“My talents?”
“Yes, your intuitive sense of how to do things. Don’t you feel it? You tend to follow your instincts rather than rules. Not everyone has the ability to work out problems for themselves. And you started a business and handled the dogs, all while looking out for your sister.”
He did work out problems. Just not math problems. Matt turned her words over in his mind as he plumped his pillow. “I guess I thought you’d be happier with my grade.”
“Matthew, I’m happy no matter what marks you get in school. Grades put so much pressure on people. Education is about much more than going to school. It’s about learning from your experiences.”
Mom motioned for Matt to scootch over on the bed and sat next to him.
“I already know you’re brilliant and capable and resourceful.” She counted his attributes on her fingers. “But the best quality you have is how you promote what you love instead of following what most people do—complaining about what they hate. Those character traits are far more important than grades.”
She ran her fingers through Matt’s hair, brushing it off his forehead. “Life skills will help you succeed in everything you set your mind to.”
“Mom, what do you think about the remedial math class? I don’t really understand the numbers. I think . . . The teacher didn’t tell me I have to go or anything. I’m just wondering if I should.”
“Oh,” she said in a voice so tiny, he barely heard her.
She gathered him into a hug. But it felt like a different kind of hug. She held him and held him until all the worry he’d carried about his marks got squeezed out. It came out his eyes, and before he knew it, his face was wet. He felt so much better.
“I’m so very proud you’ve asked me that. It takes bravery to ask for help and admit when we don’t know something.” She pulled back and beamed. “I’ll make some calls and get it set up.”
Twenty-Three
“Flute’s been wondering when he can go running again,” Tubbs said on the phone the next day. “I think he misses Atlas.”
“Yeah, I think Atlas misses him, too.”
“So, should we come over? I know the sled school is done, but . . . I’m wondering . . . if we can maybe hang out this Saturday.”
“I was going to suggest it. I have something to talk to you about.”
As soon as Matt hung up, he phoned Alex. He hoped this idea worked.
Saturday morning, Alex and Tubbs arrived in the yard as planned. The dogs knew their cars, so they didn’t even bother barking. But they ran around in circles, eager to get on the trail.
“Meeting in the barn first,” Matt said.
Alex and Tubbs shrugged and followed Matt.
“Here’s the thing,” Matt said, once they’d settled in the barn. “I’ve got tons of new clients who want to sign up for sledding lessons. But I can’t do it alone. I’m looking for some business partners.”
If MotorHeads started with just two guys and a bike shop, Matt had a good feeling about three friends and a dog team.
Tubbs and Alex glanced at each other.
“These partners,” Matt continued, “would both need to be junior musher graduates. And be obsessive about outhouses. And sometimes need to quote Latin subspecies. Do you know anyone like that?”
Tubbs waved his hand. “Hey! I like outhouses! And I’m a junior musher!”
Alex met Matt’s eyes and held out her hand. “What’s the pay like?”
Matt shook her hand. “Terrible.”
“I’m in.”
“Me too!” Tubbs said, hopping up from his seat to do a little jig.
Matt shook his hand too.
“I can do the book work,” Tubbs said. “I’m good in math.”
Matt gripped Tubbs’s hand and stared at him.
“What? If that’s a bad idea, I don’t have to. I just like doing problems. I know you’re good in math too. Can I . . . can I have my hand back?”
“You like problems?” Matt couldn’t believe it. He could’ve asked Tubbs for help this whole time.
“I just play around with them on my computer. I love numbers. But if you don’t want me to, that’s okay. I’m just happy to be a partner! Our own business! A dogsledding business!” He hopped at the end of every sentence.
“How about you teach me how to solve math problems and we can do the book work together?” Matt said.
“Deal!”
Lily burst through the barn door, trailed by the pups tussling with Bandit. “Did I miss anything? What are you talking about? Can I come?”
Matt grinned at his sister and felt as if he finally understood the “Advice from a Sled Dog” poster. This was his pack. It felt good to work as a team. “Who wants to go for a run?” he said.
Glossary of Terms
Alaskan husky—A mixed breed of dog with bloodlines originating in Alaska and bred for speed, toughness, and endurance.
Basket Sled—A type of wooden dogsled with an elevated basket on stanchions. Short basket sleds are generally used for racing.
Chase team—A sled dog team following closely behind the leading team.
Dog yard—The area where the dogs are kept either in kennels or staked out with chains that allow each dog to run in a circle around the stake.
Drag—A piece of snowmobile track or tire that rests between the runners. A musher steps on it to slow down the team.
Gang line—The line that attaches to the dogsled with a bridle and runs between the dogs. All the sled dogs are attached to the gang line in pairs or singly.
“Gee"—A command to turn right.
Half-hitch knot—A quick-release knot used by some mushers to secure the snub line so that it is easily released under pressure by pulling on one end.
Handlebar—The curved or square bar at the back of the sled that a musher holds on to.
“Haw"—A command to turn left.
“Hike up"—A command sometimes used to ask the sled dogs to begin running. Some mushers will just say, “Ready? All right!”
