by Jo Storm
There was a bitter taste in her mouth of bile. She felt sick. What if it had been the supply bag she’d left outside? Then they would have lost everything, the first-aid kit and the food and the stove and the fuel and the matches — everything. Still, as it was, they’d lost the ability to find out what kind of weather was coming, their alternative light source, and their clean clothes. She was lucky she had taken out the new socks when she had. They had only the clothes they were now wearing left.
She peered over the edge of the shelf down to the next one, but saw nothing, just row after snowed-in row. Kneeling in the snow, she pounded at her legs in frustration.
“Hey, stop that,” said Peter from over by the sled.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should have known better than to leave it outside!”
“What else could you do, leave the dogs outside?”
“I should have stuck it under the sled. I should have known.”
Peter continued putting their gear into the sled. “It was a blizzard. I should have known to keep my snowshoes secure instead of having them loose, and look what happened. The crampons could have cut the dogs, and then where would we be?”
But it didn’t matter what he said, because the only thing she could control was her own actions, and she couldn’t bear to think that every single action she’d taken since leaving Kelli and her mom had been wrong. She took a shaky breath, moving away in her head from the idea that they had almost lost everything as she stood up and drew away from the edge.
“We still have the important bag.” She looked up. “And for once, it’s not snowing.”
“And we’re close,” added Peter. “We can get there. We can get there today.”
She nodded. “Nook, line out! Rudy, Bogey, line out!”
The dogs stood, lining out. Peter limped over and hauled himself into the sled. Hannah took her place, calling to the dogs to start. The sled rose slowly and jaggedly, taking them up and out of the quarry and then onto the trail that led to Timmins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sled tilted from side to side. Hannah had her head down, pushing and poling hard to get them up the side of the quarry, over the lip, and back into the bush, when she felt the sled pull more on the right than on the left. She looked up. Something was wrong; Nook’s head was raised, and so was her tail. The other three dogs were still pulling, but Nook’s lines were slack. The big dog looked from side to side as though she were taking in the scenery instead of leading a dogsled team.
They were still on the hill, and the sled slid back a bit when Hannah stepped off the runners. The dogs hunched their shoulders and dug in to keep it still. She spared a moment to laugh: there were lots of ways to stop the sled from going forward, but none for stopping it going backward. She kept her hand on the side of the sled and then on the gangline as she walked to the front.
“Nook, what’s up?” she said. “Let’s go, Nook, come on girl, get up.”
The husky turned back to the trail and began to pull again, and the team followed, Hannah pushing and poling again once the sled slid by. Near the top, she tripped and fell, breathing heavily from the exertion. The sled crested the ridge and stopped dead. Hannah got up and shuffled over the edge as well. “How did you get them to stop?” she asked.
Peter turned in the basket, the emergency blanket crinkling. “I didn’t. She just stopped by herself.”
Hannah looked down the line to where Nook was lying down, looking off into the bush again. Hannah walked forward and knelt down beside the dog, frowning. Nook laid her head on her paws and sighed. Hannah checked the husky again: teeth and ears, her feet and legs, her chest, the fit of her harness. Everything was fine. The lead dog kept her eyes open, watching Hannah. She wasn’t interested in food, and she didn’t move even when Hannah let her off the gangline completely. She stayed in the line, lying still.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Peter.
“I don’t know,” said Hannah, shaking her head. “She ate fine this morning.”
“Maybe she has an upset stomach.”
“Maybe,” said Hannah. She watched Nook carefully; the husky’s eyes looked everywhere but at the trail. The other dogs looked around, too, but none of them avoided looking at the trail. And when they did, they showed no signs of alarm. So it wasn’t an animal. And it wasn’t an injury.
What else could it be?
“Maybe she’s tired,” said Peter.
“She runs all day, every day, with Pierre,” said Hannah. “She pulls heavier loads than this, and for longer runs.” She placed her hand gently under Nook’s belly to get her to stand. The old husky stood willingly, but again her eyes swept along the bush, at the other dogs, quickly over Hannah. When she did look up the trail, the trembling began again.
