Chris sits up straighter.
“We’ve already eaten the food that’s here. The dogs are fed now. We’re dry and fed. We can bring that tin of cookies and the rest of the dog food with us. And now we have the snares, we can set them wherever we go. That reminds me, I haven’t even checked them yet.”
“How much farther do you think?”
“We can’t be far now. We found this cabin.” I sincerely hope we aren’t far. I frown, and then remember that Chris just said that I should tell him everything I’m thinking. “But we also might get lost. So it’s a gamble.”
“We are lost.” His shoulders sag again. “This completely sucks, eh?”
“You just said ‘eh.’”
He blinks at me for a moment, then gives me a small grin. I smile back.
“How ’bout we travel west for half the day,” I suggest, “and if we don’t find a road, we’ll turn around and come back here? Whistler hasn’t even had a chance to try out her cool new booties.”
Chris raises his eyes to mine.
“Deal,” he says.
“And one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“It was me.”
“Huh?”
I try to look contrite. “I’m the one who took off your mom’s side mirror. As long as I’m telling you everything.”
He grins wider. “Now I really want to get back. Gotta make sure you pay it off.”
“Pay it off, how, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tokens, favors, an eternity of servitude—I’ll think of something.”
I’m so relieved to see his fire back, I don’t even mind the teasing.
“One’s better than nothing,” I say to myself, hanging the hare behind my back as I gather the snares. When I walk past the dogs I proudly hold it out by its feet. The dogs watch me, and I could swear they nod with approval.
When I stomp back into the cabin, I feel as if I’m in one of Dad’s old trapper movies, but I’m bringing home our next meal and Chris is cleaning the kitchen.
“Well, aren’t you looking pleased with yourself?”
I hold up the hare and Chris’s eyes grow round. “Wow! I didn’t think rabbits would be so big!”
“This isn’t a rabbit, it’s a hare.” I drop the snares on the table. “We can have half right now, and save the other half for lunch. We can cook it on the stove. We’ll just leave the door open—it’ll still work.” My mouth waters thinking about a bubbling pot of meat. “Here, hold the feet.”
Chris hesitantly reaches out. “Look at the size of these feet! They’re as long as my hand!”
“Must be why they’re called snowshoe hares. Hold tight.” I grip the skin on the legs, just below where Chris is holding, and yank down forcefully. The skin rips at the ankles and turns neatly inside out down to the head, exposing the red meat.
“Wha—Holy naked hare!”
I set to work cutting off the back straps of meat while Chris makes a fire. I’m eager to get on the trail, but eating is number one. When we sink our teeth into breakfast, I could die from the sweet flavor. It doesn’t take us long to finish the tiny pot. I consider cooking the second half right away, but decide we should save it, not knowing if we’ll get lucky again.
We pack the rest of the hare with the last of the crackers along with our small pile of gear.The energy from breakfast courses through my body and makes me feel as if everything will be all right. We can do this. Yes, we’re going home today.
24
THE DOGS ARE RARING TO GO as we hook up again. Chris is now able to harness Drift as she frantically digs, bawls, jumps, and spews white foam across his sleeve. The sled is loaded with extra supplies from the cabin, and Bean is perched on top of it all in the bag, his eyes telling me exactly how he feels about it. He impales me with the most forlorn stare. “I’m sorry, Bean, but I can’t let you run.” Whistler prances in her new booties. I take a final look around, pull the snow hook, and we charge out of the yard.
But the initial charge doesn’t last long. The dogs slow their pace and I can see that they are in desperate need of a few days’ rest.
“Homeward bound,” Chris sings beside me on the runner. We’ve adopted a system of how to share the handlebar so we don’t shove each other off balance. And the handlebar is indeed holding up well.
I tell Chris about each dog on the line as we travel. How I stayed awake all night when Bean’s litter was born. I was ten years old. It was minus thirty outside so Dad had Bean’s mom set up in the cloakroom. I watched the whole thing and saw Bean, Dorset, and Gazoo slide out, each in a glistening sac of goo, their little blind faces searching for a teat. They had looked like hamsters after a few days. Fat and furry. But it wasn’t till they were four weeks old that they were fun to play with.
