Ice Dogs

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “Look.” I started in what may have been a whisper. I think. But it didn’t stay as a whisper. “I don’t know why we’re pretending everything is okay. It’s not okay and it never will be okay. Ever. So don’t act like we’re carrying on with our lives. I don’t want to sit around pretending to be your buddy! You never understood the dogs. You never understood him!” I shrieked the last part, but managed to cut myself off from saying what was next. And whose fault is it that he’s gone? But the damage was already done. The color drained from my mom’s face. Her eyes went red, welled up, looked away.

  I don’t think she’s really looked at me since.

  I pick up some branches, but then drop them again. I could use that cup of hot chocolate now, that’s for sure. And I wouldn’t mind having Sarah here. To talk to. She’s good at talking about things.

  Bean sniffs deeply into his branches, then snorts with feeling. I smile at my leader. He’s even better than Sarah—not that I would tell her that. He just listens. Makes me feel calm. Since the accident, I’m happier when I’m with the dogs. They don’t pity or judge.

  But usually when I’m out on the trail, I don’t have to worry about having enough food. I trudge back to the sled, and then pull it closer under the spruce. Chris glances at me as I sit on the brush bow. The fire spits and embers fly into the air when I poke it with a stick. I lift my chin. The heat coming off the fire helps my mind focus on what I need to do.

  “Here.” I offer my sandwich to Chris and his eyes light up. He tears the saran off and takes a huge bite.

  “Mmm, so good.” He practically inhales the rest. “That was awesome. Thanks. What else you got?”

  “Maybe we can find you some yellow birch twigs to chew,” I say, around a mouthful of Fig Newton. “They taste like spearmint. Very healthy.”

  “We must be close to my place. We can feast when we get there. I can’t wait to show you my warm kitchen.”

  I study him closely. He’s still shivering. “Well, it won’t be tonight.” I drink from my spare water bottle and watch the dogs curled on their little nests in the snow. Bean has one eye open checking to see what I’m doing.

  “You mean we’re going—we’re going to stay out here? All night?” Chris’s voice is edged in panic. “In the winter?”

  “You say that like you’ve never spent the night outside before.”

  “I’m more of an indoor adventure type.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it’ll be too dangerous to travel in this blizzard. We’ll have to stick it out here.”

  Chris paws at his jacket, peering in the pockets and glancing around. “I—uh, I must’ve left my GPS back on my machine. Where’s yours?”

  “I just have a compass and topo.” I stand and pull the map from my pocket. Chris grabs it and leans toward the light of the fire. His brows furrow and his mouth is set in a tight line.

  “There’s a creek or slough over there,” I say, and point my chin to the open area that is completely obscured with falling and blowing snow. Maybe Chris will tell me we’re just around the corner from his house. “You look for this slough on the map and I’ll go find us some water.”

  “What’s a slough?”

  Or maybe not. “It’s like a branch off a river.” Why doesn’t he know that?

  I sort through the back pouch of the sled bag until I find the rope. I tie one end around my wrist and one to the sled. When I pick up the headlamp and slide it over my hat, I’m reminded of Dad telling me that out here, even a light can’t tame the wild.

  Sometimes, the wild is sleeping and you get lulled into a trance. But it doesn’t stay sleeping for long in winter. You have to pay attention all the time and be ready for when it wakes up howling. When I click on the light, I’m in a whirlpool of snowflakes swirling around my head so fast, it makes me dizzy.

  It’s howling.

  I shut off the light, then turn with both dog dishes in one hand and a long stick in the other, and head toward where I think the water is. The blinding snow combined with the solid darkness makes it tough to walk. I stagger on my feet as I poke the uneven ground.

  Fear rushes through me but I try to ignore it. The irrational phobia I’ve had of water my whole life definitely gets in my way. I take deep breaths to get my thoughts under control and focus on feeling the terrain under my mukluks. I can’t afford weakness now.

  When I hear sloshing under my feet, I stop and dip the dishes into the slushy water. Handy that I don’t have to chop through ice. That’s one of the perks of this area—surrounded by mountains, dotted with frozen black spruce bogs, criss-crossed with rivers and sloughs. There’s usually water available.

