Chris wrestles with his jacket and reaches into the pocket. He pulls out a limp and blackened piece of useless map. “The wind grabbed it.”
“AUGH! Idiot!” I snatch the thing from his hand. Delicate ashes fall like butterflies from the corner and I can’t even tell which corner it used to be. I feel dizzy. I take slow deep breaths but it doesn’t help.
“Do you even know where we are?” I yell. “Do you recognize this slough?”
“I just moved here from Toronto four days ago. That was the first time I’ve even been out on my snowmobile.”
“Toronto?” Of course, he’s from a city. That explains a lot. “Then how could you know where we were going yesterday?”
The anger seethes through my clenched jaw. I don’t even try to keep the panic out of my voice. Why does everything in my life get screwed up? The dogs raise their heads and study me.
“Well, I thought I knew . . . ” Chris stumbles out of the sled. He stands in his boot liners with a purple goose egg on his forehead, crusted blood across his eyebrow below the bandage, and pink woollies that are four sizes too small.
He scratches his butt.
His forlorn expression tells me everything I need to know. This conversation is pointless and it’s up to me and the dogs to get us home.
10
I STOMP AROUND CAMP, PREPARING for another day, and try to decide what to do next. As I see it, we have three options. We can just stay here and hope that we’re found. I immediately reject this idea. There’s no way I can sit still and wait for someone to help me.
We can go back the way we came. I think of all the new snow covering yesterday’s tracks. Trying to follow our path through those ugly trails doesn’t hold much appeal. But it’s the known route—if we can find it, we probably should do that.
Or, we could continue this way. I stand, watching Whistler lick her paws with slow, methodical attention. If I remember the map right, the main trails are west of us. This trail we’re on seems to be heading in that direction. If we find the main trails, we can follow them, and most likely cross a road. I’m sure of it. Lots of roads around here have dog team crossing traffic signs. And maybe heading west will be even faster than traveling the whole day backwards.
Or we could all freeze to death as we look for trails that aren’t there. I finger the scar beside my ear, and feel a moment of regret over yesterday’s decision to head north. I should have stuck to a trail I knew. Now I’m traveling blind out here. But I can’t look back. Always moving forward—Dad’s favorite saying.
Blue yodels softly at me and snaps me out of my funk. I move closer to him, his butt swaying back and forth with fierce wagging.
“You think that’s what we should do?” I ask, rubbing his cheek. “Keep moving forward? You remember Dad saying that, too?”
I blow out a slow breath and whisper, “I’m not sure what to do, Dad.”
I swallow hard and remember Dad’s confidence in Blue when he was still a yearling. I can almost hear him that day on the trapline.
“See what Blue is doing, Vic? How he’s looking ahead past the leaders? You watch. He’ll make a good leader someday.”
The dogs had been breaking trail and we were plodding next to the sled to help lighten the load. The sled was full of wet beaver from the trapline, and the team worked hard through the deep snow. Blue pulled like a dog possessed, and peered ahead as if he wanted to see what was around the next corner.
We’d arrived home late that night, like so many other times, and I was exhausted. And cranky. I wasn’t much help, but Dad didn’t mind. We tromped single file through the snow for the third trip unloading the sled, when he reached up and tapped the snow-laden branches hanging above us. Before I could catch myself, I walked right under it while the snow came down into my collar.
“Argh, Dad! Stop doing that!”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, Icky—whoa!”
I’d crashed into his knees to knock him over, but he stood rock solid. Always solid.
My chest feels hollow as the memory mows me over. I don’t have time for this. I have to get us home.
“Forward it is, Blue. Good idea.” The cold from the snow I’m kneeling in begins to seep through my leggings. Rocking back on my heels, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know if this is the right decision, I just know I have to find our way out soon. I think of the dog shed in the backyard full of frozen chicken and fat pallets, cooked rice, and vitamin packets. Fuel for working dogs. We can’t spend another night out here; we have to get out today.
