WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  Then again, perhaps they have some onboard communication system? ‘Sled One this is Sled Five, do you read me?’

  The Reception girl gets to her feet and leans over the desk to assess my outfit. ‘You seem okay, you want to borrow any extra clothing?’

  I politely decline the additional bulk. I’m roasting right now – all that sun streaming in the window of the taxi and now the fire: the chill will actually be welcome.

  ‘Ready?’ Sebastien enquires, motioning towards the door. ‘You lead the way.’

  I falter. ‘This is my first time here … ’

  ‘You’ll know where to go.’

  I retrace my steps to where the taxi driver dropped me and then survey the landscape. If I was going on vision alone I would be stumped, but the frenzy of yelping, barking and howling is something of a giveaway. All I have to do is head in the direction of the dog chorus.

  ‘They sound like they’re raring to go … ’

  ‘Always,’ Sebastien confirms, giving his peroxide blond tufts a good rub before replacing his hat.

  I glance sideways at him. I must surely have been imagining it but I have to ask: ‘I didn’t just see you doing a back-flip out of the barn, did I?’

  His jaw immediately tenses.

  ‘It was … ’ I don’t even finish my sentence because what must be a hundred huskies have just come into view.

  They are evenly spaced across the field, like a flourishing canine crop, each with their own small wooden hut and a stake bearing their name – Flanders is alert, curious, looking our way, his neighbour preoccupied with digging a big pit in the snow to lie in, just to be extra cosy. I am surprised how relaxed they seem – and so happy to say hello, sharing their luxurious fur with my now bare hand. I stumble from one to the other, marvelling at how different each coat is – finely tufted grey, shaggy black with a white muzzle, several with Friesian cow splotches and a multitude of Zorros and Caped Crusaders!

  I laugh as one pure white one jumps up and puts his paws on my shoulders.

  ‘You want a full body hug?’ I am quick to oblige.

  ‘Oh they’re all so lovely!’ I say, as I look around me – dogs, dogs, dogs, as far as the eye can see. But no people.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  Sebastien nods beyond the plains to the forest ahead. ‘They have already left.’

  ‘Can we catch them?’ I try to stave off my dismay.

  ‘You want to play chase?’ He looks amused. ‘We can do that.’

  Without much ado he harnesses a team of six dogs and bids me sit in the sled, which is lower and flimsier than I imagined – little more than a few pieces of balsa wood and matting.

  ‘Keep hold of this,’ Sebastien says as he hands me the rope that had previously been anchoring our ensemble.

  ‘Will do,’ I say, wondering if I’m sitting right, with my legs stuck straight out in front of me like a propped-up doll. But before I can ask, we’re off.

  It’s a juddering, rickety start, and within approximately five seconds I’m freezing – I hadn’t counted on the slashing chill of the wind, or the distinct lack of cashmere blankets, or ratty old tartan ones for that matter. Now I wished I’d taken them up on their lumberjack attire. I can feel my body stiffening with each thrum of the dogs’ paws.

  But their gait is so neat, the fluffy plumage of their tails swishing so jauntily, that I can’t help but smile. Then, as we mount the hill, I sense the dogs slowing with the strain.

  ‘I hope I’m not too heavy,’ I worry.

  No reply.

  I look behind me and – Jumping Jehoshaphat! – it’s happening again: either my mind is playing tricks on me or Sebastien is some kind of extreme gymnast. The only parts of him in the right position are his hands, gripping the bar. Other than that, instead of having his feet firmly planted on the rubberised foot panels, they are pointed skyward – his body erect and upside down as if he’s performing one of those parallel bar routines in the Olympics.

  ‘What the … ’ I blink. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be driving?’

  ‘They know this route.’

  I face forward again. I can’t believe I got the kamikaze musher! I daren’t turn around again for fear of finding him gone altogether or, worse, performing some elaborate ribbon routine with the dog harnesses.

