Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “Good luck, Jessie,” someone called from the bluff.

  She looked up, smiled, and waved as her dogs, trotting steadily along, drew her heavy sled smoothly past the viewpoint.

  Close behind her another musher in a blue and yellow parka passed, and once again the watcher’s attention was caught. He remained motionless until the man riding the back of the sled looked up as if searching the top of the bluff for someone. Then, for the first time, the watcher raised an arm, not in a wave, but clearly a gesture intended to attract the musher’s notice. The driver lifted one gloved hand from the handles of his sled, just high enough to indicate that he had seen the motion, and continued on up the river.

  As soon as the musher had departed, the watcher’s concentrated interest evaporated completely. He walked swiftly from the riverbank to a pickup parked at the side of the road, climbed in, turned it around, and drove east, the way he had come, toward the highway.

  The woman whose question he had ignored was the only person to note his exit.

  “Bastard,” she commented under her breath as she watched him go. Then she turned back to wait for her cousin to drive his team into view below.

  5

  “The white woods, and earth, and moonlight…. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air—nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air.”

  —Jack London, “The Dominant Primordial Beast”

  JESSIE TRULY LOVED HER DOGS. THEY WERE A LARGE PART of the reason she raced and ran a kennel. The rest fell somewhere between her competitive spirit and a deep appreciation of the Alaskan wilderness. With a team of sled dogs it was possible to get away from towns, roads, and people, and come close to being a part of the vast uninhabited northern country unsullied by the disturbing racket and pollution of an engine. She liked traveling quietly through stillness broken only by the soft susurrus of runners over snow and the unobtrusive, natural animal sounds of the dogs.

  In the early days, dog teams had been the only option for winter travel between villages and mining communities. Modern Alaskans in rural areas had for the most part given up their dogs and sleds for snowmachines, a faster, easier way to cross country. Their howling engines, however, destroyed the great silence in the same way that those of planes or power boats drowned out all other sound. Jessie favored her sled for the same reason she preferred gliders and sailboats: It intruded less on the environment.

  Long after dropping Billy where the trail ran over the railroad tracks and dropped onto the Yukon River for the first leg of the race, she was loosening up, relieved that she was finally on her way, glad to be almost alone in the peaceful ivory monotone of winter for the first time in days.

  The strong, rolling country of this part of the Yukon Territory spread out around her in a world that retained only its shape, for its colors had shifted from lush summer greens and blues, and the brilliant golds and scarlets of fall, to a crystal white that softened the lines of everything it blanketed. The hills and valleys, like some of the northern animals—the hare, the ermine, the ptarmigan that traded their hues for a white to match the snow—flowed away: a pale, colorless world. Though at first impression the country might seem bleached, careful attention revealed it to be a setting of stark contrasts between snow and the black of spruce, the deep blues and purples of the long shadows cast by a sun that hung low in the sky even at its highest point. An ever-changing panorama of silhouettes, of line and contour, it was an environment that never failed to raise Jessie’s spirits along with an appreciation of the surroundings and circumstances she had chosen for herself.

  She came by her choices naturally, for her parents had always encouraged independence in both their daughters. Her father had always loved the outdoors and much of Jessie’s childhood had been spent on hikes and camping trips.

  “People make noise,” he had often told her. “Nature makes music, if you listen.”

  She had been listening for as long as she could remember.

  “You can pretty much figure out who you are—or who you want to be—if you get away from the civilized racket,” she remembered him saying, and smiled as she glided along the track of the mushers who were running ahead of her. It felt so good to be away from the civilized racket of the last few days.

  Several teams had gone past her on the Yukon and Takhini rivers, as racers reshuffled themselves into a more reasonable running order, fastest teams moving forward, slower ones falling behind. The luck of the draw did not take into account the experience or speed of individual mushers, but randomly cast them out upon the trail, leaving them to sort out the swift from the tardy. Though she had politely requested the trail to pass some slower teams and would continue to catch up with more before reaching the first official checkpoint at Carmacks, she had not had a problem holding her dogs to a steady, comfortable, ground-covering trot. She was pleased and proud of this team, knowing they were in their prime, perfectly conditioned and ready for the race.

  After a long run up the Takhini, the trail turned right and up the bank onto a cat trail someone had graded out to run a trapline. It wound back and forth through an aspen forest, a change from the frozen surface of the river, but snow in this area had been light and there were spaces with little cover that forced the team to run on partial dirt and rocks that scraped the sled and made Jessie glad she had chosen the heaviest plastic runners for this first part of the race. Besides the trees, there were stumps that had to be carefully avoided to keep from high-centering her toboggan-style sled, or banging it or a dog against them in a turn. Mostly, this was just a bush trail, a minimal track, and not well kept. She was glad to be running it in the last of the dying light to be able to see quickly what came up ahead. When it finally ended in a wider road, she was relieved to be out in a more open area.