Leaders—The sled dogs at the front of the gang line who listen to the musher and guide the team.
Musher—A person who runs sled dogs.
Neckline—A line attached to the gang line that clips onto a dog’s collar to keep the dog facing forward.
Point—The position in the gang line directly behind the leaders. Also called swing.
Sled bag—A fitted bag made with heavy coated nylon material that is tied to the inside of a sled basket.
Sled basket—The area inside either a basket sled or a toboggan sled that holds the load.
Snow hook—A heavy metal claw attached by a rope to the gang line, designed to dig into the snow when the team pulls to keep them temporarily in place.
Snub line—A rope attached to the bridle that runs along the dogsled and is tied to an unmovable object such as a tree to anchor the team.
Stanchion—A vertical supporting piece of wood in the frame of a dogsled.
Swing—The position in the gang line directly behind the lead dogs. Also called point.
Toboggan sled—A type of dogsled with a flat-bottomed base usually made from heavy plastic that is designed to carry loads (such as passengers and/or gear) and slide over the top of the snow.
“Trail"—A command from one musher to another, to signal that the team behind is about to pass and to ask the lead team to move over on the trail.
Tug line—Connects the back of a dog’s harness to the gang line. This is how the dog’s power is transferred to the sled.
Wheel—The position in the gang line directly in front of the dogsled. Wheel dogs take the brunt of the load in the sled. They also steer the sled by pulling it around corners.
“Whoa"—A command to slow down or stop.
“Yip-yip-yip"—A command to ask the dogs to go faster.
Acknowledgments
Sled Dog School began as a ten-page-per-week writing pact with Kiki Hamilton, who is most likely the reason that this story became a
book. Thank you, Kiki, for being the first to believe!
Thank you to my critique partners and early readers: Amy Fellner Dominy, Marcia Wells, Sylvia Musgrove, Jenn Marie Thorne, and Jackie White.
Thank you to my incredible partner, Denis, who does everything else but read, including showing me how to whittle, explaining the mindset of boys, and providing a patient ear and sounding board for endless hours of brainstorming.
And a special thank-you to a few brave teachers, who took time out from their summer vacations to help me with my math: Patty Lea, Kelly and Peter Ahlfeld, and Davette Nixon. Also thanks to Karen Upper for her help. Any errors in this novel are mine.
And finally, I am forever grateful for the love, dedication, and trust of my sled dogs. They taught me many life lessons while we shared adventures on the trails together: Apollo, Elsie, Soho, Denali, Tarzan, Mukluk, Sitka, Ulu, Destiny, Blaze, Jade, Orbit, Doppler, Nitro, Gonzo, Vinny, Little Doe, and Belle. Also Tundra, Taiga, and Tanzer. Good dogs. I miss you all.
Yes, Denali, that part about the soul connection, that was about you.
1
SATURDAY
ALL EIGHT OF MY DOGS ARE stretched in front of me in pairs along the gangline. They claw the ground in frustration as the loudspeaker blares.
“Here’s team number five. Our hometown girl, fourteen-year-old Victoria Secord!”
A male voice booms out my racing stats while my lead dog, Bean, whips his crooked rat tail. He tries to lunge forward, and then catches my eye and screams with a pitch that shoots up my spinal cord and electrifies my teeth.
“Easy!” I grip the sled with shaking hands. I freaking hate starts.
With close to a hundred dogs here, the energy in the air is frantic. The bawling of the dogs in the team behind me echoes in my ears while the distinct odor of dog doo smeared under my runners assaults my nose. I try to focus on my dogs and the race chute ahead. Not the burning need to win. Not the fact that there’s no one here to cheer for me.
“We gotcha.” Two burly guys kneeling on the start line struggle to hold my bucking sled stanchions.
“Three, two, one, GO!”
We leap forward and shoot through Wicker’s parking lot. The main race sponsor insisted we start at his feed store, even though it’s three blocks away from the trailhead. They trucked in snow to get us through the streets, but as we skid through the dirty slush, I can tell this is a bad idea. Mushers need a real snow base for any kind of control.
My frozen eyelashes stick together, and I swipe at them as I peer ahead. We fly to the first corner, my heart pounding.
“Haw!” I shout.
My leaders swerve left, and the dogsled skids sideways. We’re gaining momentum. With the wind cutting into my face, it feels as if I’m being sling-shot out of a jet.
A red Chevette is the last in a line of parked vehicles along the other side of the road. I crouch lower, stick my left foot out, and dig the heel of my mukluk in to carve a tighter turn.
The sled continues skidding—closer, closer.
I jump on the brake, smashing the two metal points into the ground with every ounce of my five-foot-nothing frame. Still we skid. And then we careen into the door, my teeth rattling with the impact. A metal screech announces the collision to everyone. I hear a grinding pop.
We clear the car, and I look down to see a little extra weight in the sled bag—a side mirror. Glancing around to see if anyone noticed, I grab it and nonchalantly toss it away. The cold wind whistles through me when I grin.
