Snowhook by Jo Storm

“It’s a blaze.”

“A what?”

“A blaze,” he said again, more slowly. “It’s how loggers and surveyors mark trails.”

She thought about the boundaries of the property at their cabin and how her father sometimes used a chainsaw to clear any obstructions around the edges of the property line. “No, they don’t, they use that orange marker tape.”

Peter shook his head. “Not the old-timers. They use an axe. Like this.” He mimed swinging an axe one-handed —

down, then upward on an angle. “They cut down the underbrush, then they notch a tree when it’s young,” he continued, placing his hand palm down just above his knee, “and it grows up and the mark gets higher and easier to see when the underbrush grows back.” He raised his hand to the level of the mark on the tree they were standing in front of.

“That’s still not a trail; it’s just a tree,” Hannah replied.

Peter grinned at her. “Oh, yeah? Watch this.”

He took her arm and moved Hannah so that she stood in front of him.

“See it?” he asked, pointing over her shoulder toward the notched tree.

“No. What am I supposed to be seeing besides trees?”

“The trail.” He squinted over her shoulder and angled her so she faced a bit more toward the way they had come.

“There. See it?”

“Like, another tree with a notch? Yeah, I see that. Oh, okay, there’s another …” She trailed off and instinctively moved just a hair to the left. Suddenly, it was like the forest had welcomed her in on a secret.

One tree notch; then another a bit farther along to its right; then another to the left; another to the right, on and on. They were all the same kind of axed notch, at the same height, on the same type of tree — medium-size birches scattered among the tamarack and pine. It was a secret, glorious trail.

“Wow.” It looked so effortless, as though the trees had always been meant to stand that way, pointing to each other like families going through photo albums, seeing people they knew and places they belonged to.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Those old-timers, they knew what they were doing. See, they used the spruce like a hedge to keep back the undergrowth; spruce trees grow higher and other trees won’t grow around them, so they wouldn’t lose the blaze. Fifty bucks says Jonny’s just using their old blazes from back when they were parcelling out this piece for the government. Sounds like something he’d do.”

Hannah stared at the tiny white ribbon of unbroken snow before her, shouldered on either side by the marked trees and the green fringes of spruce boughs. Her wrists ached from holding on to the sled, her legs alternated between numbness and burning from the poling, her feet were sore from wearing heavy boots, and her back stung from staying upright against the constant movement of the sled. Winking just at the end of her sight, wavering in and out at the end of a shallow incline, she saw the white blob of the other trail.

“It’ll work. It’s wide enough for the sled,” said Peter. “It’ll save a lot of time.”

She nodded. It would work, but she was scared. The snowmobile trail may have been deserted, ungroomed, and slow, but it was clear, it led somewhere, and if worst came to worst, she could turn around and go back. This path, even with the trees marked, was thin, dark, and worst of all, unpacked. She had no idea what lay under the snow, nor even how deep it was. She had no idea if this path was the right one. She had no idea if she’d be able to find it again, if she had to.

Stop thinking, Hannah. Just breathe and go.

“You’ll have to carry some stuff,” she said. “Me, too.”

“Why?”

“They’ll have to break trail, and it’s too deep for them to do that and carry all our stuff.”

He looked around, considering. “Okay, I’ll take my sleeping bag.”

“And the tent.” Next to the sleeping bags, the tent was the heaviest single item that was easy to carry.

“Whatever.”

She felt herself flush and wished she hadn’t blurted it out, like an order, but it was too late now. She was just scared.

They went back to the sled. Peter stood on the runners while Hannah clipped a line on Nook to lead her and the team in a short, sharp arc, turning the sled to point at the blaze trail. They would not be able to turn once on the trail; then there would only be forward.

They pulled the sled until it was almost at the start of the blaze, with the dogs loosely assembled in front of it. They’re tired now, or content, or maybe both, thought Hannah, and even Sencha did not mind the jostling and rubbing of trying to squeeze the sled and the dogs sideways on the trail.