“How did Bean become a leader?”
We’re climbing a hill and both of us jump off to run beside the sled and help the dogs pull it up.
“Good girl, Drift,” I call.
“Look at her pull!” Chris says.
We crest the hill, and Chris and I jump on our runners again. I glance over and see his cheeks are red with the cold air. He beams at me as he huffs.
Whenever I would talk about running the dogs back home, Sarah’s eyes would glaze over but I can see that Chris gets it. I turn back to the dogs. Everyone’s pulling with tight tugs, just much slower than our normal racing pace. If the constant worry over Bean and the fear of being lost weren’t pounding in my chest at all times, I’d actually be happy. How long had it been since I felt that?
“Bean just wanted to lead. You could tell. He listened for my voice all the time in the team, and he kept trying to look ahead of the other dogs in front of him. Bean and I have had a special connection right from the start. He didn’t even lead well for my dad.”
My heart feels full as I look down at Bean. I see Chris’s respect for him in the nod of his head.
“Dad had his own leader—Beetle. She’s so bossy. She snaps at any dog beside her who isn’t doing a good job. She’s a great leader, but too grouchy for me.”
“Uh-huh.” Chris glances at me. “Sounds like someone . . . ”
I decide to ignore that. “Bean is just there when you need him. So dependable. You should see him in a race. He’s crazy-smart.”
“Maybe I could go to your next race and watch,” Chris says. Then he quickly adds, “See Bean in action. I’ll park really far away.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod. But imagining crossing the finish line at my next race and having Chris there cheering makes me feel good.
An image of my mom comes to mind. Since Dad died, she doesn’t come to my races. I haven’t wanted her there. But today thinking of her at my next one feels good, too.
Ahead of us, the trail forks into two possible directions. “What do you think?” I ask.
“It doesn’t look like one is more used than the other, does it?”
I check the position of the sun over my shoulder. “I think we should take the left and hope it keeps going west.”
When the leaders arrive at the fork, I yell, “Haw, Blue.”
He hesitates, glances at me, then heads left, dragging Drift with him. They trot over the snow, which has hardened and is easier going.
Chris pedals with his outside leg to help the sled forward. “We could go down here for another hour and then it’d be time to turn around.”
We follow the trail out of the trees and into a wide-open space. The bank of the river is visible on the far shore. The dogs keep following the packed surface and we slide down onto the edge of the ice. I stop the team.
“Whoa. Whoa.” The dogs glance at me, questioning. Then face forward and bark.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asks.
“It’s a river.”
“Well, if there’s a trail crossing, it must be a solid river, no?”
I notice a half-buried wooden sign. Snow clings to its face so I can’t read what it says, but my pulse quickens.
I
stomp on the snow hook, then tromp through the deep snow to get closer to the sign. It’s cracked and weathered and very old, but its presence here is significant. When I brush off the snow, I can barely see a hand-painted, faded arrow pointing up.
I turn to Chris with excitement. “It’s a trail marker. There’s something across the river!”
“Yes!”
I turn and study where the trail crosses the ice. I’d better check.
I wallow back onto the trail and stomp the snow off. “Don’t worry, Bean. We’re almost there. We’re going to get you to a vet today.” I give him a pat, then dig down into the sled bag and find the hatchet.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I walk out onto the ice.
I chop once. Twice. It looks good. I move forward. Chop a few more times. Still looks good. I move ahead again.
The dogs whine to follow, but Chris holds them by standing on the snow hook that digs into the packed snow on the trail.
I creep out using this method of testing that Dad had shown me.
“Always test a river,” he said. “The current underneath can change the ice thickness from one spot to another. Take a few good chops with the blade. If it doesn’t go through, it’s thick enough to hold your weight.”
An unwelcome thought occurs: if this method works, then how did Dad fall through?
