Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Spenser nodded and smiled, a reserved man with friendly eyes behind a pair of glasses with dark frames. Jessie knew him to be knowledgeable, conscientious to a fault, and it was to him that she trusted the health of all her dogs.

  “How’s it going? Your bunch doing well?”

  “Great. All healthy and happy. No thanks to that last section of trail.”

  “I know. It’s been pretty hard on teams this year. You’re lucky yours came through okay. Checked them all over?”

  “You better believe it. Can’t afford to miss anything that’ll get worse going on.”

  They watched as his partner began her examination of the dogs. Kneeling in the straw, the vet held her stethoscope to the chest of each dog, listening carefully to the heartbeat for any sign of abnormalities. As she worked, she murmured individual compliments to them for good behavior, reading their names from their collars. Used to the procedure from past examinations, the dogs cooperated easily, affectionate Darryl Two even giving her a sloppy lick under the chin as she leaned within reach to pinch up his skin, checking, as Jessie had, for dehydration.

  “You’ve got some real lovers here,” she told Jessie with a grin, and gave Two several extra pats. “They’re fine and will be better once they’re fed and watered. You giving them vitamin supplements?”

  “With every meal and watering.”

  “Good. You’re aware that Pete has a heart murmur? Athletic heart?”

  “Right. It’s been checked and disappears with two or three weeks’ rest—just the usual enlargement from strenuous exercise.”

  “Makes sense. Ten years ago they might have cut him from your team, but we keep learning a lot with every race.”

  “That would have been too bad; he’s one of my best performers.”

  “Usually are, like human athletes. We’ll be back in a while to get their resting rates. I’ll remember to check him once again before you leave, but it’s only a slight swoosh anyway. Bob, you want to scan this pack?”

  “Sure, but I’ve known these guys for years. Chipped them all in Palmer a month ago. You’re taking good care of them, Jessie. Keep it up.”

  The taller vet, likewise headlamped, stepped forward with a scanner and began by running it between the shoulders of Darryl One till he located and ascertained the number of the identification chip. As he moved down the line, he checked each number it showed against a list of dogs he was carrying on another clipboard. Twice he paused, having a little trouble locating the chip, moving the scanner back and forth over the dog in question until it evidently read out correctly, giving him the information he needed, though he frowned and seemed a bit irritated.

  “They were scanned in Whitehorse before the race,” Jessie asked the other vet. “Why are you doing it again?”

  “Oh, we’re doing it at all the checkpoints. The vet committee just wants to cross all the T’s. Might as well make use of all the new technology. We’ve even got portable EKG machines again this year.”

  Spenser finished his monitoring with Tank, who, recognizing him as a friend, rose attentively to his feet as the man approached, but lay down again as soon as he turned away.

  “All present and accounted for, Jessie,” he told her. “Ready for a good rest.”

  “Great.”

  “See you in Dawson.”

  “You going on up?”

  “Yeah, gotta play head vet there, too. Sharon will take over here until the rest come through.”

  “Thanks.”

  They left.

  Jessie fed and watered her dogs and left them curled up on the straw to rest like the other teams around them. The checkpoint was as busy as Braeburn, but the mushers who came and went regularly all tried to cause as little disturbance as possible for each other’s sleeping dogs, knowing they expected the same courtesy in return. It was less hectic, partly because the race was now well under way, but also because of the required layover and careful preparations for it.

  Since Carmacks was located on the highway between Whitehorse and Dawson, it was accessible to those following the race. Cars, vans, and trucks crowded the parking lot around the lodge at the south end of the bridge that crossed the river at this point. Handlers and support crews met the teams here, but were not allowed to assist in any physical way. They shared information and strategy with the musher they supported, but could only watch while the work was accomplished by the racer alone. Once the team had cleared the checkpoint, they could load up any leftover food and straw, already collected and bagged by the musher before leaving, but not until the team had gone on up the trail.

