Ice Dogs Read Free Page B

Bean, want to go on an adventure?”
    He stares at me with expressive, ice-blue eyes. His tail wags slowly.
    Straddling the dog, I slip a harness over his head and he punches his legs through the openings. His coarse reddish-brown fur quivers in the places it sticks up over his shoulders and ruff. We lurch over to the sled and I hook him in lead. He leans into his tugline, holding the gangline tight behind him, and barks down the trail.
    I hook up Blue, Whistler, Dorset, Drift, and Gazoo, each dog adding a decibel to the frantic barking. Hookups are always wild. The dogs are so jazzed to run; their mouths foam, their eyes sparkle, the air vibrates with an intensity that raises the hairs on my neck.
    I yank the snub rope that’s tied to the spruce beside me and pull the snow hook. The sled takes off as if I’ve just punched the hyperdrive button. Each dog in the team instantly stops barking and starts pulling, focused on the trail ahead. The noise behind me from the dogs I didn’t take fades fast as we whip through the trees.

4
    I GRIP THE HANDLEBAR AS I LEAN into a turn. We skid sideways with a fan of snow. The dogs’ feet kick up tufts of ice crystals as they dig, and the cold wind on my face energizes me. I let out a whoop, feeling savage. Watching them run gives me such a visceral sense of belonging, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Bean swivels his ears back toward me but keeps running straight down the trail.
    â€œIt’s all right, Beanie. Keep ahead, that a boy!”
    I wish I could talk Sarah into coming along. It would let me spend more time with her, and I’d get to show her how amazing my dogs are. Why wouldn’t everyone in my class want to see this? Uncle Leonard says dogsledding is a dying art. That it’s too much work for most kids and I’ll soon see it isn’t the popular kids from school that end up worth anything, but the ones who are brave enough to be different. He has to say that, being Dad’s twin brother.
    We follow our own trail until we arrive at the fork where it veers into the main snowmobile track. The trail is lined with shrubby willows and spruce. Crystallized snow piled on the branches contrasts with the sea of pale and dark greens.
    The Cooks, Mr. Oleson, and I all use this trail sometimes to run our teams together so we can practice passing and leading. Mr. Oleson is our closest neighbor; he lives a subsistence lifestyle in the bush with his dogs, his garden, and his gun. He doesn’t race, but he likes to run with other mushers. Sometimes he used our yurt. Most mushers around here use these portable, round tents for base camps. But our yurt has been taken down. My hands clench the handlebar when I think of Mom selling it to Cook.
    â€œVicky, you can’t set up a yurt yourself. And I don’t know how to set it up. It may as well be used by someone who needs it.”
    I couldn’t argue with that, but it still felt like selling off a piece of Dad.
    Running with Cook’s dogs is how I know they’re stars. I press my lips together as I think of all the years Dad raced, and not once did he come in first. He said he probably never would with trapline dogs. Why didn’t he get a couple sleek racers then? Well, now I have that opportunity, so I have to do it for him. The need to do something for him burns behind my eyes.
    After an hour of solid running, we arrive at another fork.
    â€œGee, Bean . . . that’s it, Blue! Good boys!” We veer right. Good command leaders like Bean know their right—gee, from their left—haw. The dogs charge down the trail. We don’t usually run this way and they love exploring.
    I glance up and notice the darkening sky. There’s a hazy ring around the sun—a sun dog. If I look for it, I can see the little prisms of color. There’s snow on the way and I forgot to check the forecast before I left. Crap.
    Hopefully we’ll be back home by the time