Slip.
Bounce.
Claw frantically.
Faster than a gasp, the sled runs me over and I’m face down alone on the trail.
I look up just in time to see the sled disappear around the next bend. Shakily, I sit up. I’ve lost my hat and snow is packed solidly up my sleeves, down my neck, up my nose. I’m starving. Alone in the winter bush. Wet.
And I’ve lost my dog team.
“Idiot!” My throat threatens to close and I realize with horror that I’m about to cry. Get a grip. I take deep breaths and try to think.
Must get the team. I lurch to my feet and take stock of all my limbs. Everything is still there. Melting snow drips down my back. My sleeves have jammed up to my elbows and my arms are red with freezer burn. My whole body feels as if I’ve gone through the rinse cycle. I’m probably black and blue underneath, but right now, I have to get my dogs.
I begin to jog with jerky steps, following the tracks the dogs have made.
The last time I lost the team, after our headlong charge through the ditch, the snow hook had knocked loose with the bouncing. It had embedded itself in the trail finally, too late to prevent Beetle from getting knocked up, but it had at least stopped the team. I can only hope that happens again. I think of the upright sled, sliding happily along. If only the sled fell over, it could slow the dogs down.
My heart races at the thought of the dogs facing that moose. Have they caught her? Please, don’t let them be trampled.
I run, pump my legs as fast as I can manage. I don’t care how much I sweat, I’m dead anyway if I don’t find the team. The soft trail slows each of my footsteps, like running in a nightmare when you can’t get anywhere. I finally make it around the corner, but the tracks keep going over the next ridge. Don’t think. Just run. One foot, then the other. Keep moving.
Must get dogs. Must get dogs. I chant this as I run and it becomes the only thing I care about. Keep moving. Get the team.
I crest the ridge and still no sign. I stop to suck in wheezy breaths. The adrenaline is keeping me moving, but my energy tank is almost at zero.
Then I hear it. I hold my breath to listen, and my stomach feels as if I’ve just swallowed lead.
Faint, horrific screaming.
I bolt ahead and skirt around a white birch stand. Finally I see them.
The dogs are in a ball with Bean tangled in the middle. The gangline is wrapped around his front leg. Drift and Whistler are locked in battle—pulling the gangline tightly, pinching Bean. The other dogs have jumped him, egged on by his screams of pain. It’s all so horrible that I can barely look.
“STOP!” I scream as I reach them. “Drift! Enough!” I bring my face down right beside the flashing teeth and scream into their faces. It makes them pause long enough for me to break them apart and start untangling.
The rest of the dogs seem to be coming out of a hypnotic trance. They blink at me and shoot dirty glances at each other. Dog fights always trigger their primal instincts. They take on a pack mentality and pick on whoever is losing. Thank goodness they hardly ever fight. They argue all the time, but what looks extreme to anyone who doesn’t know them is just them sorting things out. They need to do that to avoid any serious fighting.
I have no idea what happened here. Did Bean try to turn around to find me? Did they catch up with the moose and then the fight started? I can’t tell from the chaos of tracks.
“Bean, are you okay?” He sways on three legs, his left front leg held off the ground. His head hangs down.
My stomach squeezes as if it’s been stabbed with an ice pick. I whip off my gloves and gingerly feel his leg. My hands tremble. I quickly find a nasty puncture wound on the top of his leg next to his elbow. This kind of injury is common in a dog fight. I clean it with snow, and spread his fur to get a better look. That’s when I find the gash deep in his shoulder, which is far more ominous. Slowly, I extend his leg forward to check his range of motion, watching his reaction. He pulls away. My mouth goes dry. Did the moose kick him? If he has internal damage to his ligaments, there isn’t much I can do. I follow the muscle from his elbow to the shoulder, and feel a tendon tremble against my finger. He needs a shoulder pack, which I do not have.
Gazoo has recovered from the fight and pops his tug to get going again.
“Shhh, it’s okay, Gazoo. Settle down.” If I keep my tone low, it calms the dogs.