Once the dogs have been watered with the last of the chicken, we eat a breakfast of smoked sausage and a granola bar—the last of the food. It’s still morning, but already I feel exhausted with worry. I can go hungry, and Chris can certainly starve to death for all I care, but my dogs cannot.
As we pack the sled, the silence between us could be cut in half with my hatchet. I grab our two water bottles that I refilled with boiled water from the slough, and stow them in the sled bag.
Chris jogs in place, bringing his knees up high, and then catches me staring at him. “This is not even cool,” he says. “My jeans are so stiff, I can hardly move.”
“If you weren’t the biggest milquetoast loser I’ve ever met, I’d feel bad for you.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the map, okay?” Chris glares down at me. “But who gives a map to someone who’s sitting next to a fire? And it was so windy.” He fingers his forehead, which reminds me I was going to check his gash. I gesture for him to bend closer so I can see it.
“You’re supposed to be some sort of wilderness expert,” he says. “Why don’t you have a GPS like a normal—ow!” He straightens, holding his hand to his eyebrow after I rip off the bandage. “Hey!”
“Why do I need a GPS when I can read a map?” I snap back, gesturing again for him to bend closer. The lump over his eye is still red, but the dried blood around the gash makes it look worse than it is. I’m pleased the edges are closed. The bleeding seems to have stopped.
“Map reading is a skill anyone who comes out here should know,” I continue. “Not like some people who prefer zooming around on some smelly machine thinking a little device will tell them where they are, batting their pretty eyes at whoever comes by.” Absolutely not what I meant to say. At all.
Chris’s mouth opens as if he’s about to retort, but then closes. He looks at me with surprise. “Pretty eyes?”
“Pretty idiotic eyes, yeah.”
“Think this will scar?” He strikes an exaggerated pose, blinking at me. I want to punch him.
“Chicks dig scars, right?”
“If you’re going for some kind of freakish anime look, you’ve succeeded.” I grab the sled and yank it onto the trail. “We need to go.”
The dogs are pumped. They’ve been watching my every move and now that I’ve touched the sled, they leap to their feet. They scratch the ground and yawn with excitement when I look at them. They never complain. Never hold a grudge. Always trust.
I toss a harness to Chris. “Here, help me get the dogs ready. That’s for Dorset, little brown girl on the end.”
His amused expression turns to alarm. “I . . . I . . . don’t know how.”
“It’s easy—just watch how I do it.” I straddle Bean and hold up the harness. “See how I fold it at the double webbing? Yes, like that.”
I slip it over Bean’s head and the dog does the rest. Chris approaches Dorset as if she’s a poisonous tarantula with Ebola virus. It’s obvious he’s afraid of dogs, but he still tries with the harness. I guess it’s not his fault he’s incompetent. But Dorset doesn’t notice. She wags her tail furiously at his approach and it gives me a little warm feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I hook up Blue with Bean in lead. When I turn, I see Chris sliding toward the sled behind Dorset.
“Pick her front feet off the ground.” I take her and hold the harness up so she’s hopping on her back legs. “Shifts the four-wheel-drive down to two. Much easier.”
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As Chris struggles to harness Drift, I harness Gazoo and Whistler and hook them into the center of the gangline. They’re in the team position. Drift and Dorset, closest to the sled, are the wheel dogs. They tend to be the strongest dogs, though you wouldn’t think it by looking at little Dorset. But if the sled gets stuck, they will both throw themselves into their harnesses and rapidly pop their tuglines until the sled is free. Drift, my crazy little tornado, is already lunging forward as I clip her in.
Frozen hard circles where the dogs had slept create icy dents that look like a plastic egg carton. I can tell which circle was Bean’s; his metabolism cranks out so much energy he’d sink to China if we stayed here long enough. I worry about his weight, and wish I had brought extra fat for him.
I wind up the picket line and store it back in the sled, then step on the brake and motion for Chris to get in. The dogs’ frantic screams ignite the air around us. Chris spastically trips and falls into the sled.