Hannah looked over her shoulder and down the trail. A little way along, it dipped out of sight. It was nothing alarming, just another corner that they couldn’t see around. After a while, Hannah had stopped trying to guess which way the trail was going to lead, because it was too tiring to be so alert all the time. She had trusted that Nook would lead them through safely.
Hannah felt a flash of comprehension. Nook had led the team through blizzards, fights, floods, gunshots, and animal encounters, all the while teaching two new dogs how to pull and run and not complain, learning how to work with a new driver, and putting up with a human who feared her. She wasn’t physically tired; she was mentally tired.
“I think she needs a break,” said Hannah.
“We can’t stop now, we’re way too close.”
“No, I mean she needs like a brain break. A break from leading the team.”
“She’s a dog pulling a sled. It’s not a hard job.”
She shook her head. “It is a hard job. Dealing with you and me, the two house dogs, a new trail, the weather, the wrong harness, the animals …”
Peter lifted his blanket and rearranged his leg.
“Okay, just unhook her, then.”
“And then what?”
“And then, I don’t know, she’ll run along beside?”
Hannah considered. They were all tired, maybe with the exception of Rudy, who also ran all day, every day. Like most sled dogs, he knew how to take advantage of rest times, and unlike Nook, he had no responsibilities except following the dog ahead of him and pulling hard. But running the team without Nook? Nook was the one they all depended on; other dogs ran alongside her, not the other way around.
Hannah swallowed the cold air. She knew she needed both sled dogs. They listened and followed and calmed things down; they gave the house dogs focus. She would keep Nook in the gangline — just not at the front as its leader.
She bent down and unhooked Nook’s neckline and tugline, then walked a bit down the trail and called the husky to her. Nook came willingly, turning her body sideways on the trail. For a few minutes, Hannah did nothing but pet her and rub her body, saying soothing things and massaging her through the harness. Then she walked back to the sled with Nook following. The husky went right past the other three dogs, ignoring them, and started back down the trail the way they had come. Hannah picked up the back of her harness and pulled her back.
Immediately, the husky lowered her head and began pulling against Hannah, slow and steady. Hannah called her to stop, easing up and dropping the harness.
Nook could still pull, which meant Hannah’s team was intact. There was just one problem: she had no lead dog.
A lead dog was not trained overnight. That much Hannah knew. While the other dogs ran because everyone else was running, the lead dog was the one who decided how fast, how far, and where. She chose the route, responded to the commands of the musher, and set the pace. She was usually the boss of the team, too, the de facto leader who set the rules for the pack: who could sniff whom, who ate where, who peed where. She disciplined the wayward dogs, the way Nook had done with Sencha when Sencha first resisted running with the team.
Now who would fill all of those roles?
&
nbsp; Hannah walked around the sled, observing the dogs and noticing what each one was doing. Sencha watched her eagerly, moving a bit in the traces to follow her left, right, forward as Hannah circled. That was not good; even though Sencha was eager to please, the energetic Dal was better being told what to do and following those instructions. She would have been good at disciplining, as she liked to be the boss of every situation, but neither Rudy nor Bogey was prone to making mistakes or mischief.
Off in the distance, the snapping bark of a poplar tree popping in the cold made Sencha jump and look around, completely losing focus on Hannah as she twisted wildly, trying to find the source of the sound.
Well, that settled it. Sencha would not be the lead dog.
Hannah circled the sled again, watching Bogey and Rudy. Rudy felt duller than Bogey somehow, almost passive, even though she knew that of all the dogs, Rudy knew the job the best and had the most stamina. Rudy would be a passable lead dog, but he wouldn’t be the best at making decisions, because he had always followed.
Bogey turned his wide brown head to watch her, but then he looked back up the trail. Bogey would be the best of the bunch. He wasn’t ever startled off the trail by popping up, and he was beginning to get the itch — not just to run and pull, but also to quest out where they were going. He was big and strong and he led by example. He didn’t back down in a fight, but he wasn’t mean or a bully.