  When I turn, I search for the glow of the fire. All I see is a wall of white against the blackness surrounding me. I can’t even tell which direction to walk in. My legs shake with the knowledge of our situation.

  As I get closer following the rope, relief shoots through me when I see the fire and the silhouettes of the dogs.

  Of course they’re where I left them. I shake my head at being such a pansy.

  Chris is hunched over the flame. When he sees me, he shifts his back to me and wiggles slightly. My curiosity over what he’s doing is interrupted when the end of the sleeping bag is kicked practically into the fire.

  I leap for it. “Don’t get too close, you’ll burn the bag!” I snatch the end and inspect it.

  “Okay, okay.” Chris gathers the bag tighter and holds it closed at his neck. “Not that I’m ungrateful for the designer pants, or the five-star accommodations”—he glances at the dogs—“or the presence of the man-eaters over there . . . I mean, it’s really cool you’re, like, this amazing bushwoman and all, but . . . don’t you notice—it’s getting rippin’ cold out?”

  “Since I’m doing all the work, no. I haven’t had time to get cold.”

  He still has the scarf around his head, but his face has color now. The strain of worrying about that finally leaves the pit of my stomach. Now all I have to worry about is freezing to death, feeding us, feeding the dogs, and finding our way home. Oh, and the heart attack Mom is probably having because I’m late.

  8

  I SET THE METAL DISHES BESIDE THE fire and plop a chunk of chicken in one. Chris looks at it in disgust.

  “Oh, that’s disturbing. I think I’ll go with the birch twigs, please.”

  “Good thing this isn’t for you then.” I make sure to hide my smile. “I mentioned before, the dogs worked hard for you and they need to be watered.”

  I’ve never been called an amazing bushwoman by anyone other than maybe my uncle. Uncle Leonard keeps telling me that I can’t do everything. I need to let people help me. But I am the only one who my dogs can count on now. Uncle Leonard also tells me I should be nicer to Mom.

  I stab at the chicken with a stick to try and melt it quicker. The fire crackles, filling the silence between me and Chris. I rise to collect more wood while the chicken thaws.

  I’m avoiding thinking about our nighttime sleeping arrangements. When I run a race, I sleep in the sled bag. It makes a great shelter from the snow and wind and is just long and wide enough for me to lie down in. But I really can’t say “night” to Chris, climb into the sled bag, and then just close it up, leaving him under the tree. Not unless I want to see a Chris-sicle frozen solid in the morning.

  Once the water is warm, I divide the chicken into six and serve a portion to Bean. He drinks eagerly and licks up the last of the bloody gobs from the side of the dish. I take the empty dish and collect more water.

  Between collecting firewood and watering the dogs, I manage to avoid the Chris problem until it’s so cold, my nose hairs freeze together if I breathe too deeply.

  I visit with each dog once more, petting and whispering in their ears. I put the dog jackets—fleece liners with windstopper nylon shells—on Bean and Dorset. They don’t have the thick natural coats the rest of the dogs have. A dog like Drift would just eat the jacket anyway if I left her with it overnight.

  As soon
as I’m done, the dogs curl up and look like giant versions of the coconut rum balls Mom used to make at Christmas. They seem content with the firelight catching their eyes and making them shine. In truth, I need them a lot more than they need me. The shame of this heats my face.

  Chris is leaning toward the fire again and I smell the singed bag. “It’s too cold out here.”

  I sort of admire how he’s not afraid to show what a complete tadpole he is.

  The wind is screaming through the clearing, pelting snow and cold into me, looking for chinks in my armor. I raise my shoulders to try and protect the heat escaping out my exposed neck. Black, cold, winter night. Deadly night.

  “Shouldn’t we build an igloo or something?” Chris brushes off the snow that continually coats the sleeping bag.

  Once I trudge to the sled, I hold Mr. Minky in my left hand, feel its familiar, comforting shape under my gloved fingers, and clear my throat. “We’re going to hole up in the sled until morning.” I look at the bag when I speak, but sense his stare. His fear seems to have vanished suddenly.