  Entering the forest, concern is replaced with enchantment – each spiky branch is balancing several inches of twinkling snow and the pine trees are frosted to perfection: just beautiful!

  ‘Allez, allez!’ Sebastien urges the dogs to increase their pace.

  And then I catch sight of the group. We’re actually gaining on them.

  ‘Woah … ’

  ‘We’re stopping?’

  ‘They have stopped.’

  I squint ahead and see Jacques removing a dog from his pack.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s rearranging his team. One of the dogs must be slowing up the rest.’

  I see him speaking to each musher and then he notices Sebastien and cheers, ‘Parfait!’

  (As in, ‘Perfect!’ I’m guessing, as opposed to the sundae-like dessert.)

  As he approaches I feel my nerves prickling. Somehow he has reached celebrity status in my mind. I’m torn between hoping he doesn’t recognise me and wanting him to gasp, ‘It’s you!’

  But he’s too engrossed in exchanging the dogs to notice the identity of the cushiony blob on the sled. Until, at the very last moment, he turns back, head tilted.

  ‘La fille qui est tombée dans la neige.’

  It sounds so romantic! Perhaps that could be my First Nation name? Girl Who Falls in Snow!

  I want to breathe, ‘C’est moi!’, but that would sound almost boastful, so I settle for a rather more pedestrian, ‘Hello!’

  His head tilts to the side. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I-I wanted to thank you. For saving me.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m sure your friends would have done the same.’

  ‘Actually, they’re not my friends, they’re work colleagues.’ I attempt to segue into Part Two of my reason for being here.

  ‘You were working?’

  ‘Yes. It was part of my job—’

  ‘As a stuntwoman?’ he cuts in, casting a glance at Sebastien.

  ‘Oh no!’ I gasp, both at his mis-analysis and the thought of him trying to fix me up with this nutcase. ‘Nothing so daring.’

  Before I can explain further, the dogs start whining and complaining: ‘Jeez! What’s the hold up? Can we get a move on here?’

  ‘We have to go,’ Jacques affirms.

  ‘Yes, allez allez!’ I say, cringing as I realise I have essentially just mushed a musher.

  The icy wind is welcome on my hot cheeks. How did that go? I’m not really sure. It’s possible I look a tad stalker-esque. If only I had a chance to explain why I’m here …

  ‘So, you have already met Jacques?’ Sebastien asks, somewhat accusingly.

  ‘Earlier today,’ I reply.

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘At the Carnival,’ I say in a small voice.

  I wish this sled came with a rear-view mirror because I’m sensing some hostility.

  ‘Careful!’ I cry, as we jolt up a bank, tipping a lapful of snow over me. I’m getting nervous now. We seem to be going too fast and then too slow, dragging back until we lose sight of the others.

  Now he’s stopped altogether.

  ‘Er … ’

  ‘I need you to get out and come stand on the brake.’

  I do as he says, all but raising my hands in the air, very aware that it’s just me and him in the woods with six dogs, which I’m not entirely sure would count as witnesses in a court of law.

  He ties the rope to a nearby tree and then asks if I want to take any pictures. I pose self-consciously as he snaps with my cameraphone. It’s really Jacques I want to ask about doing a proper shoot. Suddenly all I can think about is getting back to base.

  ‘Okay, now it
’s your turn.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To drive.’

  ‘You want me to drive the sled?’

  He nods. ‘Of course. It is part of the experience.’

  I look over at the dogs, taking their break in assorted manners – snuffling in the snow, taking chomps of the flavourless Slurpee, lying down to cool off their bellies and, in the case of one fidgety fellow, maintaining the starting block position. I take a breath and head towards the frontrunners.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To introduce myself to the dogs.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I can’t expect them to run for me if we haven’t even met.’

  Sebastien rolls his eyes. ‘You could be Michael Vick and they’d still run for you.’

  ‘Michael Vick?’

  ‘If you don’t already know then you don’t want to.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘American football player,’ Sebastien sounds testy. ‘Went to prison for his part in a dog-fighting ring. And it wasn’t just dog-on-dog action,’ Sebastien continues. ‘They were found guilty of hanging, drowning, electrocuting and shooting dogs.’

