Ice Dogs by Terry Lynn Johnson Page A

in half with my hatchet. I grab our two water bottles that I refilled with boiled water from the slough, and stow them in the sled bag.
    Chris jogs in place, bringing his knees up high, and then catches me staring at him. “This is not even cool,” he says. “My jeans are so stiff, I can hardly move.”
    â€œIf you weren’t the biggest milquetoast loser I’ve ever met, I’d feel bad for you.”
    â€œLook, I’m sorry about the map, okay?” Chris glares down at me. “But who gives a map to someone who’s sitting next to a fire? And it was so windy.” He fingers his forehead, which reminds me I was going to check his gash. I gesture for him to bend closer so I can see it.
    â€œYou’re supposed to be some sort of wilderness expert,” he says. “Why don’t you have a GPS like a normal—ow!” He straightens, holding his hand to his eyebrow after I rip off the bandage. “Hey!”
    â€œWhy do I need a GPS when I can read a map?” I snap back, gesturing again for him to bend closer. The lump over his eye is still red, but the dried blood around the gash makes it look worse than it is. I’m pleased the edges are closed. The bleeding seems to have stopped.
    â€œMap reading is a skill anyone who comes out here should know,” I continue. “Not like some people who prefer zooming around on some smelly machine thinking a little device will tell them where they are, batting their pretty eyes at whoever comes by.” Absolutely not what I meant to say. At all.
    Chris’s mouth opens as if he’s about to retort, but then closes. He looks at me with surprise. “Pretty eyes?”
    â€œPretty idiotic eyes, yeah.”
    â€œThink this will scar?” He strikes an exaggerated pose, blinking at me. I want to punch him.
    â€œChicks dig scars, right?”
    â€œIf you’re going for some kind of freakish anime look, you’ve succeeded.” I grab the sled and yank it onto the trail. “We need to go.”
    The dogs are pumped. They’ve been watching my every move and now that I’ve touched the sled, they leap to their feet. They scratch the ground and yawn with excitement when I look at them. They never complain. Never hold a grudge. Always trust.
    I toss a harness to Chris. “Here, help me get the dogs ready. That’s for Dorset, little brown girl on the end.”
    His amused expression turns to alarm. “I . . . I . . . don’t know how.”
    â€œIt’s easy—just watch how I do it.” I straddle Bean and hold up the harness. “See how I fold it at the double webbing? Yes, like that.”
    I slip it over Bean’s head and the dog does the rest. Chris approaches Dorset as if she’s a poisonous tarantula with Ebola virus. It’s obvious he’s afraid of dogs, but he still tries with the harness. I guess it’s not his fault he’s incompetent. But Dorset doesn’t notice. She wags her tail furiously at his approach and it gives me a little warm feeling in the pit of my stomach.
    I hook up Blue with Bean in lead. When I turn, I see Chris sliding toward the sled behind Dorset.
    â€œPick her front feet off the ground.” I take her and hold the harness up so she’s hopping on her back legs. “Shifts the four-wheel-drive down to two. Much easier.”
    As Chris struggles to harness Drift, I harness Gazoo and Whistler and hook them into the center of the gangline. They’re in the team position. Drift and Dorset, closest to the sled, are the wheel dogs. They tend to be the strongest dogs, though you wouldn’t think it by looking at little Dorset. But if the sled gets stuck, they will both throw themselves into their harnesses and rapidly pop their tuglines until the sled is free. Drift, my crazy little tornado, is already lunging forward as I clip her in.
    Frozen hard circles where the dogs had slept create icy