  “Ah-ha, I knew you were trying—”

  “We’ll be warmer in there out of the snow and wind. It’s like a small tent.” I open the sled bag and look inside. So small.

  More doubts and unhelpful movie titles like Swamp Thing, and Sleeping with the Enemy swarm in my head. I notice I’m holding my arms across myself, and drop them, standing up straighter.

  I seriously need to get out more. I swear I’ll start going to those lame house parties that Sarah keeps insisting I go to. “For your rep,” she says. “You’re in danger of becoming one of those crazy old dog ladies who never partied when she was young and wrinkle-free, and then lives to regret it for the rest of her life.”

  I love her like she’s a sister, but only Sarah could worry about getting wrinkles.

  Chris stands, wobbles a little, then leans over the sled to look in. He holds the sleeping bag up to his chest as if he’s ready to enter a potato-sack race. Our eyes meet across the sled bag. He smiles.

  “After you,” he says.

  “We have to lay our outer clothes down on the bottom; they’ll dry with our body heat.”

  Chris opens his mouth to say something, but then just grins wider.

  I ignore him and slide the sled onto the spruce boughs. My throat catches when I try to swallow. I take off my anorak.

  “You should, um, get in first. You’re bigger.” My hands tremble and I’m glad it’s too dark for him to notice.

  “It’s about the size of a coffin in here, isn’t it?” Chris climbs in and lies down with his knees bent awkwardly. His shoulders take up the width of the sled.

  “Put your jacket under the sleeping bag,” I say loudly over the wind, as I shuck off my snow pants. My stomach flips.

  “Move over.” I try to sound nonchalant, as if I do this all the time, sleep in my sled with some dude I’ve just met. I take off my wool pants, and throw them into the bottom of the sled.

  Chris unzips the sleeping bag and holds it open for me. His teeth flash white in the dark like a Cheshire cat. Shivering in my skivvies, I climb in.

  “Ow! That’s my hip!”

  “Well, move your hip.”

  “Augh, your elbow is digging into my ribs . . . ”

  “Don’t . . . would you stop that . . . ouch . . . your knee . . . ”

  We squirm around until we find that the best place for me is under his arm, spooning with my back to him. I zip the sleeping bag to block out the cold, and reach up to close the sled bag over us, leaving a breathing hole for the condensation to escape.

  The relief from the cold is immediate. It feels as if I’m lying next to a furnace with the heat that Chris’s body is emitting. I don’t know why he was complaining when he’s so hot.

  I almost let out a nervous giggle but manage to get a grip in time.

  The wind outside seems to howl in frustration, wanting to get in. The canvas bag flaps while the whole sled quivers. I’ve always felt as if my sled bag was my secret hideout. Only me in here listening to my dogs sleeping out there. The shape of it, the feel of the rough sides, the smell of wet canvas, it’s all comforting and familiar. And now Chris, who I don’t even know, is sharing this place with me.

  I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. Or imagine that I can actually fall asleep while I’m in the same sleeping bag pressed up next to a guy. His breath feels warm on the back of my neck and I wish that I couldn’t smell him. I try to picture what he looks like in my pink woollies, and that helps.

  “If you’re, like, some axe murderer or something, tell me now so I can sleep with my eyes open,” Chris says in the dark.

  My eyes fly open. “When we get to school, there will be no one who knows about this.”

  He muffles a laugh. “Deal.”

  9

  Monday

  I WAKE TO SPIDER WEBS OF FROST hanging over my face. Unlike some mornings when I’m confused for a moment about where I am, I have an exact understanding of my situation. I’m in a sleeping bag.

  With a guy.

  I stretch out a sudden leg cramp and Chris jerks awake beside me.

  “Don’t bang the sides of the bag,” I say. “The frost will fall on us.”

  I carefully reach up and open the sled bag, flipping over the flap of canvas coated with frozen condensation. It’s heavy with the snow load on top. Cold air rushes in and I quickly pull my arm back under the sleeping bag.

