Ice Dogs Read Free Page A

I wish Uncle Leonard wasn’t going ice fishing today, but I don’t need him either. I can get to Cook’s myself. Really, what does a couple more years matter? It’s not as if I don’t know how to handle the truck now. A license is just a piece of paper.
    Before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry to the closet to find the topographic maps. I’m not exactly sure which roads to take to get to Cook’s. I mentally kick myself again for leaving the race yesterday before I spoke to him. He and Dad were friends, but I’ve never been to his house.
    The dogs’ song ends abruptly just as I find the topo map. I lay it out on the kitchen table and bend over, tracing a path with my finger all the way to town—if you could call tiny Spruce River a town—then on to the other side.
    I grunt a little in annoyance. There’s really no way I can drive there without traveling the main roads. Any cop who happens to glance over and see what looks like a nine-year-old peering over the steering wheel will surely pull me over.
    I finger the chicken-pock scar beside my ear. Maybe I don’t need the truck. If I follow the trail network behind the dog yard until the power line, I could cut through the brush there, hook on to the trappers’ trails, and eventually get to Cook’s. If I drive, the trip is maybe fifty miles, but cross-country it’s more like thirty-five. One good thing about living in the Tanana Valley, there’s lots of trails to run.
    I glance out the window at Bean. He’s standing on top of his house, watching me. Reading my mind. Our eyes connect and he throws his head back and barks a command to go. We really need to get to Cook’s today. He has champion dogs. If I wait too long, someone else will get there and I’ll lose my chance at the best picks. Having a champion team will be a good reason to stay in Alaska. Hard for Mom to argue with that. How can I race dogs in the city?
    I imagine crossing the finish line of the White Wolf in first place.
Secord Kennels—that’s Michael Secord’s daughter, isn’t it?
they’d say.
He was a real musher; he taught her well.
    Mom has never understood.
    It will take less than four hours of running if the trails are hard—longer with the cut through the brush. We’d keep it easy after the long run yesterday, but we could go and be back before it gets dark. I’d tell Mom we’d been gone for a regular training run. Yeah, one where we found a few extra dogs.
    I grab the map and sprint up the stairs to my room. I have to push on the door to move aside the books and gear on the floor. My closet doors haven’t been able to shut for years due to my gear collection: tent, Therm-a-Rest, insulated pants, sleeping bags, camp stove. I glance over the pile assessing what I’ll need. Extra woollies, dry socks. Should I bring a sleeping bag? It’s not that far.
    When I was younger, I went on what was supposed to be a short run with Dad. We didn’t make it back home until the middle of the night and as I sat shivering but silent in the sled, he muttered over and over, “Why didn’t I bring the sleeping bag?”
    I take the bag.
    I throw everything in a duffel and stop in the kitchen just long enough to grab some snacks.
    Go hungry—get cold
. I can almost hear Dad’s words over my shoulder.
    The bag is heavy as I lug it to the yard.
    When I step outside, the dogs erupt into a frenzy of high-pitched screams and barks. I feel like a rock star with sixteen adoring fans.
    Bean studies me while I pack the sled bag. It’s a dark blue, thick canvas bag that’s fitted to the dimensions of the sled. The plastic sled bottom makes up the floor, and the sides reach up to attach to lines going from the handlebar down to the brush bow. The top flap is sealed shut with Velcro and keeps most of the snow and ice off the gear inside. I give Mr. Minky a squeeze hello.
    â€œHey,