She would leave Sencha where she was: at the front, beside the lead dog. Supported by Sencha’s enthusiasm to just do things and Rudy’s work ethic as the wheel dog, Bogey would have the best chance of leading. Nook would run behind Bogey, still on the team, but without all the responsibilities.
So she unhooked Bogey’s neckline and snapped him into the lead, moving Nook back into the gangline, but now beside Rudy. Then she lined out her new team. Bogey looked up the trail, his head up, sniffing the air. She checked one more time to make sure that the packs were as secure as she could make them. Then she stepped on the runners and yelled, “Get up!”
And chaos happened. Nook lifted her head but didn’t move. Rudy heaved once, saw that no one else was doing it, and quit. Sencha rabbited into the side of Bogey, confused by the change in leadership, and her spooked cry startled the Lab, who shied sideways, then began to back up, tail down. In the space of three heartbeats, the whole gangline was a tangled mess.
Dogs, Hannah reminded herself as she hauled the recalcitrant Dalmatian back into line and coaxed Bogey forward to a lined-out position so she could untangle them, are not humans. So, while in her mind Bogey was the best fit, he obviously couldn’t read her mind or discuss being the lead dog with her. He would need some help.
She thought about it. The Lab was unsure of how to start, but Hannah was fairly confident that once he got going, he would be okay; just the act of running itself solved many problems, she was beginning to understand. When in doubt, you did something physical, just like her personal mantra, the next thing.
Until now, the sound of Hannah’s voice, coupled with the jerk of the harness as Nook pulled him forward, was what got Bogey going. She would try replicating that. She went back to the packsack, grabbed a lead, and snapped it to Bogey’s collar. She lined out ahead of the Lab and yelled, “Get up!” This time she started to run. Her timing was off and there was another muddle, and she had to stop and untangle everyone. Twice more she lined them out and started the team as though she were the lead dog. Each time, they got a bit smoother, but they’d also eventually cue wrong off each other, and in their confusion, get hopelessly tangled up. In a way, it was a small miracle they had gotten through all they had so far without something like this happening. Nook, Hannah was learning, was despite her age a very, very valuable dog.
Yelling wouldn’t solve anything. This many days into the running, Hannah could predict what would happen: Sencha would cower and become stubborn, Rudy would ignore it and continue to do what the pack leader said, and Bogey would shut down and refuse to do anything. So Hannah wrestled with her frustration and with the nagging fear they were losing too much time on the trail, and she lined out the team and tried again.
Three more starts — each one minutely better than the last. Hannah was hot and tired, but didn’t dare take her coat off in case they got going. On the second-to-last try, she turned to see Bogey put his head down as he pulled — just before they got hopelessly tangled up again — and she knew it was a good sign. It meant he was relaxing and just doing the work. They had only gotten tangled because she had stopped and turned, breaking his concentration.
She gave herself a few moments to catch her breath. Kneeling down by Bogey’s side, Hannah grabbed his jowls playfully and rubbed his ears. He licked her face, not overly concerned that he was failing miserably as their new lead dog. She put her forehead to his. “You’re going to do it this time, Bogey. We have to get going, okay? The faster we get there, the faster you get to lie down by a fire somewhere with a big disgusting bone.” She stood up and ruffled Bogey’s head one more time. He shook himself, and she lined out the dogs, but this time, instead of standing in front of Bogey, she stood beside him.
“Okay, let’s go, get up!” she cried again, and they all began to pull. She laboured beside the Labrador for a few moments, and then, as she slowed, called out, “On by! On by!” as though she were a mere distraction, and they should just ignore her and keep going. Bogey hesitated.
“Get up, Bogey! Get up!” The Lab swung his head back toward the trail, and the line straightened. He glanced once more at her, then pulled back to the centre of the trail and kept running. Sencha went by, then Rudy. Their heads were lifted, but they followed their lead dog. Nook’s head was low, her body relaxed, just pulling.