  I feel faint with anger. ‘Please tell me he’s still there. In prison.’

  ‘Nope. He served less than two years.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And when he came out, the Philadelphia Eagles signed him up and then the NFL named him Comeback Player of the Year.’

  ‘That’s sick,’ I spit, not quite knowing what to do with this information.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to set the dogs on him?’ Sebastien looks equally disgusted.

  ‘I’d tear him apart with my own bare hands.’

  Sebastien nods. ‘Me too.’

  We talk for a while about the ridiculous amount of money American footballers get paid and how we’d like to take Vick’s entire salary and donate it to pitbull charities while having him spend his free time tied to a chain in a rainy backyard where he’d be fed a diet of canned dog food.

  ‘The really nasty, smelly stuff,’ I decide.

  For a second or two we bristle in silence and then Sebastien walks to the front of the team.

  ‘This is Jupiter. He’s the lead dog.’ He scratches his brow and then raises the chin of the one next to him. ‘This is his brother, Orion.’

  It takes me a moment to realise he is indulging my whim. Then I hurry forward and greet them, first with a gently proffered mitten and then a full head rumple, finding them surprisingly affectionate. While Sebastien tells me that the middle dogs are also referred to as ‘in swing’ and the rear ‘at wheel’, I form a crush on the dog Jacques traded, name of Maddy.

  ‘Do you have a favourite?’ I ask Sebastien.

  He looks at me as if to say, ‘If you’re testing to see if I’m human, I’m not going to bite.’

  ‘Come on, it’s time for you to drive.’

  He walks me back to the sled and gives me the basics:

  ‘So you hold here,’ he taps the wooden handlebar. ‘Feet here on the rubber grips and this is the brake.’ He sets a toe where I have my feet on a metal bar with ragged teeth. ‘If one foot is not enough, use two.’

  ‘So jump on it?’

  He looks mildly concerned. ‘One foot will be enough. And try and keep the line taut at all times. That’s important.’ He claps his hands. ‘Okay?’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Wow. Well that’s the quickest driving lesson I ever had.’ I look at the dogs and then back at him. ‘Are they just going to take off?’

  ‘As soon as you release the brake.’

  ‘And if I get whiplash, fall back and you leave without me?’

  ‘I will stop the sled.’

  I’m about to ask how he could possibly do that when I remember he is part-contortionist. Like right now, he is using the tree to perform a particularly extensive leg stretch.

  ‘Are you even aware that your foot is up by your ear?’ I marvel.

  ‘Old habit,’ he coughs, quickly bringing it back down to earth.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t just go back to Cirque du Soleil where you belong!’ I tease.

  ‘Who told you?’ he snaps.

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘About Cirque?’

  I study his face. ‘You were in Cirque du Soleil?’

  He goes to storm off but realises he is in no position to do so.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I ask, fascinated.

  (Personally I think Cirque du Soleil should be categorised as one of the Wonders of the World. If they have a show in any of our featured cities we always book tickets for our clients because we can guarantee it will be one of the highlights of their trip.)

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Sebastien tries to play it down.

  ‘On the contrary I think it’s remarkable! I mean, what an honour. And what talent you must have – way beyond what I have seen today.’

  He looks huffy. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I back down, though I couldn’t be any more intrigued – I mean why would he leave? And what was it like to run off and join the circus in the first place? What act was he a part of? What show? What kind of costume? Did he travel? Are their parties really as outrageous as I’ve heard? What stories he must have!

  But now is not the time. I’ve got mushing to do …

  CHAPTER NINE

  Talk about transitioning from observer to participant. The passenger is to become the driver. Whether she likes it or not.

  I still can’t believe this is all on me. And without L plates. Now if I could only get up the nerve to release the brake …

  Ultimately it’s the dogs that persuade me –knowing that every extra second I hold back is pure torment for them.