  Jessie had seen and spoken with her handlers when she arrived, but at her request they had left her alone to take care of her team. Now she was glad to find them where her truck and Don’s were parked among others in the lot, and to be free to compare notes with her crew of four.

  “Hey, Jessie. You’ve moved up four places,” Billy told her with a grin. “You going to win this one?”

  “Can’t tell yet.” She smiled back. “It would be a long shot, but I always give it a try. Finish in the top ten, maybe. That last section was a bitch, but we haven’t hit the hardest parts yet.”

  Don and Cas had questions about the shelter they were allowed to put up for the dogs at the Dawson checkpoint, where each musher must wait thirty-six hours before continuing. It had been constructed of poles and a large blue plastic tarp in Knik and hauled along on top of Don’s camper.

  “Can we put it up and have it ready when you get in?” Cas asked.

  “You could, I think, but why don’t you wait till I get there,” Jessie told him. “I’d like to have a look at the space and pick out a good one for the team. It won’t take long, since we already know exactly how it goes together—ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. We’ll get it off the camper, anyway.”

  “How’s your sled holding up?” Don questioned.

  “Great so far. I want to check and tighten everything and change runners in Dawson, before going over the summit to Eagle. There’s one stanchion that got a little loose between here and the lakes that I want to take a good look at. I tightened it and it’s fine now, but I want to make sure before we start over American Summit. I’ve got a roll of duct tape if I need it.”

  “I’ll go take a look—”

  “No, Don. You can’t help me here or I’ll be disqualified.”

  “Just a look. I won’t touch. Okay?”

  “Okay, but if you’ve got ideas, just tell me and I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ve got it. Which kind of runners do you want in Dawson?”

  “The yellow. These are a little beat, but they’ll hold till then. I think I’ll just replace them with the same hard plastic. They’ll be fine, especially if it stays cold.”

  “Right. I’ll have them out and ready. Anything else you’ll need?”

  “Just the usual stuff. Let’s go find something to eat in the lodge and talk about it. I’m starving. Have you guys had dinner?”

  “So long ago I’m about ready again. You need some rest soon.”

  “Yeah, but I want to eat first. Then I’ll try for about four hours. I’m pooped after that last run—it was murder in a place or two. I’ll plan to leave about seven.”

  As they crossed the parking lot a musher Jessie didn’t recognize came out the lodge door and, catching sight of her in the bright outside lights, turned in her direction with a wide grin, holding out a hand when he was close enough.

  “You’re Jessie Arnold, aren’t you? I’m Lynn Ehlers. I’ve been reading about your Iditarod and looking forward to meeting you for months, ever since I found out we’d both be running the Quest.”

  Jessie detected the hint of an accent in his voice that gave her a clue.

  “And you’re the musher from Minnesota, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Hey, I was born there.”

  “I think I read that somewhere.”

  “My folks are st
ill there, but they lived in Anchorage when my dad was stationed there for a couple of years in the Air Force.”

  “They must miss you. Go back often?”

  “Not very often, but they have a motor home and drive up the highway to Alaska for a couple of months almost every summer. My dad’s a photographer and thinks he’s gone to heaven up here.”

  “Are they here for the race?”

  “Not this one. I couldn’t compete with my sister and her husband, who’re about to give Mom and Dad their first grandchild. Besides, they’ve seen me race before.”

  “You should come down for our race—the Bear Grease.”

  “Maybe I will sometime.”

  “Great.”

  “Did I hear correctly that you drove all the way up here towing your dogs and equipment in a trailer?” Jessie asked.

  “Yup. Left six weeks ago and drove for three. Caught a blizzard in Montana. I’ve been staying with Sally Philips out on Chena Hot Springs Road outside of Fairbanks.”

  “Hey, Sally’s great. Sorry she isn’t running this year.”

  “Yeah, she helped me out a lot. Went over the whole route with me on paper and told me what to look out for. She’s playing handler for me, along with two of her friends.”