  I could almost fall back to sleep in the warmth. I let my mind drift and enjoy the novelty of the situation.

  “Morning, Secret.” Chris straightens his arms out in front of him and yawns loudly. “I could sure use some scrambled eggs and bacon.”

  I roll away from him. “You could use a shower, too. You smell like a sasquatch.” This is a big lie.

  I resign myself to the freezing air and wriggle out of the bag. The side of my body that was pressed to Chris is now cold. When I stand on the snow-covered spruce branches, I exhale rapidly and clouds of frozen breath hang in the air. My bare fingers move slowly in the chill as I scramble to put on my outer clothes. I hop around to warm up.

  “Little brisk out today,” I say.

  The first thing I check is the dogs. They’re still curled into six snowballs, the branches above them covered in glistening frost.

  Then I glance around and blink.

  The landscape looks completely different from last night. Fresh and friendly with glittering beauty. Now that I can see the slough in the daylight, it doesn’t seem that far away. And the blackened ring of the long-dead fire has melted a deep pit in the snow. New snow sparkles all around us. Blankets of clean white snow heap over alder bushes and dark stumps, softening all the edges. I feel as if I’ve just stepped into a Christmas card. I marvel at how a sunny winter morning always fills me up.

  Trees snap and crack in the cold. The wind has died and the hushed winter bush sounds are all around me. I spy the line of snow-covered birches gleaming in the sun and I let out a little breath. Every tiny finger of branch has a thick coating of snow that sits like whipped topping.

  “Wake me when it’s summer,” Chris says.

  The snow crunches under my feet as I move. I find a wide tree, check to make sure I can’t be seen from the sled, and crouch down to pee. Crunching snow is good. That means the temperature isn’t much colder than zero. If the snow squeaks we’re in bigger trouble. I’d hate to think about our night if it were January instead.

  I check the color of the hole I’ve made in the snow and smile a little in relief. Light yellow means I’ve been drinking enough. Only once did I see it a dark amber color. That was during the Fur Classic, just after the accident.

  I had fought hard to enter that race, too. And I was desperate to win—to have Dad’s name in the papers and on the radio. But I was so sick and useless to the dogs, I had to scratch the whole race. I had thought that by putting all my attention to the dogs’ needs, we would win for sure. Checking their feet, pulling down th
eir lower eyelids to see their skin color, snacking them—none of that was enough. Without drinking or eating anything myself, it wasn’t long before I hardly had energy to pedal the sled. When I started throwing up, I knew our race was over. I swore that wouldn’t happen again.

  The snow feels plenty cold as I rub a handful into my bare hands to wash. I quickly scrub my face and then stand, pushing the water off my freezing cheeks. I shake my hands and tuck them in my armpits. My face tingles and the skin pulls when I smile.

  “Come on, Chris. We should look at your head.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me I need my head examined.”

  I rummage in the bag that hangs from the back of the handlebar. Where did I leave that first-aid kit? “Sounds like you’re well enough today to help with the chores. We need another fire to boil water for us and melt some chicken to water the dogs.”

  “I’ve got to water a tree first.”

  I try to remember the last time I saw the kit. Oh yeah, I had it in my anorak pocket with the map—the map!

  “And seriously, is there like, room service? I’m so hungry, I could eat a dog.”

  I had completely forgotten about the map last night. Chris was going to show me where he lived. But I never saw it after that. I feel a bubble of panic.

  “Chris, what did you do with the map I gave you?”

  “What map?”

  “The map. The map I gave you last night, remember?” The panic bubble expands.

  “Um . . . I don’t remember you giving me a map.” Chris’s head pops up from the sled bag and he glances around as if he’s looking for it.

  “You said we weren’t far from your house! You were supposed to find the slough on the map.”

  “Oh . . . that map.” Chris rubs his face with his hand. “Um, yeah. I forgot to mention . . . ”

  “What?” A sneaky dread creeps up my throat.

  “It sort of . . . fell in the fire . . . ”

  “What? Did it burn?”