Uncle Leonard tells me the more you pretend at being something, the closer you are to making it real. So just make sure you’re pretending the right things. It becomes a habit. Considering how often I act like I’m in control of everything in front of the dogs, I should be pretty close to it by now.
When I unhook Bean and gather him in my arms, he doesn’t struggle or whimper. His bravery makes me want to be a better musher. One that doesn’t put her dogs in danger, and has enough food to feed them.
Adrenaline must still be coursing through me because I pick up the fifty-pound dog even though I feel about as strong as a wet noodle. I manage to carry him back to the sled. My legs wobble as I set him inside the sled bag. I’m panting as I arrange the gear to make him comfortable. Once I’ve clipped his neckline to the handlebar, I pull out the first-aid kit.
There’s a small roll of gauze left, and I grab that with the scissors. I quickly snip away the fur around the wounds, to see better and keep out contaminants. Bean watches but lies still until I probe his shoulder.
“Almost done, Bean.”
Using snow to wash the blood, I wish I had a larger kit with Betadine. I wipe blood away from the torn flesh. He has severe bruising under his fur, and the swelling has already started. Gathering a handful of clean snow, I pack it over the front point of his shoulder joint, then wrap the roll of gauze around to hold the makeshift ice pack in place. It’s the last of the gauze, and it’s just enough. I tape the end, then smooth the fur on Bean’s muzzle.
When I straighten, I wipe my hot face with the back of my mitt, and take a deep breath before I look behind us. The trail is empty.
I’m going to have to go back for him.
16
IT DOESN’T TAKE US LONG TO find Chris. Even from a distance I see his face is flushed from jogging. He stops when he sees us and collapses on his knees, hanging his head in his hands.
The dogs sprint forward with obvious joy, as if they’ve been looking everywhere for him, and now he’s finally found.
As we get closer, Chris stands and yells, “Is everyone okay? Are you hurt?”
I stop the team and stomp on the hook as Chris jogs to greet us. His gaze bounces from my face, to Bean in the sled, then back to me. His forehead creases in concern. He moves as if he’s going to hug me, and I dodge away.
“Is Bean hurt?”
“Genius, he’s in the sled. What do you think?”
“Oh man. That was crazy. They just ran off! Like, don’t they come when they’re called?”
“The dogs don’t know ‘stop.’ They only know ‘go.’” My voice is carefully neutral.
“I didn’t . . . I told you . . . ”
“Yeah, I know, you don’t know how.” My anger erupts like foam climbing up the neck of a soda bottle. I yell in his face, “You don’t know how to do anything!”
Chris gives me an incredulous stare, then his face hardens. “I never said I knew anything about dogsledding! If you know everything, why weren’t you driving the team?” He flings his arm, gesturing toward the dogs. “I’m so sick of your superior attitude. Why are you so angry all the time? And bossy! Don’t you get tired of being mean?”
His words gut-punch me. “Maybe you’re too busy dreaming about shopping malls to notice that we’re lost out here thanks to you! ”
“I told you, I’m sorry about the map, but this is not all my fault! You know, sometimes stuff just happens that you can’t control.”
“And I don’t know how I’m going to feed the dogs. And now Bean is hurt!” My voice breaks, betraying me, and I turn my face away. In the sudden
silence, my stomach gurgles. I find a water bottle and take a long swig.
Chris kicks at the snow. He rubs his face with his hands and, after a slight pause, says in a lower tone, “So you’re yelling at me about being from the city, but what you’re really mad at is that we don’t have anything to eat, right? I’m worried about that too, you know. You might feel better if you tell me what you’re really worried about instead of keeping it all to yourself.”
He pauses again and looks at me hopefully. “Maybe we could fish for food. We keep seeing that river beside the trail, maybe there’s fish in it. Dogs eat fish, don’t they?”
I see in his face all of my own worry and fear mirrored back to me. He’s trying hard to help. I know it’s not all his fault.
“We don’t have any fish hooks or line,” I say.
“Hmm. Well, we’ll think of something.” He almost looks shy as he searches my face. “And there’s lots I know how to do, Secret. Like, I’m a fast swimmer. I used to be on the swim team—won some medals, too.”
