Ice Dogs (12 page)

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.

A
NOTHER 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.

I
NSIDE, 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.”

“I don't remember you doing anything but screaming.” I laugh at his mock look of surprise. Then I laugh harder at his reenactment of my snowshoe fling. He pretends he's the moose and grabs his nose, wobbles around the table.

“Okay, Mr. Moose. I need your help to set these snares while we wait for supper to cook.”

He stands straight. “Me? I'm not much of a trapper.”

“That's okay. You can hold the light.” I point to the lantern. “We need to set these tonight if we hope to eat breakfast in the morning.” I grab the six prepared snares and the hatchet from the sled.

We head toward the river, where I saw a small stand of willow and stunted spruce trees. Chris tramps behind me in the same deep footprints that I'm making. I hold the lantern out in front of me as I scan the snow ahead.

“There!” I point to a worn trail through the trees. “That's a snowshoe hare run. They've been coming through here. The tracks are fresh.”

We follow the trail till we get to what looks like the narrowest spot between the brush. I stop, and Chris crashes into me.

“Would you pay attention? You're worse than the dogs.”

Chris huffs in my ear. “What are you doing now?”

I hand him the lantern and reach to hack at an alder sapling. “I'm going to tie the snare to this pole, wedge it into the snow so the wire hangs over the trail, right where they run through, see?” I adjust the alder so the wire hangs about three inches off the ground, like Dad had shown me.

“So, we get to eat meat tomorrow?” Chris shines the light directly in my eyes as he turns to me.

“That's the idea,” I say, holding my hand out to block the light.

I complete the set by breaking off a few twigs and placing them strategically next to the snare to hold it open, and keep it hidden. Then I rise, brushing snow off my knees. “See? Easy. Now you can do the next one.”

I'm strangely proud as I coach Chris over the next few sets. I'm also annoyed when he falls into one and snares his own foot, ruining that run with his tracks, but when it comes to Chris, I'm getting used to it. We stomp back to the cabin, joking and shoving each other. It feels so good to have some control over this situation. We can set snares to feed ourselves. This changes everything. Maybe we can survive out here.

The dogs' dinner is soaked. As I carry the bucket down the stairs, Blue is the first to sound the alarm. All six leap to their feet, barking hysterically.

Chris hangs the lantern on the woodshed, then holds the two dishes out as I plop some of the contents from the bucket. He puts the dishes in front of the first two dogs, Bean and Drift. They pounce, making slurping noises as they gulp the food. I smile wide. My dogs are eating.

I feed the rest of the dogs down the line as Chris visits with Blue.

“Look at his eyes!” He tentatively pets the dog's head.

Predictably, Blue jams his nose under Chris's legs. “Whoa!” The dog buries his head then lifts his muzzle up as he's done with me a hundred times.

“He wants you to scratch his back.” I don't mention that Chris has come a long way from being terrified of the dogs.

On the other side of me, Dorset lies on her back on her nest with her back legs spread indecently. Chris laughs and rubs her belly.

After Bean has finished his bowl, I remove the snow pack from his shoulder and take the wet gauze off. His gash is weeping clear fluid, and I bite my lip. I can't imagine a worse scenario than having a dog with an infection out here and not having anything to give him for it. I consider carrying him to the cabin, but almost as if he senses what I'm thinking, he drops down again to his bed of straw. He stares up at me as if to say he's staying put. I pat his head and nod. “Okay, chum. Whatever makes you happy.”