Ice Dogs

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  We should stop here and build a fire to get dry again. But the tiny hope that we’re close to finding a road makes me want to keep going while we still have some light. I peer around us and consider camping right here. Just the thought of trudging through deep snow without snowshoes to look for firewood exhausts me. I feel as weak as a newborn puppy.

  “I’m pretty hungry,” Chris says. “And I’m really cold.”

  “You talk a lot for someone who burns maps.”

  Chris looks at me sharply and I give him a slight hip check. He mock punches me in the arm, then grabs at the handlebar again as we bump over a ridge in the trail.

  I watch Whistler and wonder if I should put her in the sled bag, too. It will seriously slow us down, but what else can I do? We need the dogs to get us out, so I have to take care of them. But we also need to make time. Our clock is running out. The problem spins ’round and ’round in my head.

  I desperately wish I were a child again, riding in the sled, all wrapped up in blankets. Without any responsibilities or fears. Dad would lean over and peer down at me with gentle eyes. “You all snug, my little bug?” he’d ask. I could let Dad worry about everything. Just watch the dogs running, and enjoy the trees flashing past, and dream of the day I’d be old enough to run a junior musher race. Dad could worry about his trapline, and his guiding business, and making enough money to feed the dogs, and training the yearlings, and wondering why Blister had gone off her feed, and what to bring with us to stay warm and dry, and how to stay vigilant for when the wild woke up angry.

  “You’ll make such a good little musher, Icky. I’m so proud of you.”

  It seemed as if he’d always be there.

  After the accident, it was impossible to believe he was gone. It wasn’t real. Now, it seems the more I grasp at these memories, the more slippery they become.

  Blue glances over his shoulder at me. I feel the dogs pick up and pull harder. Something must be on the trail. I peer into the shadows ahead. The moose has haunted us for these last few hours. Every dark trunk is a charging moose. The constant worry around each corner has my nerves swollen and exposed.

  The dogs definitely sense something ahead. My pulse quickens. Blue looks back at me again and I stop the team.

  “What is it, Blue?” My stomach drops. I grab the hatchet from the sled bag and hurry up the line to stand in front of him. What I’m going to do with a hatchet, I’m not sure. I keep trying to swallow down my fear as I peer down the trail. No sign of any moose, but she’s still ahead somewhere.

  “What now?” Chris asks.

  “I don’t know.” My voice is high-pitched. I clear my throat. “Let them follow behind me.” I keep plodding through the snow in front of the leaders with knees that feel like putty. My tense muscles spasm in the cold and I have to stop as a violent shiver goes through me.

  We creep around a sharp bend grown in with dogwood and willow and I try to peer through the spaces between the trees. My mouth is dry. I wipe at the base of my nose.

  I see nothing ahead but more snow. Darkness cloaks the trail as the sky bleeds into the trees. My arm is almost numb from the death grip I have on the hatchet and I try to relax my fingers. I switch hands and swing my arm in circles. I’m just about to turn back when a glint in the trees makes me snap my head around.

  “It’s a cabin!” I press a hand over my chest as the tension drains from my body.

  18

  I FEEL SO GOOD, I ACTUALLY CLAP my hands and hop in place like some moronic cheerleader. But with a hatchet, instead of pompoms.

  “It’s a trapper’s cabin!” I turn and hug Blue. He knew it. He had tried to tell me about it.

  “Woo hoo! Think there’s food?”

  “I hope so! Come on, let’s go check.” I don’t see a trail from where we are so I plunge off the path, eager to make my own. And sink to my waist in soft powder. “But not this way.”

  I climb back to where the dogs are watching me with amusement. Blue’s tongue hangs in a silent laugh. I motion for Chris to let the dogs go and I grab the sled as it slides by. Chris beams at me from his runner and then grabs me with one arm and awkwardly crushes me into his side. I grin right back with abandon, feeling absolutely giddy with joy. Our eyes connect with the shared delight of the moment.

  “But do we still get to sleep in the sled bag?” he asks.

  “You can if you really want to. I’ll be inside in a bed.” My smile feels as if it’s cracking my frozen face in half. We found a trapper’s cabin. We’re on the right trail.