  It was an old road, originally part of the old Dawson-Whitehorse Overland Trail, the winter stage route between the two communities. She thought about the sleds that had traveled it, sometimes carrying passengers, who, less important than mail and freight, often had to walk to lighten the load for the dogs. Leading to Braeburn, a small lake with a lodge, this route had added perhaps thirty miles to the race and eliminated a previous one which had included Lake Laberge, made famous by Robert Service in his humorous poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” Crossing the ice of Laberge had not been appreciated by some of the mushers, who did not like running ice over deep water, and who said they grew as bored as their dogs at going in a straight, flat line for sixty miles. Others were disappointed that the lake was now only a part of Yukon Quest history; they’d enjoyed the open country and smooth running of the well-maintained and traditional trail. In certain weather conditions, however, there had been occasional sections of open water and fog on the lake, a hazardous combination.

  Daylight faded and was gone by the time Jessie left the bush trail for the road, so she had paused to put on her headlamp and switch it on. The tunnel of light that resulted allowed her to see her team stretched out ahead of her sled, but the bright artificial light destroyed her night vision. She was sorry to lose sight of the country through which she was traveling, but glad enough to be running through a variety of trail conditions. Though changing conditions made the run more interesting for the musher, she had initially been a little disappointed not to run across the famous lake and, before the race, had taken one training run over part of its expanse just out of curiosity.

  Now, as she cruised along between low berms at the side of the road, recalling the lake’s broad expanse of flat ice, Jessie glanced back to see if anyone was close, gave in to temptation, and loudly recited the opening of Service’s well-known verse.

  “‘There are strange things done in the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold;

  The Arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold;

  The Northern Lights have seen qu
eer sights,

  But the queerest they ever did see

  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

  I cremated Sam McGee.’”

  Tank turned his head to glance back at the sound of her voice, but did not hesitate, used to Jessie’s habit of talking to herself or singing as they traveled. She laughed as he returned to his task as leader, accepting her recitation as normal, if curious behavior. Alex would be proud of me, she thought, as the sound of the poem reminded her once again of her absent companion, who loved to soliloquize and knew scraps of dozens of poems. The glaring errors he included in most of his repertoire were part of the charm of hearing him expound, but as far as she could remember she had quoted this correctly.

  In the rush and confusion of last-minute preparation for the Quest, she had had several short telephone conversations with him, none more than adequate, and a couple of which had left her decidedly dissatisfied. The funeral in Idaho was over and he seemed disinclined to discuss it or the situation there, except to say that he would be staying awhile longer and his mother was growing a little more reconciled to living without her husband, though still taking it hard.

  Late on the evening before the race, he had called to wish Jessie luck. Unfortunately, dealing with a dozen last-minute decisions, caring for two sick dogs and Tux, the black and white two-year-old who had developed a sore paw on a training run, had narrowed Jessie’s attention and limited its span. At Alex’s suggestion, she had gone back out to treat the dog, leaving Cas to finish the call. Now, with time to consider, it gnawed at her, and she remembered that Cas had answered a subsequent question about their chat almost too quickly with, “Just trooper stuff.”

  “What do you mean, trooper stuff?”

  “Oh, nothing big. Said he’s helping the local deputy sheriff with a sticky assault case. Keeping his hand in, I guess.”

  “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Just retired.”

  “Oh, well…”

  Something about his tone had bothered her. As she was turning the memory over in her mind, she became aware of something ahead—another team, halted in the old road. As she approached, she could see that the musher was switching the order of the dogs on the gang line, changing leaders. Instead of pulling out to pass, she drew up behind the stationary sled, set the snow hook, and walked forward to greet Deborah Todd.

  “How’s it going, Debbie?”

  “Great.” The girl looked up with a smile. “Just stopped to snack my dogs and put Spunky in the lead for a while.”

  “I was just about to snack mine, take a quick break, then go a little farther before I give them a long rest. Want to share some peppermint tea?”

  “Sure. I’ll pull my rig over a little.”

  Though there was plenty of room on the road, they both moved their teams to the side of the track to allow following mushers plenty of room to pass, lining them up side by side. As Jessie gave each of her dogs a snack, she had a chance to take a good look at the strong team of dogs the girl was driving. Debbie brought an insulated mug and they settled on top of Jessie’s sled to sip the tea she poured still hot from her large thermos.

  Knowing from past experience the dehydrating effects of traveling in subzero temperatures, Jessie was careful to include lots of liquid in her racing diet. Mushers were always drinking something and carried it close at hand in unbreakable thermoses to keep it from freezing. Dehydration was a condition encouraged by cold weather, both for drivers and dogs, a thing to be guarded against at all costs.

  “Did you notice the pine trees back there?” Debbie asked.

  “Sure did. They make the spruce we have in Knik seem stunted. I forget how tall trees can be.”

  “They’re even more stunted in Fairbanks. I wish we had some this tall. They make me feel at home.”

  “Where was home before you moved to Alaska?”

  “Montana, just outside of Billings. But I really like it up here. I wouldn’t move back now.”

  Jessie returned to examining the younger woman’s dogs.