  A little older, but about the same height as Jessie, the Minnesota musher seemed taller in a long parka over shoulders broadened from years of wrestling a sled. The creases around his mouth and eyes spoke of time spent squinting into the glare of sun on snow, though they fell attractively enough into a frame for an infectious smile. The lower part of his face was covered with a neatly trimmed dark beard, enlivened with a sprinkling of gray.

  There was something attractive about outdoor people, Jessie thought, especially mushers, though maybe that was just a natural personal preference.

  Introducing him to her support crew, Jessie was impressed with the ease of his friendly interest in them.

  “Wow!” Billy exclaimed. “Minnesota’s really a long ways away.”

  “Farther than it looks on the map, for sure,” Ehlers agreed. “But the Alaska Highway and this race make it worth the drive.”

  “Come and eat with us?” Cas invited.

  “Thanks, but I just finished. It’s crowded in there anyway and I need to get some stuff done here and catch some sleep before I’m ready to leave. See you in Dawson, Jessie? Maybe we’ll have time to share war stories.”

  “Sure. Have a good run. Come on, guys, what I want is breakfast for dinner. Think they’ll do it for me?”

  The restaurant in the lodge, as Lynn had warned, was full of noise, packed with mushers, handlers, race officials, media people, and spectators who lived there, or had driven up from Whitehorse. Racers, it seemed, were being given priority, for a group of handlers who had finished eating immediately offered Jessie and her group their table, so it wasn’t long before she was focused on getting on the outside of the huge plate of ham, eggs, and country-fried potatoes the kitchen had had no trouble supplying. Smothering three pieces of toast with extra butter and jam, she washed them down with heavily sugared coffee, supplied by a waitress who hovered close with refills, clearly protective of her service provision for this particular musher.

  As Jessie took her last bite of toast and sighed happily, a television reporter, who had been lurking nearby with a cameraman in tow waiting for her to finish, politely asked for a quick interview for a Fairbanks station, so they moved outside where he could find a background that included some of the resting dogs.

  “Instant celebrity.” Don grinned. “You don’t need us. We’ll be in the camper when you’re through, okay?”

  Greeting three more mushers that she knew took another few minutes. The third was Jake Leland, questioning the absence of his stepdaughter.

  “But you haven’t seen her since yesterday evening, right?”

  “On the trail, then again in the morning as I was leaving Braeburn,” Jessie replied. “She was doing fine, running alone and still pretty keyed up about it all. You must be proud of her, Jake.”

  “Oh, I am. But right now I’m a little concerned that she’s not here yet. Hope she’s not having some kind of trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. She seemed to be taking good care of herself—and those mutts of yours,” she teased. “This last part of the trail was pretty nasty. She’s smart enough so she’s probably just going slow enough to keep from beating up her team and sled. She knows it’s gotta last for the rest of the race. No replacements.”

  “But it’s not—”

  “I know, but it’s early on, Jake. There’s less than twenty teams in so far. She’ll be along soon. Wait and see. Don’t be a mother hen.”

  He grinned, slightly chagrined. “You’re right. Don’t tell her I was fussing, okay?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Heedless of the congestion of the checkpoint, Jessie found a place to sleep in the community center’s section reserved for drivers’ rest and was sound asleep in minutes, alarm clock next to her ear.

  Later, as she was getting ready to put her team back in line and hitched up to leave, the vet Sharon returned to check Pete’s heart.

  “He’s good to go.”

  “Thanks, Sharon.”

  “Have a good trip.”

  Linda Caswell gave her a hug. “We’ll be waiting for you in Dawson.”

  “Don’t gamble away all your money at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s while you wait.”

  “We haven’t got enough to make a difference,” Linda said.

  At just after seven, the four handlers watched her pull away, go through the check-out procedure, and waved till she had vanished into the dark that was just beginning to turn gray, and all they could see was the light from her headlight bobbing along for a minute or two.

