain to the north was now hidden by the slopes of the Peters and Dutch hills, but twenty miles across the valley, Jessie could make out a notch in the trees where the road led into Talkeetna.
“Why’re we stopping?” Anne asked, squirming
around in the sled to look over her shoulder.
“Just looking,” Jessie told her cheerfully, impatience erased by the enjoyment of running in such a spectacular setting. When she could have moments like this, it made all the work of raising and training sled dogs worth the expenditure of resources, time, and effort.
“How much longer?”
The question surprised Jessie. “Don’t you remem-
ber?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“We’re not even halfway yet.”
“I don’t remember that it seemed so far.”
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As Anne settled back, Jessie took one last look at the huge valley before calling up the team, bemused at how quickly people forget places they’ve known. Had Anne ever really seen the glory of the country when she’d lived here? I never noticed if she did or not, but she wasn’t much of an outward-looking person then—and even less now—Jessie realized a little sadly. What a loss.
Most of the dogs had rested, lying down on the snow when she didn’t immediately encourage them forward again. While her back was turned, however, young Elmer, a hardworking dog with one floppy ear and a sense of humor, had begun to persistently gnaw at the protective fleece booties she had put on his feet. He disliked wearing them, couldn’t seem to learn to leave them alone, and had developed the adroit trick of ripping open the Velcro fastenings with his teeth and pulling them off every chance he got. Jessie turned back just as he had successfully stripped them from both front feet.
“Elmer— no, ” she admonished and, setting the snow hook, stepped from the sled to replace them. Instantly she was thigh-deep in powdery snow and had to wallow clumsily forward to reach him.
He lay with his front paws and muzzle on the
booties he wished to abandon, moving nothing but his eyes as he looked up at her, knowing he had transgressed—again.
“No,” Jessie told him. “Booties stay on your feet.”
He watched attentively as she replaced them, then he shook one foot to see if the bootie would, perhaps, fall off. When it didn’t, he gave up and left them alone for the time being. But Jessie suspected that at the next opportunity he would repeat the removal.
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“I’m not climbing back and forth through this powdery stuff every time we stop for a minute,” she told him firmly and, wading back to the sled, unsnapped a bag to rummage for the roll of electricians tape she used when she needed something narrower than duct tape. Though she thoroughly searched the bag, she could not find it anywhere.
Gone with my favorite hat, she told herself, shaking her head, and finally, irritated, took the roll of duct tape instead. Tearing off two strips with her teeth, she waded back to Elmer to cover the cuffs of his booties with tape, securing the Velcro fasteners. “There, now you won’t be such a sly dog, will you?” He examined the silvery additions, then glanced up at her, head cocked to one side. As she wallowed back to her place on the sled, to start the team moving again, she had to smile—it was evident that he was already mentally at work on this new challenge.
The trail followed the gulch that held Black Creek for about five miles, over another ridge, before dropping down to run along the north edge of a frozen, snowy swamp. Where Sand Creek ran into it, Jessie bore left toward the Little Peters Hills and the cabin she had borrowed for the winter and the one beyond it that Anne Holman had for a while called home. At the far edge of the swamp, next to an alder thicket, she halted the team in a sunny spot and called a lunch break.
“Don’t know about you,” she told Anne, “but I’m
starving and the mutts need water. Let’s make a fire and melt some snow for them—and make some coffee for us.”
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*
*
*
An hour later, they had eaten, fed and watered the dogs, and crested the hill and were looking down on the Kahiltna River, spread out frozen below them.
“It won’t be long now,” Jessie told her passenger.
“At least to the cabin I lived in—then it’s only another mile to yours.”
It wasn’t long. Running along the ridge of the hill, they soon dropped back to the Susitna Valley side and came to a low log cabin sheltered by a small stand of spruce.
“Whoa, guys—whoa,” she called to bring the team
to a halt. From the runners of the sled, she examined the cabin and considered a quick look around, but quickly changed her mind as she assessed the deep, unbroken snow around it.
Boarded-up windows and front door told her the
place was empty. No one lived there now and, from the look of it, hadn’t for some time. On the edges of the boards that covered the door, she could see some long scratches from the claws of a bear in its attempt to gain entry, but it had evidently been unsuccessful, for the planks remained in place. It had probably been discouraged by the dozens of six-inch nails that had been driven through those planks, their points facing outward.
Snow had drifted deeply against the north wall, and the roof was piled high. The metal chimney lacked any sign of welcoming smoke; all was very still; and the cabin looked abandoned and sad, not as she had expected, for it had been a happy place for her ten years ago. Like many deserted small cabins in the
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area, it left her with a feeling that it huddled there, patiently awaiting its own demise—would gradually fall apart, decay, and once again become part of the
wilderness around it.
“Hey, let’s go,” Anne demanded from the sled.
No nostalgia for her, Jessie thought. “Yes—okay.”
We’ll stop on the way back tomorrow, she decided, or the next day—whichever. She clucked the dogs into motion toward the Holman cabin, a mile farther along the trail.
It was growing colder. The sun had followed them over the last hill and now shone on the west side.
Though it shed very little warmth this time of year, even the illusion of it disappeared on the east side that they now traveled. The frosty blue-purple shade was darker in the shadows of the few sparse trees. It would be good to reach their goal and get a fire built in the stove to warm the cabin in which they would spend the night. Anne wiggled restlessly on the sled, looking ahead eagerly at each corner they turned in traversing
the mile of hillside, headed southwest on the east-facing hill.
They came at last to a sharp bend that Jessie remembered, knowing that, as soon as they rounded it, she would be able to see the Holman cabin ahead
through the trees.
They turned, but she could see nothing but trees—
dead trees, black and scorched. The cabin was gone.
“Oh, Anne, it’s burned down,” she said in surprised regret.
Halting the dogs, she stood staring at the spot where the cabin had been, then glanced down at the face of
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her friend, expecting to find similar consternation there.
What she saw was anything but. Anne was slowly
nodding and smiling.
“Yes,” she said, “I knew it was. Greg burned it—
when we left.”
8
Q
IN THE SOFT BLUE OF THE SAME EVENING, JUST AFTER
sunset, when the neon signs and street lights of Wasilla appeared brighter than they actually were, a compact rental car swung into the parking lot of Oscar’s in-town pub. A large man in jeans, scarred leather work boots, and brown Carhart’s jacket, who would have looked and felt more at home in a pickup, pulled himself up out of it, stretched widely to relieve assorted discomforts—the result of confinement in a too-small space—and ambled toward the pub’s front door.
A wall of noise hit him inside—happy hour at full volume—the place full of clamorous people who had stopped for a drink or two on their way home from work. Loud conversations combined with the crack of pool balls to make it almost impossible to hear the wail of a Garth Brooks hit on the jukebox. The smell of hot popcorn, slightly scorched, hung in the air.
Oscar Lee, who had fired his incompetent bartender and replaced her with himself, was efficiently working 97