“Ready? All right!” We charge down the trail for about thirty yards and then it becomes obvious our travel today will be slow. The snow from yesterday’s blizzard is so deep, the dogs have to jump like weasels. And the trail is really only a vague indent. I should’ve known this, but I was too busy showing off for Chris to think about it. I’ll be glad when I drop this guy off at his house.
11
I STOP THE TEAM. “YOU’RE TOO HEAVY. Get out of the sled and help me back here.”
“I’d rather not.” But he climbs out and stands beside me. His face is tight and I feel a twinge of remorse for snapping at him. He seems defenseless, scared.
“What do I do?”
“You stand on that runner. I’ll stand on this one. Hold on to the handlebar . . . it’s like skiing, but you get to hang on.” I have to yell above the dogs’ frustrated barks. They don’t like to stop when they’ve just started. I pull the hook again. “All right, Beanie!”
Chris looks frozen with fear, but after a few moments of smooth riding, his easy charm returns and he flashes me a wide grin. “Hey, this is fun.”
“For now. They’ll slow down soon and we’ll have to pedal with one foot, or run beside the sled.”
In fact, for most of the morning, no one is running. We plod through the snow, climb over broken and uprooted trees, and jockey the sled around tight corners. I keep hoping that around the next corner, the trail will widen out and I’ll recognize where we are. But around each corner is more tangled mess and I curse my luck.
This has to be the thickest brush in Alaska. I sincerely wish we lived in an area that has cell coverage. With that thought, another rushes in.
Mom.
She’s got to be freaking with the dogs and me not coming home last night. She’ll know I’m out, but she won’t know where.
The more I think about it, the more ill I feel imagining her at home alone. My heart aches as I recall a year ago last January. When we both sat at home—waiting. I think of her fragile show of cheerfulness, how it could buckle with this added pressure. She probably got home last night tired, expecting dinner. She would have been annoyed at first, then, as it got later, the cold dread would have crept in. I blink several times. Even with the anger that has boiled in my gut for over a year, I still don’t want to see her hurt.
But I would never forgive her.
After Dad died, I heard her talking to Nana on the phone. She kept her voice low but I avoided the squeaky spot on the floor and crept close to her room. That’s how I know Nana was trying to convince her to move back to Seattle. Mom used to be a city girl before she met Dad at a course they both took in the city.
Dad liked to improve his mind, always reading books and taking classes. He was probably the smartest fishing guide in Alaska. He convinced Mom she could work as a real estate agent in Spruce River, since he obviously couldn’t trap or guide in the city. I don’t think Nana ever let go of her grudge over that. Grandpa died years ago, and she’s alone down there.
Mom hasn’t really loved Alaska. Not like Dad and I do. I’ve been to the city to visit so I can tell it’s not the place for me. Too many people, too much noise, too many cars on the roads. Not enough dog trails.
“You think we’re close?” Chris asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah, we’ve got to cross a road eventually. Unless we get to your place first. Let me know if you see anything familiar.”
We’re on a slight downhill and the dogs pick up a little speed. Chris and I can both hop on the runners and ride. I make a show of digging in on one side of my runner and pulling the handlebar to steer the sled over to one side of the trail. I can’t help stealing a glance to see if Chris is watching but he’s busy gawking at the trees.
“Everything looks the same to me here. I used to live downtown on Bloor Street, surrounded by sidewalks and buildings. I’ve never seen this much snow in my life.”
“You live in Canada and you’re not used to snow? What kind of Canadian are you, eh?”
“She jokes!” Chris slaps his thigh with mock laughter. “Why do all Americans think we say ‘eh’ all the time? That’s so lame. And I’m from Toronto. We don’t get much snow. Our winters are just cold.”
“I’m an Alaskan—so don’t clump me with ‘all Americans’ or confuse me with some New Yorker you might know.”
“Well, at least where I’m from you could tell by the stores where you were. Or just look at the street signs. Or hop on a streetcar. I’d give anything right now for a streetcar.”
“I’ve never been on a streetcar.”