  When we pull up to the front porch, I’m disappointed there aren’t any fresh tracks. No snowmobiles or movement. But there are signs of use. A gas can sits under the layer of snow on the front step. Cut and split wood is stacked under an open-air shed. There’s an indent in the snow from the cabin to the outhouse where a trampled trail lies under the fresh snow and another one that heads behind the cabin. The cabin is in good shape, too. Curtains cover the windows and a pair of willow-twig chairs sit in a corner by the front door.

  I tromp up the steps and check the door, which is locked.

  “What the heck is this?” Chris points to strips of wood under each window that have nails facing pointed-side out like porcupines along the length.

  “Bear proofing,” I say. “That’s a big furry animal with long claws that likes to break into camps when no one is home.”

  “Okay, okay. City folks actually know what bears are. We’ve seen them in Coke commercials.” Chris cups his hands to his face and presses it against the window where the curtains separate. “Are we gonna break in?”

  “Give me a second.” I follow the trail to the outhouse and peer into a coffee can with a lid. Inside is a roll of toilet paper, and a key. I don’t know this trapper, but I know about trap cabins. Ours was passed down from Grandpa to Dad. Then to another trapper shortly after Dad died. I’ve never been back there.

  I reappear from the outhouse and triumphantly hold up the key. Chris whistles appreciatively.

  “My dad was a trapper,” I say.

  “Was?”

  “Um, yeah.” I pause. “He died over a year ago.”

  Chris raises his eyebrows.

  “He was out alone last January, without me or the dogs. He fell through the ice and got swept downstream. He drowned.”

  Chris watches me for a beat, and then nods in silence.

  “Ah,” he says simply.

  I take a moment to breathe. This is the most I’ve ever said about Dad’s death. Everyone already knew what happened; I didn’t have to explain. And I didn’t talk about it with anyone. Not with Sarah, not Uncle Leonard, especially not with my mom—no one. Now that it’s done, I realize telling Chris wasn’t that hard.

  “I’ll settle the dogs.” I hand the key to Chris, nodding toward the cabin, then turn to the team.

  Bean is still in the sled, asleep on top of the gear, but lifts his head when I approach. His tail thumps on the sleeping bag. I struggle to pick him up, but I’m so weak that it brings on the shakes in my legs and my breathing becomes wheezy. He limps heavily toward the front of the team and I have to fight back tears. With that injury, he shouldn’t be moving around at all.

  I wonder if he’ll accept coming into the cabin where it’s warmer. Though it might be too warm for him, and stress him even more. The dogs would rather be outside where they are acclimated. I agonize over what to do as I stake out the rest of the dogs along the drop line. They are unusually quiet—so tired and hungry.

  My eyes strain in the darkness of the woodshed until I find what I had hoped. I let out a huge breath. Bales of straw are stacked along the far wall. Maybe the trapper has a husky, too. Smiling, I lay out bedding along the drop line as the dogs frisk and roll in it with glee. Dorset collects a big pile with her paws like a gambler raking in chips and rolls her neck over it.

  Bean groans as he flops onto the pile I placed beside him. I pack fresh snow under the gauze still wrapping his shoulder and inspect the puncture wound. It’
s finally stopped bleeding. I notice with alarm that my hands are shaking. I need to get out of these wet clothes and get warm now.

  The fading light is making way to a dark purple and black skyline as I trudge up the cabin steps. We found this place just in time. When I step inside, Chris is hanging a lamp on a hook from the ceiling. It throws shadows on the walls and lights the dim interior.

  “Took me a while to figure out how to light this thing,” he says with obvious pride. “Pretty sweet digs, huh?”

  There are bunk beds on the far wall, a pot-bellied wood stove, and a kitchen with a sink and curtains covering cupboards underneath. A small table in the center with two chairs is the only other furniture.

  Chris heads to the kitchen and starts rummaging. I open the stove and toss in a handful of kindling from the wood box beside it. I stuff birch bark underneath and light it. The loud snaps and pops fill the small room. Immediately, I stick my hands, palms up, in front of the little flames.

  “What have we here?” Chris holds aside the curtain to show me a shelf full of metal tins. He opens one and his eyes light up as if he’s just won the lottery.

