Jonah’s heavy brow furrows. “Is that guy still giving you problems?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“You want me to pick him up on the trail and drop him off somewhere where no one will ever find him? ’Cause I’ll do it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the dogs get home safe.”
I laugh. The IAF has been known to answer distress calls from mushers who scratch along the trail—they may get disoriented in a whiteout, or injured, or decide they can’t go on any farther—and need a ride back to safety. While Jonah’s all talk on leaving a man to die in the Alaskan tundra, knowing him, he will make Skip’s life hell if their paths should cross.
“Let me get back to you on that, but I think Skip’ll stay away from me this year.” If anything, I should be more worried about a run-in with the Iditarod’s shiny rookie, whom I’ve heard more than a few excited whispers about.
True to his word, Howie stopped in at Frank Hartley’s the week after our confrontation and confirmed that Tyler had brought Nymeria to the clinic for treatment. The bill was enormous, and Tyler covered it all without complaint. And because Howie is Howie, he followed up again a month later, and Frank confirmed that she’s spayed, has put on almost ten pounds, and looks like a whole different dog.
Tyler hasn’t even run the race yet, and his name is already casting a warm glow on spectators and the community alike. Even Wade made mention during a casual chat with my father that Tyler’s dogs are some of the fittest they’ve ever seen, and he wouldn’t be shocked if he placed high. And apparently, there’re whisperings about the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award, handed out by the veterinarian team to the musher who demonstrates exemplary dog care during the race, based on the little of Tyler and his team that people witnessed this weekend.
Jonah’s ice-blue eyes study me for a moment. “Something buggin’ you, Lehr?”
Besides this gnawing feeling on my conscience that I allowed the Hatchetts to play on my vulnerability, that my behavior that day was far less than exemplary? Wouldn’t that be something, if word got around that I accused this guy of animal abuse, only to have him win the humanitarian award a month later? Skip would have a field day with that.
I should have at least been the bigger person and left that note in his mailbox.
I push my regret aside. “I’m fine. Just tired. I had a lot to do before I could leave.” Volunteering at race checkpoints means time away from earning money and tending to patients. Cory is holding down the fort, and my father can step in for emergencies, but it’s still a long time to shut down. Thankfully, Jonah’s offered to fly me out, saving me from hitching a ride a day early with the other veterinarians from the crew.
“Don’t worry.” He drops a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You can catch up on your sleep at the checkpoint.”
I laugh. “Jerk.” I’ll be stationed at two this year, both remote locations, without even a village for supplies or running water for a hot shower. The first, Rohn, a cabin nestled between two mountain ranges and where two major rivers converge, could see fifty-eight teams and upward of eight hundred dogs come through within a thirty-hour span. Some will stay for only a few minutes, others for a few hours. A few might decide to make the checkpoint one of their mandatory rest stops.
From there, an IAF pilot will fly me five checkpoints down the trail to Cripple, a ghost town from the days of the gold rush and the official halfway point on the route, where I’ll do it all over again.
It’ll be a cold, challenging week, and I’ll contemplate my life choices at least once a day, usually when I’m struggling to crawl out of my sleeping bag.
“You ready to get a move on soon?”
“Yeah, stuff’s loaded. You need help with yours?”
“Nah. I’m good. I don’t have much.” A subzero sleeping bag and mattress pad, and a duffel bag of warm layers to cycle through. And, of course, my medical bag that I never go anywhere without. “Where’s Calla?” She never misses seeing Jonah off before a flight.
“She had to stop by the cabin to help the renters work the coffee maker, but she should be here soon.”
I peer across the frozen lake, though the derelict little shack they turned into an Airbnb cabin rental can’t be seen from this angle. “You guys getting a lot of bookings?”
“Solid since the honeymoon. Who knew?” He shakes his head. “I thought she was crazy for wanting to sink all that money into that place, but she was right.”
“She’s right about a lot of things.” And while Calla was resistant to move to Trapper’s Crossing, she’s made what was once a rustic and trash-filled log cabin into a cozy paradise.