“That’s not very helpful at the moment.” But I imagine being able to stay afloat, propel myself where I want to go, and I’m sort of envious.
“Right. Can’t impress you. Well, I can’t fix a sled, but I can fix your computer.”
“Again, not very helpful. And I don’t have a computer.”
“You don’t . . . what?”
“Well, my mom has one for work, but it doesn’t have anything else on it. When would I have time to play on a computer? I told you, I’m a musher. I win races. My dogs and I win races.”
“But . . . everyone has a computer!” He stares at me as if I’ve suddenly developed a unibrow.
“Well, I don’t.” I hold the water bottle up to him as a peace offering. “Anyway, we should keep going. I’m sure we’ll see a road soon. Bean needs to get to a vet. And the longer we stay out here with no food, the more danger we’re in of becoming hypothermic.”
I don’t mention the fact that now we’re both wet from all the running and sweating. My inner clothes stick to my skin, a recipe for disaster out here that is so ingrained in me that I can’t ignore the icy dread lodged in my gut.
Chris takes a sip of water and then points the bottle down the trail. “Our supper just went that way. Maybe if I whittle you a spear, you can throw that instead. I saw it in a movie once, I think.”
I pretend I’m not listening to him as I pull off my anorak and shake out the snow.
“Or we could use this thing.” Chris waves Mr. Minky toward me, then makes stabbing motions with it. “Dig a pit. Fill it with sharp sticks and the moose will fall in and impale himself. I know I’ve seen that in a movie. Except, it was a dude who fell, messed up his leg.”
I glance at the dogs. They roll on the trail and snort. The fight is forgotten and they’re all friends again. When I bend over Bean to check his wounds I see the puncture is still bleeding. Gently, I take the snow out of the gauze on his shoulder.
“Yikes, what happened to him?”
“I think he got kicked by the moose, or his leg’s been pulled. He’s got ligament or tendon damage. I don’t know. But it’s swelling so it needs to be iced in short sessions like this for a full day.” I am not going to fail Bean.
“Stay here on the brake.” I emphasize my words by making a show of holding the handlebar and standing solid on the brake. “Please.”
Chris rolls his eyes at me and takes my place on the brake.
I walk back along the trail and collect myself. I look for my snowshoes and hat, not really expecting to see them. The snowshoes aren’t that big a deal, but I need my hat.
I scan over the moose tracks and almost smile remembering my warrior woman move with the snowshoe. But then I think of Bean and my brow furrows. He needs a vet. And rest. He can’t be allowed to run with that injury. And that means not having him in lead. I realize how much I’ve always depended on his intelligence. And now that we know there’s a moose somewhere up ahead, we’ll have to be extra careful.
When I hook the dogs back up, I put Drift up front with Blue and move Gazoo into wheel beside Dorset. Not every dog can lead. Some won’t even run at all if they have dogs behind them. Too much pressure. Drift is my best option right now without Bean. I hop on beside Chris and call to the dogs.
“Ready? All right!”
We continue on, heading directly into the sun that’s sinking fast behind the trees over the next ridge. My belly rumbles. A shiver runs down my back from the dampness of my sweat-soaked shirt. I glance down at Bean curled up in the bag. All our lives depend on what’s ahead.
17
DUSK COMES WITH THE SAME SWIFTNESS as the previous night. I keep listening for sounds of traffic or snowmobiles—anything to give a hint of where we are. But there’s nothing except the panting of dogs, the shushing of the runners sliding in the snow, and the light tinkling of the dogs’ neckline clips.
Even as I wish for a road, my jaw tightens with the knowledge we’re going to have to spend another night out here. What am I going to feed the dogs tonight? What comes after that, I no longer allow myself to think about.
Perhaps we should’ve stayed back at our last camp. We could’ve tried to make a trap or fish hooks. I could maybe make a fish hook using the small forked branches on a tree. Maybe Chris’s idea of a spear wasn’t far off.
I shake my head. Then we wouldn’t have found that wolf kill. We desperately needed those scraps of moose meat. But now, I don’t think we’ll be as lucky tonight.