  “Cookies!” He stuffs two into his mouth and crunches. “Mmm.” His grin is contagious and I’m walking over to take one when I spot a wooden box on the floor.

  “Oh, that looks promising,” I say. Peering inside, I let out a little cry. “Snare wire!”

  Chris eyes me as I pull the spool of wire and a pair of snips out of the box. “You can catch something with that? Looks like wire to make jewelry.”

  I nod. Our luck has finally improved. Now we have means for feeding ourselves. “This is for—oh!” I spot a dish on the floor. “He does have a dog.” My gaze darts around the room, searching. And then I spot a large metal garbage can in the corner. When I race over and lift the lid, my heart skips a beat.

  “Dog food!”

  The can is full to the top with kibble.

  19

  ANOTHER SHIVER TAKES HOLD AND I realize I have to get warm before I do anything else. I can’t care for my dogs if I’m too cold and weak.

  “We have to take our wet clothes off,” I say.

  Chris looks amused with his cheeks full of cookie. “Oo tryin’ to het ee naked?” With the k in the last word, crumbs fly out of his mouth.

  “Oh, that’s charming. No, you definitely keep yours on. I’ll time you to see how long before hypothermia sets in.” I grab a plastic bag from the bunks, and dump out two wool blankets. Chris is clearly even more impressed with this find.

  “I call bottom bunk,” he says.

  I turn my back to show him I want some privacy, and start peeling off wet clothes. I stop when I’m down to my underwear and thin polypro undershirt. Then I wrap myself in a scratchy wool blanket that smells musty but is dry and warm.

  “Okay,” I say to Chris, and turn around.

  He’s also wrapped in a blanket and when he turns, he pulls two chairs toward the wood stove with one hand while awkwardly holding his blanket closed with the other. We sit together in front of the fire, eating cookies. I stuff one in my mouth, then busy myself making snares to avoid looking at Chris’s bare shoulders sticking out of his blanket.

  The fire crackles, giving off delicious heat. Snipping off a section of the wire, I feel a strange need to continue our conversation from before. “I usually went with him every weekend.”

  Chris doesn’t ask who I’m talking about, just nods, and continues crunching his cookies. He shifts slightly forward, bringing his knee so close to mine, I feel its warmth.

  “And the dogs pretty much always went with him. But they’d been working hard on the trapline, and I’d run them in a big race the weekend before. Dad wanted to give them some time off. And he was going to the farthest line in his area; he said the old snowmobile would be best.”

  I snip off another piece of wire, my fingers working automatically. Make a loop at the end, pull the other end of the wire through, crook it slightly to hold the snare open.

  “Mom wanted me to go to Fairbanks with her that day to help shop for my nana. I told her Dad needed my help with the line. She said for me to stop being so dramatic. That he’d been out before without me, that he didn’t need to always have me or the dogs with him. She made me stay with her . . . ” I’m about to explain that if I’d been there with him as I should’ve been, I could’ve saved him. But as I say the words aloud, I hesitate for the first time, searching for the truth.

  I shake my head. “I was so mad. I hated her for not understanding what it’s like to run dogs. What it’s like in the bush. You have to trust your dogs. Dad always told me that. We worked together, you know?”

  I drop another snare at my feet and reach for the spool again. It feels good telling all this to someone, to say it out loud. I’d never even been able to talk about it with Sarah because she already knew the story. Talking to Chris was easier because he doesn’t know anyone.

  “Anyway, that’s why I’m afraid of water, since the accident. Actually, I was afraid before the accident. I never liked swimming in the lake—there’s pike down there.” I grimace.

  Chris gives a short laugh that startles me. I’m so used to people feeling sorry for me after they find out.

  “You’re afraid of pike? Like, the fish?” He sticks his lips out pretending to blow bubbles and waves his hands behind his ears like gills.

  It makes me laugh. “They grow big here, you know.” I swipe at his arm with my snippers. “And they have enormous teeth! I’ve heard stories of somebody’s Chihuahua falling off a dock and getting picked off by a giant pike!”