  The race was definitely under way. Besides the musher with the fractured sled, only one other had scratched in Carmacks, because of sick dogs. The other rookies had bucked up their courage and decided the veteran couldn’t be serious about the “good parts” yet to come. Twenty-one dogs had been dropped and collected by support crews. Jessie was satisfied to have her whole team still healthy and ready to make good time to Pelly Crossing, the next official checkpoint, and pleased to find that, although she wasn’t in the front-running group, her dogs were clocking times between checkpoints very close to those of the race leaders.

  Things were looking up. So far, so good.

  But where, she wondered, was Debbie Todd?

  8

  “There was a great silence, and in each man’s eyes many pictures came and went.”

  —Jack London, “An Odyssey of the North”

  JESSIE LEFT CARMACKS AT THE FIRST HINT OF APPROACHING dawn, her breath steaming in the cold air as she ran down the road past the headlights of the cars and trucks of people driving to work and taking their children to school. As she came to an intersection, a pickup stopped and the driver waved her on through. Two grade school children riding next to their dad climbed over each other in excitement to see her go by and flapped their mittened hands rigorously.

  “Good luck,” they called out the window they had cranked down, not caring that they had let out all the heat from the cab.

  The team ran along for fifteen miles on a road well packed by vehicles. It was blissfully easy running compared to the night before: up and down low hills, a quick, smooth trail. As the sun rose—just before nine—the gray half-light gave way to the deep blue shadows only possible in a world of white. The bright sunshine sparkled on each tiny crystal of snow and glittered from the crest of each drift, creating a million points of light as if the sunshine scattered diamond dust over everything it touched.

  The wind had been at work along the sides of the road, carving graceful loops and curves in the snow cliffs that had been cut sharply vertical by the steel blades that opened the way for travel. Here and there it had blown the suggestion of an arced line across the hard surface of the track: the wind’s subtle reminder that it had not yet finishe
d with its creative sculpting, and could return powerfully at any moment to reshape the world with its own vision, obliterating that of men who drove plows. Jessie looked back and almost regretted the disruption her dogs’ feet and her sled’s runners had made in the smooth, natural, lovely shape of it.

  An hour out of Carmacks, Jim Ryan caught up and settled his team into a companionable trot just behind her, gesturing her to go ahead when she offered to give him room to pass. She wondered if she had lost the racer in the blue and yellow parka at the checkpoint. Perhaps he had gone out ahead of her, or was still back at the checkpoint, resting.

  It was good to see Ryan, for Jessie had had little time to visit with him when he took her to meet Debbie Todd before the start of the race. They were old friends, had run together before, and enjoyed each other’s company.

  The trail followed the gently sloping plowed road for the next hour, but soon gave the pair of mushers a taste of more rugged country as it dropped back and forth onto the Yukon several times with steep descents and climbs through small gullies. Traveling in the daylight made it possible to see what lay ahead, but going downhill they struggled to keep their heavy sleds from catching up with the wheel dogs and they added their weight and energy to push the sled when going up the banks. Once they found it easier to join forces in pushing the sleds one at a time to the top of a particularly steep rise.

  The country in this part of the Yukon Territory was heavily forested, with more impressive hills and valleys, and the swift river cut a deeper gorge through much of it, twisting and winding through canyons, with a few rapids that had frustrated Klondike stampeders in boats a hundred years earlier. Frozen, these rapids were no threat to the travelers on sleds, except for the uneven surface of the thawed and refrozen ice. The banks were crowded with heavy willow, brush, and stands of birch and a few poplar thrusting bare limbs skyward like skeleton fingers.

  The ice of the Yukon was rough, and the wind had blown the snow from much of the brilliant broken surface that glistened in the sunlight. Sharp as shards of glass, the ice was not easy on the dogs’ feet and both Jessie and Ryan stopped more than once to check them and replace booties that had been lost or worn through on the abrasive shards.