“Good boy, Bogey! Hike! Hike!” Hannah began running again and caught the bow handle as it went by, jumping with one foot onto the runners and poling hard with the other to keep the sled feeling light and easy to pull. Rudy’s tail dropped, then Sencha’s, and the sled shushed on.
“I think he’s got it this time,” said Peter.
“Good guys, good guys!” she hollered. “Let’s go!”
The sled moved a little slower, and she knew she would have to rest a bit more often, but she let those worries lie dormant. They were moving in the right direction, and once again, it seemed everything was possible. Her empty stomach, the aches and pains, Peter’s surliness — all of that faded.
“Did you see that?” she shouted at the trees. “We’re doing it! Woooo-hoooo!” she shouted. “Good guys, good guys! Get up!”
They ran. The bush was thinner here; the quarry had been located up high in the side of a large rocky hill. These were old, old mountains now worn down to nubs, their tops clear of snow and a steady ochre that warmed to the winter sun. The team rushed over the cobbled skeleton of the Canadian Shield, leaving the thicker, darker bush a gloomy cloud below them. She saw more hares, their white bodies startlingly big, explode to the left and right. She saw them before the dogs this time because she was actively looking for them. She watched the trail and the dogs and the hares; if the hares were blindside to the dogs, she said nothing, but if they were somewhere she thought the dogs might see them, she would call out, “On by! On by!” again.
Neither Sencha nor Bogey really knew what that command meant, but Bogey took his cue from her encouraging let’s run voice, and Sencha reacted to that now, instead of to her instincts. Even if she paused, her predator’s nose or ears or eyes taking over for a moment, she would be pulled along in the traces and recover.
As the sled flexed and bounded forward, Hannah looked at Bogey. His head was rising — so were the other dogs’ heads, even Nook’s. Unease grew in her belly, and she flipped down the drag mat, pressing lightly to let the dogs know she was listening.
The trail had been following a series of small hills with short plateaus, but now it turned, and they ran downhill alongside an unnaturally wide swath of snow. On their left, the bush continued, an endless thicket of poplar and willow and smaller
leggy conifers — forest that had been cut down, but was growing back now. Hannah’s father called it scrub bush.
On their right, yellow plastic poles stuck up out of the cleared ground, and in other places, there were long metals rods taller than Hannah painted blue with CAUTION symbols painted on them.
But that wasn’t what was disturbing the dogs. What interested them was about a hundred metres ahead, loping in the same direction they were. Hannah felt as though the world had moved sideways a step. A dog? Out here? Strange instincts rose in her mind. She could use that dog — catch it and use it.
Then the dog turned its head to look behind it, and Hannah’s instincts were drowned out by another, even older instinct; it didn’t come from her thoughts, but originated in her whole body, twisting her wrists outward and locking her elbows and making her stamp hard on the drag mat.
It was not a dog. It was a wolf. And now it was less than ten metres away.
The wolf was almost twice the size of Rudy, both in height and girth. Nothing about those yellow eyes that stared at them said dog. That was the first thing Hannah noticed — or, rather, felt through her whole body. The wolf’s muzzle was long and tapered, and its legs were also long and thin next to the thickness of its fur, which puffed out in the cold, making it look almost sheep-like. Outside of this forest, it may have looked gangly, or awkward. But it didn’t look like that here. Here, it looked like what it was: the apex predator, top of the food chain.
She abandoned the drag mat and punched down on the two-pronged brake. It dug into the snow and stopped the sled without ceremony; Peter lurched forward and Hannah slammed her belly into the bow of the sled, losing her breath for a moment.
All four dogs knew that this was no dog, and certainly no friend. The gangline slackened just a little bit as they faced the wolf, drawing together into an even smaller, tighter pack. Bogey, the closest to the wolf, had his ears flat to his head, and the lips of his wide brown muzzle were stretched back as far as they would go to reveal all of his teeth and most of his gums. Beside him, Sencha stood stock-still in a half crouch. The hair along her entire back was raised. She moved at such a glacial pace that there was almost a minute between her lifting her paw and taking a step forward.