Snowhook by Jo Storm

They were still on the hill, and the sled slid back a bit when Hannah stepped off the runners. The dogs hunched their shoulders and dug in to keep it still. She spared a moment to laugh: there were lots of ways to stop the sled from going forward, but none for stopping it going backward. She kept her hand on the side of the sled and then on the gangline as she walked to the front.

“Nook, what’s up?” she said. “Let’s go, Nook, come on girl, get up.”

The husky turned back to the trail and began to pull again, and the team followed, Hannah pushing and poling again once the sled slid by. Near the top, she tripped and fell, breathing heavily from the exertion. The sled crested the ridge and stopped dead. Hannah got up and shuffled over the edge as well. “How did you get them to stop?” she asked.

Peter turned in the basket, the emergency blanket crinkling. “I didn’t. She just stopped by herself.”

Hannah looked down the line to where Nook was lying down, looking off into the bush again. Hannah walked forward and knelt down beside the dog, frowning. Nook laid her head on her paws and sighed. Hannah checked the husky again: teeth and ears, her feet and legs, her chest, the fit of her harness. Everything was fine. The lead dog kept her eyes open, watching Hannah. She wasn’t interested in food, and she didn’t move even when Hannah let her off the gangline completely. She stayed in the line, lying still.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Peter.

“I don’t know,” said Hannah, shaking her head. “She ate fine this morning.”

“Maybe she has an upset stomach.”

“Maybe,” said Hannah. She watched Nook carefully; the husky’s eyes looked everywhere but at the trail. The other dogs looked around, too, but none of them avoided looking at the trail. And when they did, they showed no signs of alarm. So it wasn’t an animal. And it wasn’t an injury.

What else could it be?

“Maybe she’s tired,” said Peter.

“She runs all day, every day, with Pierre,” said Hannah. “She pulls heavier loads than this, and for longer runs.” She placed her hand gently under Nook’s belly to get her to stand. The old husky stood willingly, but again her eyes swept along the bush, at the other dogs, quickly over Hannah. When she did look up the trail, the trembling began again.

Hannah looked over her shoulder and down the trail. A little way along, it dipped out of sight. It was nothing alarming, just another corner that they couldn’t see around. After a while, Hannah had stopped trying to guess which way the trail was going to lead, because it was too tiring to be so alert all the time. She had trusted that Nook would lead them through safely.

Hannah felt a flash of comprehension. Nook had led the team through blizzards, fights, floods, gunshots, and animal encounters, all the while teaching two new dogs how to pull and run and not complain, learning how to work with a new driver, and putting up with a human who feared her. She wasn’t physically tired; she was mentally tired.

“I think she needs a break,” said Hannah.

“We can’t stop now, we’re way too close.”

“No, I mean she needs like a brain break. A break from leading the team.”

“She’s a dog pulling a sled. It’s not a hard job.”

She shook her head. “It is a hard job. Dealing with you and me, the two house dogs, a new trail, the weather, the wrong harness, the animals …”

Peter lifted his blanket and rearranged his leg.

“Okay, just unhook her, then.”

“And then what?”

“And then, I don’t know, she’ll run along beside?”

Hannah considered. They were all tired, maybe with the exception of Rudy, who also ran all day, every day. Like most sled dogs, he knew how to take advantage of rest times, and unlike Nook, he had no responsibilities except following the dog ahead of him and pulling hard. But running the team without Nook? Nook was the one they all depended on; other dogs ran alongside her, not the other way around.

Hannah swallowed the cold air. She knew she needed both sled dogs. They listened and followed and calmed things down; they gave the house dogs focus. She would keep Nook in the gangline — just not at the front as its leader.

She bent down and unhooked Nook’s neckline and tugline, then walked a bit down the trail and called the husky to her. Nook came willingly, turning her body sideways on the trail. For a few minutes, Hannah did nothing but pet her and rub her body, saying soothing things and massaging her through the harness. Then she walked back to the sled with Nook following. The husky went right past the other three dogs, ignoring them, and started back down the trail the way they had come. Hannah picked up the back of her harness and pulled her back.

Immediately, the husky lowered her head and began pulling against Hannah, slow and steady. Hannah called her to stop, easing up and dropping the harness.

Nook could still pull, which meant Hannah’s team was intact. There was just one problem: she had no lead dog.

A lead dog was not trained overnight. That much Hannah knew. While the other dogs ran because everyone else was running, the lead dog was the one who decided how fast, how far, and where. She chose the route, responded to the commands of the musher, and set the pace. She was usually the boss of the team, too, the de facto leader who set the rules for the pack: who could sniff whom, who ate where, who peed where. She disciplined the wayward dogs, the way Nook had done with Sencha when Sencha first resisted running with the team.

Now who would fill all of those roles?