I shiver again and adjust Dorset’s dog coat around my head. It may look ridiculous, but without my hat, my ears and head were going to freeze. I had to improvise. The coat isn’t really working, with a big open hole at the top, but at least it’s blocking the wind from going down my neck. We’re in serious trouble now. I can feel the onset of hypothermia like a snake slithering down my back.
I busy myself studying the dogs. Drift is an easily distracted leader, but thankfully Blue is keeping her straight. Everyone seems to be pulling, ears forward, tails straight, tuglines tight—except for Whistler. Why is she limping?
When I stop the team, they all dive into the snow. I leave the sled to Chris and walk down the line of dogs. Whistler snuffles in my ear as I bend over her. I inspect each foot separately, spreading apart the toes with my bare fingers. She has always had tender feet. Her fur seems to collect more snowballs than any of the other dogs’. I check her right front paw and see irritated red skin on the webbing between two toes.
Oh, no. With my fingers, I try to break apart the ice chunks stuck to her fur. The center ball is too tough to break, so I use my teeth. She licks my hand.
“Whistler, I’m sorry, girl.”
“What’s wrong?” Chris asks.
I trudge toward the sled and search for the bag of dog booties. “Whistler is getting a rub on her foot. It’s from this grainy snow. If I don’t bootie her, she’ll get a blister.”
I tear through the gear in the sled, and Bean watches with interest. “Have you seen a blue bag full of fleece booties in here?”
“No.”
I thought I had brought the bag. Did I bring the bag? I can’t remember.
“You didn’t dump it when you were looking for the tape?” I ask.
“I didn’t dump anything. Would you give me a break?”
“Well, it’s not in here. Great. What am I going to do without booties?” I hear my voice quaver and I take a breath. Do not cry over missing booties. The extra stress adds to my list of worries, and knots the narrow space between my eyes.
“Can you use like a mitt or something?”
Chris has been learning about dogsledding so fast, I forget how much he still doesn’t know.
“No.”
My shame at forgetting the booties tastes like bile in my mouth. “And besides, she’ll need four booties. All her feet are going to look like this soon.”
“Okay.” Chris’s reasonable tone irks me even more. “Well, we should be close to home now, right
? We’ll probably get there before she needs four booties.”
I think Chris understands full well that we’re probably not close to home. There is a big empty space of what we’re not saying and it hangs over us like a vulture.
I sort through what’s left in the first-aid kit and find Vaseline. Dipping a finger into the cold goo, I coat the fur between her toes to stop the snow from sticking. I think of the special Musher’s Magic Foot Ointment that’s also in the bootie bag. But I can’t fix the fact that I didn’t bring it, so I double-check her other paws to make sure they’re free of ice balls then coat them with the Vaseline, too. My bare fingers quickly grow stiff with cold. I have to keep tucking them into my armpits.
The rest of the team lies on their bellies, shoveling mouthfuls of snow as they wait for me. Their mouths are covered in frost. I decide to check everyone’s feet while I’m at it, even though there’s nothing to be done if I do find more rubs. It puts my mind at ease to see everyone else has happy paws.
When that’s done, I shove my frozen hands into my mitts, and head back to the sled to check on Bean. His shoulder is still tender and swollen.
“You take good care of them, Secret,” Chris says quietly.
This small kindness is meant to make me feel better, I know, but it only makes my throat tighten. I lift my chin, call to the dogs, and we continue down the darkening trail.
As we go, I plan how we’re going to find supper. We should definitely make more tea. I could get Chris to build a fire while I set snares. Dad taught me to do that when I was eight. But what can I use? Laces from my mukluks? Who am I kidding? I need snare wire.
I stare at Bean while I think. Poor Bean. Is he getting thinner, too, or is it just my imagination? My concern about feeding the dogs is ripping a hole through me.
The more I think about food, the more my stomach tightens and cramps. That wolf-killed moose this morning seems like days ago. I rub at the headache between my eyebrows. It’s dangerous to be working like this in the cold without food. Especially now that we’re wet. And especially for some of us wearing cotton jeans.
Ice Dogs Page 8