  ‘Set us free, set us free!’ They plead with their whole beings.

  And so I do.

  I’m tense at first, gripping too tightly, body hunched, terrified of tipping up every time we take a curve or the dogs veer onto un-compacted snow. But then we’re out of the woods, quite literally, swishing through open fields of snow, and suddenly this feels like the most glorious sensation in the world. I can’t help it, I let out a wild whoop of joy!

  ‘This is amazing!’

  I don’t know why, but I’m not cold at all now, just exhilarated. I feel connected to the dogs and the landscape and the vastness of the sky. Forgetting Sebastien is even present, I lean back as if I’m water-skiing, even take one hand off. This is a breeze! I feel open and free and happy! Honest-to-goodness happy!

  But then the front two dogs start nipping at each other, bickering and snapping. What am I supposed to do now?

  Sebastien reprimands them but they don’t stop so he calls for me to brake.

  First I squeeze the handle bar as though I’m on a bike, then I tap a non-existent pedal like I’m in a car. Darnit! Only when Sebastien throws out his feet and starts rucking up snow with his heels do I remember the jagged metal bar between my feet.

  ‘S-sorry,’ I puff as we finally grind to a halt.

  ‘That’s okay, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘Oh no! Orion’s pooping!’

  I feel I should avert my eyes.

  ‘Why now, why mid-run?’ I ask.

  Sebastien shrugs, ‘When you’ve got to go … ’

  Where’s Gilles with his fashion lens now, I think to myself. No doubt examining Annique’s aperture. Oh dear. That sounded even worse than I intended.

  ‘Okay, go again.’

  Soon I’m back to bliss. I could do this all the way to Alaska! What’s that race they have there – the Iditarod? I seem to remember it being over a week long. I wonder what that’s like? Endurance test or Zen meditation? Do you see the other sledders or is it just you and infinite white?

  I’m in a long-haul mindset now but what seems like minutes later my time is up. I experience a brief moment of panic as the dogs charge right through the camp, but of course it’s all part
of the plan and we come to rest at the exact point at which we left an hour ago. I’m still in a state of euphoria as I step off the sled. Sebastien, by contrast, seems to have dug deeper in his sulk.

  ‘All right?’ he grudgingly checks on me.

  ‘Well, I can’t feel my feet any more but apart from that … ’

  ‘There’s hot chocolate inside,’ he says, and then immediately starts speaking French with one of the other guys.

  Well I guess that’s me dismissed. I desperately want to shake paws with every single dog at the camp, to linger in this fantastical environment as long as possible, but I do have a pressing need to thaw out. My face is taut and stinging and my toes have bunched up into frozen claws. Not that I really care. All the same, hot chocolate does sound like heaven right now.

  ‘How was it?’ the girl on Reception asks as I step through the door.

  ‘Fantastic – I loved it! Those dogs are so good-natured!’

  ‘And Sebastien?’ She sounds a little more wary.

  ‘Well,’ I search for the right words. ‘He’s quite the character.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  And then I venture: ‘He seems very protective of Jacques … ’

  She nods. ‘Normally it’s the other way around, non?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know, the older brother is the protector.’

  ‘They’re brothers?’ I am genuinely surprised. ‘They don’t look at all alike.’

  ‘Different mothers.’

  ‘Ohhh.’ I shuffle closer to her desk and lower my voice. ‘So was he really in Cirque du Soleil?’

  ‘He told you?’ She looks amazed.

  ‘Not exactly. I sort of guessed.’

  ‘He can’t really hide it. It’s in his body, every muscle, every way he moves. Everything to him is something to jump off or swing on or leap over.’

  ‘Why did he leave? He doesn’t seem to have an injury.’

  I sense her pull back. ‘He made a different choice.’

  I want to ask more but the next group has arrived and she needs to check them in.

  ‘Er, the salle de bain?’ I quickly request directions to the loo.

  More fool me for asking in French, because she replies in kind and all I catch is à gauche …