The dogs are running faster, but I hardly take notice.
“You’ve never . . . Wow. Okay, they run on rails cut into the pavement and travel at about this speed. You usually have to stand and get bounced around kinda like this, too. But they’re warmer. Oh, the warmth. Then we could hop off and hit a Tim Horton’s. I’d kill for a Timmy’s. And a cruller.”
“A what? You mean crul-ler. It’s pronounced with a short u.”
Chris glances at me. “You don’t have many friends, do you?”
I repress the urge to kick him. “Why did you . . . ” I begin, but before I can react, the dogs completely disappear over a ridge.
I snap to attention, but too late to do anything but brace myself.
The sled launches over a dropoff that’s at least as tall as I am. The dogs run low to the ground in a full sprint. The bottom falls out of my guts as we go airborne. I grip the handlebar even tighter when the sled tips sideways.
Chris screams as he flies off.
All I can do is hang on until the sled hits the ground. And when we hit, it knocks the wind out of my lungs. I hear an awful crunch. We continue plowing down the trail. The dogs drag the tipped-over sled with me still clinging to it, gasping for air. I’m sliding over the trail on my stomach. With one hand I reach for the brake while I clamp down on the stanchion with my other. I force the brake down, straining my arm with the effort. It takes a few moments for the dogs to slow down, but the sled finally stops.
12
“WHOA! WHOA, BEAN, WHOA.” I’M afraid to stand. If I’ve broken something, I don’t want to know. I gingerly push up from the ground and test my legs. Everything seems to be working. Chris runs up behind me.
“Are the dogs okay?”
Now he’s worried about the dogs. “Yeah, they stayed on the ground. That was fun for them. I’m good, too, thanks for asking.”
When I bend to pull the sled upright I notice Mr. Minky is dangling at an awkward angle like a loose tooth. The solid ash handlebar between the upright stanchions has split in two.
“Oh, no!” This was Dad’s favorite of all the sleds he had made. I watched him build it. He shaped the runners and brush bow with steam and then pounded them into the molds. I’d sat cross-legged on his workbench and handed him tools. I was also in charge of keeping the wood stove going so the workshop stayed warm. Dad explained every stage to me as if I was another adult musher learning to build my own sled. My throat tightens.
Chris inspects the two ends and pushes them together as if they’ll magically meld. “Can you fix this?”
Pull it together, Victoria. You can fix this. “Of course.”
I glance around at the saplings near the trail.
“What is this thing?” Chris pulls at Mr. Minky and I slap his hand away.
“None of your business.”
The dogs roll in the snow as I kick the snow hook in, then pull out my hatchet.
“We’ll splint it together with a couple of alders,” I say. “I’ve got some duct tape in the sled bag. Can you find it?”
I spy two perfect saplings. After I cut them to length, I take off my mitts and use my fingers to hold the wood in place. The cold immediately attacks my exposed skin at the ends of my fingerless gloves. Chris finds the tape and stands next to me. I place the two pieces on either side of the broken handlebar.
“Tape it here,” I say, and point with my chin.
“Say ‘please.’”
“What?”
“I’ll do it if you remember your manners. You have to say ‘please.’”
“Chris, I swear to—”
“Okay, okay. Hostility!” He begins to whistle as he winds the tape around.
“Tape it all the way across so it’s sturdy.”
Chris’s bent head is so close to mine, our frozen breath mingles and rises up as one cloud.
“This tape is strong. Like you could tie up a person with this stuff.”
My blood freezes. “What?”
“I’m just saying . . . this is what they use in movies. It might work on the sled. Think it will hold?”
“I know it will.” I try to ignore the unease of what he just said. Why would he be thinking of tying someone up?
“I’ve done this before when my dad broke his old sled. Well, I watched him do it. This will hold until we get back.” I pull on my mitts and stow the hatchet deep in the sled bag. I glance at Chris.
Chris indicates behind us. “It’s like someone came along with a backhoe here and dug out a rippin’ hole in the trail.”
Ice Dogs Page 5
