Ice Dogs by Terry Lynn Johnson

scratches his butt.
    His forlorn expression tells me everything I need to know. This conversation is pointless and it’s up to me and the dogs to get us home.

10
    I STOMP AROUND CAMP, PREPARING for another day, and try to decide what to do next. As I see it, we have three options. We can just stay here and hope that we’re found. I immediately reject this idea. There’s no way I can sit still and wait for someone to help me.
    We can go back the way we came. I think of all the new snow covering yesterday’s tracks. Trying to follow our path through those ugly trails doesn’t hold much appeal. But it’s the known route—if we can find it, we probably should do that.
    Or, we could continue this way. I stand, watching Whistler lick her paws with slow, methodical attention. If I remember the map right, the main trails are west of us. This trail we’re on seems to be heading in that direction. If we find the main trails, we can follow them, and most likely cross a road. I’m sure of it. Lots of roads around here have dog team crossing traffic signs. And maybe heading west will be even faster than traveling the whole day backwards.
    Or we could all freeze to death as we look for trails that aren’t there.
I finger the scar beside my ear, and feel a moment of regret over yesterday’s decision to head north. I should have stuck to a trail I knew. Now I’m traveling blind out here. But I can’t look back. Always moving forward—Dad’s favorite saying.
    Blue yodels softly at me and snaps me out of my funk. I move closer to him, his butt swaying back and forth with fierce wagging.
    â€œYou think that’s what we should do?” I ask, rubbing his cheek. “Keep moving forward? You remember Dad saying that, too?”
    I blow out a slow breath and whisper, “I’m not sure what to do, Dad.”
    I swallow hard and remember Dad’s confidence in Blue when he was still a yearling. I can almost hear him that day on the trapline.
    â€œSee what Blue is doing, Vic? How he’s looking ahead past the leaders? You watch. He’ll make a good leader someday.”
    The dogs had been breaking trail and we were plodding next to the sled to help lighten the load. The sled was full of wet beaver from the trapline, and the team worked hard through the deep snow. Blue pulled like a dog possessed, and peered ahead as if he wanted to see what was around the next corner.
    We’d arrived home late that night, like so many other times, and I was exhausted. And cranky. I wasn’t much help, but Dad didn’t mind. We tromped single file through the snow for the third trip unloading the sled, when he reached up and tapped the snow-laden branches hanging above us. Before I could catch myself, I walked right under it while the snow came down into my collar.
    â€œArgh, Dad! Stop doing that!”
    â€œGotta keep you on your toes, Icky—whoa!”
    I’d crashed into his knees to knock him over, but he stood rock solid. Always solid.
    My chest feels hollow as the memory mows me over.
I don’t have time for this. I have to get us home.
    â€œForward it is, Blue. Good idea.” The cold from the snow I’m kneeling in begins to seep through my leggings. Rocking back on my heels, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know if this is the right decision, I just know I have to find our way out soon. I think of the dog shed in the backyard full of frozen chicken and fat pallets, cooked rice, and vitamin packets. Fuel for working dogs. We can’t spend another night out here; we have to get out today.
    Once the dogs have been watered with the last of the chicken, we eat a breakfast of smoked sausage and a granola bar—the last of the food. It’s still morning, but already I feel exhausted with worry. I can go hungry, and Chris can certainly starve to death for all I care, but my dogs cannot.
    As we pack the sled, the silence between us could be cut