  “I can’t picture you being afraid of anything.” He shakes his head. “And swimming is easy! I can teach you.” He seems completely pleased with learning this about me.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that. Anyway, my clothes are dry enough now. I should go check on the dogs, and get some water.” I suddenly can’t wait to get the dog food soaking.

  Out of habit, I reach for my compass that’s usually around my neck and frown. It’s gone. I immediately miss its comforting shape and weight, and get a shiver of fear. It must’ve been lost during my drag behind the team. I try to shrug it off. It’s not as if I’ve used it much since we lost the map. But the sense of security it gave me is gone, as if my compass didn’t just help me find the direction to take but helped steer me in life as well.

  Leaving Chris in charge of the fire, I quickly pull on my thermal long underwear that’s still damp, but my base layer is dry next to my skin. The door squeaks as I step onto the porch. I stop, blinking in the dim light. The sun has long set, and I can see only as far as the light stretching out from the cabin windows.

  Once my eyes adjust, I take my time visiting with each of the dogs. Dorset is still celebrating the straw. Her eyes dance, which makes my eyes dance. Even my worry about Bean fades with the happiness I feel knowing they’ll get dinner tonight.

  I unload the sled and pile the gear on the front steps. Then I find an empty metal bucket in the woodshed and fill it with snow. My muscles protest when I try to carry more than two pieces of wood.

  When I wonder what we would have done if we hadn’t found this cabin, I envision a somber scene with the two of us too weak to get out of the sled. Of the dogs wondering why we aren’t feeding them. Perhaps the wolves coming for our bodies. Then for the dogs . . . I shiver, and try to shake the image out of my head. We’ve found the cabin. We’re safe.

  Chris feels safer to me now, too. Talking with someone who doesn’t see me as a wounded child is a relief. Mom is wounded, too. And maybe it’s not all her fault. I shake my head and start back to the cabin, too tired to think of this now.

  20

  INSIDE, THE WOOD STOVE IS CHEERFULLY crackling. I set the bucket on the stove and it hisses and steams.

  “Already found some water,” Chris says, pointing to two large plastic pails. He’s hanging the dog harnesses and his jeans on a rope he’s rigged up, and is wearing a threadbare plaid shirt and a pair
of wool pants with suspenders. The pants bag out around him like a circus clown’s.

  I find myself admiring the way the shirt stretches between his shoulder blades. His swimming shoulders, I guess. The shirt’s long sleeves are loosely rolled, and the collar just touches the curls at the back of his neck.

  Chris turns suddenly from the clothesline, and I drop my gaze to the pails. When I peer inside, I see they’re both full of icy water. Chris hovers over the buckets, acting as if he birthed them himself.

  “The trail behind the cabin leads to a creek,” he says, beaming. “And look what else I found.” He pulls a small envelope from his pocket. I’m unsure what it is so I shake my head.

  “It’s a sewing kit! We can make Whistler some booties.”

  “Oh! That’s a great idea!” I wonder if there’s some spare fleece around here. Then I remember my complete ineptitude in my previous attempts at sewing, creating hideously misshapen things that would probably make the problem with her feet even worse.

  I thoroughly wish that I’d learned to sew. It’s not as if my mom didn’t try to teach me, but I am obviously missing the gene that allows for it. I seriously can’t even sew on a button.

  Chris looks at me in confusion.

  “I’m a little rusty with the sewing skills.”

  Chris stuffs the kit back into his pocket. “Who’s talking about you?”

  “You can sew? Why do you know how to sew?”

  “I like making things, okay?”

  I shrug and then notice the table. It’s neatly set with bowls, spoons, and mugs. A lit candle sits in the center.

  I raise my eyebrows and Chris bows dramatically, his eyes lit with a glint of mischief.

  “The dogs get fed first,” I say, though my stomach twists painfully when I think of food. I pour slushy water into the metal bucket with the snow. Then I scoop kibble into it up to the brim. I set it back on the stove. “They’re having a warm dinner.”

  “Well, Secret, I think we both deserve a warm dinner, too.” He dips a pot into the water and sets it beside the bucket on the stove. Then he opens an envelope of soup mix and dumps it into the pot. “Fending off moose is hungry work.”