  “Looks like you’ve got a couple of Jake’s mutts in your string,” Jessie commented. “Isn’t that Royal?” She indicated a cream-colored dog harnessed in swing position, second in line, that she recognized from media photos of Leland. It was not unusual for members of a racing family to share a few of the same dogs. But Jessie thought Jake must respect his stepdaughter’s ability as a musher if he was willing to offer her one of his best as a backup leader.

  “Yeah, it sure is. He loaned me Royal and three of his younger ones that need some distance experience. Spunky’s mine, though.”

  The lead dog she had just replaced looked up and cocked his head at the sound of his name, revealing eyes of two different colors, one blue, one the brown color of the tea they were drinking. Tradition, or consistent rumor, indicated the odd combination meant that somehow in his history he was related to some of the fine racing dogs bred by George Attla, a talented musher famous in the earlier days of modern sled dog racing. Jessie had always wondered if it was true.

  “How long have you been racing, Debbie?”

  “Ever since I was little. I had one old dog and a beat-up sled when I was nine, the year Mom and Jake got married. Greaser was really past racing, but he hated to be left in the yard, so Jake gave him to me and I learned a lot from him. But I’ve never done a big race like this before.”

  “It’s not much different than a lot of training runs when you stay out for a night or two. You just don’t get to go home, clean up in between, and eat a meal your mom cooked.” Jessie smiled to herself, remembering how it had seemed that her first Iditarod was never going to end. “Do you like going by yourself? You haven’t hooked up with any of the other younger rookies.”

  The idea made Jessie suddenly aware of the considerable difference in their ages.

  “Yeah, well”—Debbie frowned slightly—“I know some of them from junior races and may do that later, when it gets tougher. But Jake said I’d be better off to run my own race, at least as far as Carmacks. Get settled into it at my own speed.”

  “Good advice.”

  So she was listening to her stepfather, Jessie thought with approval.

  They were both bare-handed, warming their fingers on the mugs of tea. Jessie saw that, in addition to her heavy outer mitts, Debbie wore a pair of bright, hand-knitted mittens around her neck on an idiot string.

  Noticing the girl’s free hand in motion, she glanced down to see what Debbie was doing with the cord meant to tighten the bottom of her parka. It wasn’t idle fiddling. Without looking, she was tying specific, useful knots in the end of the cord she had pulled through to be longer on one side, practicing. As Jessie watched, she tied a quick bowline one-handed, then loosened it and did two running eights.

  “You’re pretty good at that.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I still get bowlines wrong sometimes. I want to be able to do them without thinking, even in the dark, and when I’ve got to hold on to something else with the other hand.” She grinned. “I woke up in the middle of the night last week trying to tie an end loop in the lamp cord by my bed.”

  They looked up as another team come into view and watched as the musher passed them with a wave.

  “Who was that?” Debbie asked.

  Jessie shook her head and shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Seems odd, though, not to know most of the drivers. I do on the Iditarod.”

  “Bet you know more than I do.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. You must meet a lot of them through Jake.”

  Debbie drained the last of the tea from her mug and stood up, leaving the last running eight still tied in the cord of her parka. Hesitantly, she turned to Jessie with a question.

  “Would you mind…I mean, if there’s something I don’t understand, could I ask you?”

  “Sure, Debbie. I hope you will…if I’m around.”

  “Right. You’re probably gonna go faster than I will, but…thanks. And thanks for the tea, it was great. Never had pe
ppermint before.”

  “My favorite. More?”

  “No, thanks. Think I’ll get back on the road.”

  “Better dig out your headlamp. It’s pretty dark.”

  “I already did.” She grinned. “I just took it off when I stopped.”

  She started toward her sled, then turned back. “Do the trailbreakers turn around for some reason?”

  “Turn around?”

  “Yeah. Head back to Whitehorse? Do they only go part of the way—then let another one take over?”

  “No. Especially not this close to the start. They might trade off later, but I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Nothing, really, except I kept hearing a snowmachine about an hour ago. It wasn’t going very fast, but it was a long time before the sound stopped. I was just wondering.”

  “Probably someone out for a Sunday run, or to watch the first part of the race. They’re not supposed to get close enough to bother the dogs, but we’re still close to town.”

  “I hope they stay a long ways away. I hate snowmachines.” She paused, hunching her shoulders in a shiver. “One ran head-on into my team three years ago. Killed one of my dogs…a good one…and hurt two more. They still scare me—especially the sound of one I can’t see and can’t tell where it is.”

  Jessie frowned and bit her lip in sympathy. It was a musher’s worst nightmare: Some egotistical snowmachine drivers, overcome with the power of the machines they rode, roared along too fast to avoid a team they couldn’t hear or see over the sound of their transportation, on trails too narrow to avoid disastrous collisions.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Debbie. I wouldn’t worry too much during a race like this, though. It’s been posted and they know which trails not to use. It was off somewhere else, I think.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably what it was.”

  “Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of trail broken just for us, unless it decides to dump snow. Then you just follow the markers. They’re not usually more than a mile apart and they mark troublesome spots with two markers crossed in an X. You’ll be just fine.”