I’m halfway across, hands shaking, when I bend down to swipe at the thin snow cover to get a better look. The ice is a dark, opaque color and I can see cracks in the surface that look at least four inches thick. Plenty of ice.
I turn and hustle back to the team. “Looks safe. We’ll just zip across on the trail here.”
“That’s what I was saying.”
“Ready? All right!” The dogs surge forward and we slide onto the frozen river.
We’re good. We’re good. We’re good, I chant to myself.
We’re near the middle of the river, where the snow cover is thinnest, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I glance downstream and suck in my breath.
Two otters are playing on the ice.
No.
Too late, Drift has seen them.
“NO!” I scream as she wheels around, dragging Blue with her. Then he sees them and, without Bean up there, I know I’ve lost.
I smash the metal points of the brake into the ice, but it doesn’t do much good. On thin snow cover like this, I don’t have any control if the dogs take off.
And the dogs take off.
We’re flying down the middle of the river toward the otters. The dogs have suddenly found reserves of energy. The otters hear my screaming and look up, see the team bearing down on them, and turn to run. They have short little legs, but they can move fast when they want to. They hump along in front of us, just out of reach of the leaders.
“Blue, NO! Whoa!” I’m standing with all my weight on the brake. Chris has one foot on too, but we’re still sliding forward. Rocks and stumps sticking out of the ice blur past.
No, no, no.
“Stand on the brake!” I scream at Chris, and then throw down the hook. I crouch on the runner, one hand holding the handlebar, the other on the hook, as it slides across the surface of the ice. We slide and slide along the river. The hook bounces and skids. Then it hits a log, sticks into it, and stops us dead.
We lurch forward, almost falling over the handlebar. Amazingly, the repair job just creaks with our weight, but holds. The dogs bark, frustrated as they watch the otters slip into a hole in the ice and disappear in the water.
I glance down and freeze.
“Stay still,” I say, leaning forward slowly to unclip Bean. “This ice is . . . ”
The ice begins to crack under the sled. With both of our weights and all the gear we’ve packed in the sled, we’re far too heavy to be sitting on punky ice.
I feel the cracking through the soles of my mukluks. I grip the handlebar in horror, unable to move. The ice around us tinkles and creaks like glass.
And then it gives out.
25
I PLUNGE INTO ICY WATER SO COLD, it sucks the wind out of my lungs and I can’t catch my breath. My mind is awash in panic. I splash in blind fear. The sound of my wet gulping terrifies me. I sound like I’m drowning.
Finally my chest unclenches, and I can take a long gasp of air. Chris is beside me in the water and Bean splashes in front of me. I grab his collar and push him up. The ice breaks around his paws. He pushes away from me in panic and in the frothing white of the water, I lose sight of him.
“Bean! BEAN!”
A current is tugging me sideways. The dogs scrabble on the ice against the backwards pull of the sled in the water.
“NO!” I grab the bridle. The gangline is connected to the sled with a covered bungee and two locking carabiners. There’s no way I’m going to release it, but I tear at the connections anyway.
“Let it go!” I faintly hear Chris yelling in my ear. The sled is slowly sinking and I’m going with it. I try to clutch the ice with one hand, to keep my head above water. I don’t know how to stay afloat without the sled and nothing to grab. But even more terrifying, if it sinks, it will pull the dogs in. I reach farther down and freezing water spills over the top of my anorak. Icy daggers slice into my feet and hands.
“Come on!” Chris tugs on my arm. My hands are like claws. Pretty soon I will have no use of them. I have to get the dogs loose.
“Dorset!” She’s the only dog I can see. So precariously close to the thin ice. Don’t fall in.
“Dorset! Pu—” Water fills my mouth and I gag. Everything below my knees is numb. The pain in my hands is so intense that it feels like they’re being sawed off by a million little knives. Hot, sharp knives.