I turn my attention back to my dogs. My leaders, Bean and Blue, dig for the trailhead with matching strides. Blue’s classic husky coat, with his black and white facemask, is even more striking next to Bean’s rusty-propane-tank shade of fur.
We hurtle down the middle of the street that’s been blocked off for the race. Now that they’re running, my dogs are all business, focused ahead with tight tuglines. My heart squeezes with pride. They don’t glance up as they barrel past a crouched photographer with a telephoto lens. They even ignore the smell coming from the hot dog stand next to the coffee shop. We catapult past a truck with its doors open blasting country music, past the historic log building that is the trading post with the two moose over the door. Someone had found the two sets of antlers locked together and the scene of how the animals died is forever replicated. When I was young, I could hardly stand to look at it, imagining what the moose had to endure, stuck together in battle, helpless and starving to death in the bush.
Finally we’re past Main Street, and we slip by the snow fencing that funnels us toward the trail.
I feel an instant calm.
The din of the crowd fades behind us. It’s just me and the dogs and the sunbeams breaking through the spruce branches stretching across the trail like cold fingers. The runners slice over the snow making their familiar shhhh sounds. I breathe in the tang of spruce pitch and the icy air is sharp in my throat.
But the most important thing is the dogs. It’s always about the dogs.
I watch the way Whistler paces with her lopsided gait, the way Bean flicks his ears back to check on me, and how they all run together as if listening to the same beat of a drum, like a dragon boat team paddling in sync.
Bean and I have some kind of soul connection that I can’t explain. I have a connection with all of my dogs, but Bean just gets me. I like to imagine we were friends in another life. Not that I believe in that, but there’s no other way to describe that day when he was a pup and we looked at each other. Recognition. It’s Bean who I greet first in the dog yard every morning, or when I get home from school. We have conversations. Sarah Charlie calls it crazy. She worries that I’ve changed too much since the accident.
“It’s not healthy to just want to be with your dogs, Vicky. Life is about more than racing. You need to try to get back in the game. Remember when we used to have fun?”
I shake my head and lightly touch my good luck mink. It’s a narrow pewter charm as long as my hand that’s hung around the handlebar of my dogsled since Dad gave it to me when I was nine. I’ve secretly named it Mr. Minky.
I pat the base of my nose with a shaky mitt, and call to the dogs. “Good dog, Blue, attaboy! Easy, Dorset. Who’s a good girl?”
Their ears swivel back, but they keep trotting ahead. The sled bumps and skips over dips in the hard-packed trail. I pedal my foot to help the dogs pull faster. I want to win this race for Dad. I glance at Mr. Minky, and then concentrate on the trail.
As the dogs take a corner, I lean out from the handlebar. We skid, snow spraying out from the runners. Tears squeeze out the corners of my eyes and freeze in lines across my temples. I blink rapidly to stop my eyelashes from sticking together again.
Some mushers wear ski goggles, but I don’t like how looking through goggles separates me from my environment. I like to see things clearly.
The dogs have good speed coming out of the turn. They’re really pulling, as if they know we need to win. But they should drop back to their trots—we have a long way to go yet.
“Easy. Easy, dogs.”
They run faster, smoking around a poplar stand. When we get to a straight stretch I look ahead. And then I see the wolf.
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About the Author
TERRY LYNN JOHNSON works as a conservation officer in northern Ontario. Before that she was a wilderness park ranger, canoeing in Quetico Provincial Park during the summer months and running her eighteen sled dogs during the winter.
Terry began her mushing journey as a dog handler. She worked for several different mushers assisting at races, and taking out clients on dogsled expeditions. For the first years she focused on learning everything she could about how to care for and train the dogs. Her apprenticeship began in Thunder Bay, Ontario, and took her to Minnesota and Alaska.
When she was ready for her own dogs, she started with a s
mall kennel of five Alaskan huskies. She raced in a few events and usually came in last or second to last. But racing was fun because it was where she could meet with other mushers. It was the best place to be able to talk endlessly about everything dog. “Who are you running this year in lead?” “How are those yearlings doing?” “Have you tried this foot ointment?” “How much are you feeding?” “When are you feeding?” “What are you feeding?”
Terry never tired of dogs, the same as any musher who has owned a team. They are the center of any musher’s life. Every single dog needs attention and time. Owning a team means that most of a musher’s resources and energy goes toward keeping them happy and healthy. When Terry wasn’t running dogs, she was dreaming about them, or talking about them.
A few years later, Terry figured out the real joy of running dogs was just being on the trail with them. Her kennel grew. Soon she had acquired a few more adults and also bred a litter of pups, which would become the core of her team. She began to give dogsled rides, and enjoyed sharing the experience with others. She taught dogsledding at the Kingfisher Outdoor School in Thunder Bay to fifth- and sixth-graders. She also ran dogs with Outward Bound in northern Ontario.
Once she became a conservation officer, Terry didn’t have the time to properly care for her team, so she gave them up to another recreational musher who loved them as much as she did. Now Terry writes about dogsledding instead.
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