A knife! If I can get to the knife in the back pocket of the sled bag, maybe I could cut the bridle. I reach down into the freezing water but I can’t reach while holding the side of the ice. And I can’t force my head under. Shameful panic prevents me from doing everything I can to save my dogs.
Chris is yanking on the front of my anorak. I pull away.
“Get out!” Chris screams in my face.
“Sled . . . off . . . too heavy.” It’s getting harder to form words. Chris looks into the water and reaches for the sled. He yanks on it, but nothing happens.
“Sled bag.” Chris grabs at the Velcro attaching the front of the bag to the sled. It rips away and the front of the bag immediately sinks out of sight. I know it’s hanging now from the back stanchions.
Of course, the gear in the bag is what’s heavy. We have to get rid of the sled bag so the dogs can pull the sled up. But how are we going to get at the ties in the back? The sled is below the water. I kick at it with feet that are like solid blocks of ice. There’s no way I can reach.
“Please!” The only thought I have is of saving the dogs. Visions of my mom back home waiting for me are pushed back. Thoughts of how it must have been for Dad when he was in the river are pushed back, too. My dogs! They can’t be pulled in. This one goal keeps the terror of being in the water from paralyzing me.
Chris’s frantic gaze meets mine. Then he reaches down, ducking half his face under water. He must be reaching for the back stanchions. Will he be able to tear off the sled bag?
His whole head disappears and I stare at the place he went under. My heart explodes with fear. In an instant I feel the release of the weight on the sled and Chris’s head pops back up.
Gazoo and Dorset slam into their harnesses, popping their tugs with amazing force. Their nails scratch along the ice surface. The sled starts to move. And then the ice breaks under them and they fall half into the water.
“NO!” No, no, no, no.
The bridle digs into my hands as I yank on it to stop the team from being pulled in. I fight the current to push the sled, and fight for air as frigid water splashes around my nose and mouth.
The dogs try to pull the sled up, but it just breaks more of the ice as it reaches the rim. It needs a boost. I fight to pull myself onto the ice. With m
y hands sliding, I try to get a hold on the slippery surface, raise up to my chest, then fall back in. I need traction.
Then I remember what is hanging from the handlebar.
When I reach down, my numb hand closes over the familiar shape. I yank my pewter mink from the sled and claw the surface with its pointy tail. It sticks into the ice. Using it like an ice pick, I haul my torso out of the water and the ice holds me. I reach farther above my head for another grip with the ice pick, then hook my other arm around the back stanchion of the sled.
This is it. This has to work.
I haul with every bit of energy I have. I see white with the strain of it.
The wheel dogs pop back onto the ice. The sled slides over the rim. I hang on as if my life depends on it. I know if we don’t make it out now, I won’t have the strength to try again.
Chris clutches the other stanchion and the sled is pulled along to the solid surface. We slide all the way to the shore. My dogs have done it.
When we get back onto deep snow the drag of Chris and me hanging off the sled stops the team. I pull myself shakily to my knees. The snow hook lies upside down beside the sled and I kick it as I lurch to my feet and stagger toward the dogs. I turn my attention to the trail and trees around us. My gaze darts around, but there’s no sign of Bean.
“Come on! W-we have to get moving.” Chris is right. If I thought we were in trouble in the water, we’re almost guaranteed to die out here now if we don’t get warm soon.
“Everything is gone.” The sleeping bag, the matches, blankets, the snares, our lunch. We have nothing but the clothes we’re wearing. I glance down and see my anorak steaming in the air. White frost is already forming a glaze.
I remember my mom’s face when we got the news about Dad. How she spent days locked in her bedroom, not eating. I heard things crashing in there as if they’d been flung against the wall. When she emerged, she was a shell. Ghost white face instead of her normal peach skin. Dull eyes. How would she deal with losing both of us to the river? I think of how I panicked in the water. How all this time I imagined I’d been able to save Dad if I was there. I realize now that I may not have. This belief has been with me for so long, I feel naked without it. I fall onto Blue and he licks my face with a hot tongue.
Ice Dogs Page 11
