Snowhook by Jo Storm

The trail wound upward still, although so gradually that it didn’t prove too hard for the group. The snow did not stop, flying thickly, obscuring everything except the edges of the forest on either side of the trail visible.

Hannah’s tiredness was so constant and present that it was like a second her, a ghost trailing behind her that she had to drag along. Her legs had gone from lead to heavy iron. She drank whenever she remembered to, keeping the bottle in her inside pocket so that it didn’t freeze.

With no wind, the snow piled up on her shoulders, on Peter’s toque, on the backs of the slow-moving dogs, and in the basket of the sled.

Finally, they came around a long, sloping corner, and Hannah had a dislocating sense of déjà vu. To her left was a tall rocky wall, its red-orange metamorphic layers jutting out showily from under its snowy mantle. Rivulets of water ran down the rock face, a weeping wall with a pool of ice at the bottom where the water collected and froze. Above them, the top of the hill looked down on them, and she realized why this place looked so familiar.

“We were up there, right?” she said.

Peter turned, squinted up through the snow, and nodded.

She dropped her hand and they continued silently, Peter stopping now and then to pick up various-size branches. She felt both relief that their plan had worked and disappointment that after all that, they were back where they had been so many hours ago, just thirty feet lower.

They skirted the icy patches and wound around the outcrop, coming closer and closer to the lake until they were following the contours of it, glimpsing the vast whiteness of the lake through the thin scrub that separated them from it. The lake wound in a big W, in close to the rock face and out again. The first V was a mess, with rocks piled up and jutting every which way, but the second V was deeper, recessed deeper into the rock face, and there were trees, as well, that sheltered it from the wind.

“Peter.”

He lifted his head and turned. He didn’t seem to have been thinking of anything besides putting one foot in front of the other and picking up branches. His arms were stuffed with wood. It was time to stop.

“Here, I think. This is a good spot,” she said. He nodded. “Can you make the fire?” she asked.

He nodded again, shifting the wood and feeling in his pocket for matches. Stepping back, he took in the roughly enclosed circle of their temporary home and selected a good spot for the fire: away from the trees, near a medium-size boulder with a sheer face on one side. He stamped down a square patch, then took his snowshoes off and used one to dig out a hollow for the fire.

While he was doing that, Hannah got the tent bag out and placed it between the trees and the firepit, facing the lake. Then she went back to the sled and got out eight portions of dog food and unwrapped them.

She approached the dogs. They were all lying down again, Bogey already asleep, curled on his side with his tail tucked over his feet. Rudy and Nook, who were used to being fed at the end of the day like this, lay on their elbows, waiting patiently. Rudy licked his chops as she approached. Only Sencha stood, tail wagging, whining softly the way she did when she was very hungry.

Hannah stood looking at the team, waiting. Eventually, Nook looked at her, eye to eye, and when she did that, Hannah went over to the husky. Again, she stood there, waiting for Nook to meet her eyes. She looked at the lead dog a long time. At first the husky’s brilliant blue eyes looked back at her stolidly, but after a little while, her nose flared and her head dipped, and she looked away. When this happened, Hannah dropped the two portions of dog food in front of her, and Nook immediately lay down and began eating.

Nook would not run away now. The muzzle dip, the flaring of her nose, and the breaking of Hannah’s gaze meant that Nook had acquiesced to Hannah as the leader, and from now on, the sled dog would defer to her. Hannah unfastened Nook’s tugline and neckline, leaving her free. She would not leave, and neither would Rudy, because Hannah had already had that conversation with him after the fight.

Hannah fed Bogey next, unclipping him from the gangline and dropping his dinner at his feet. The Lab didn’t even try to lick her hands, he was so hungry; he dropped down and immediately began tearing at his dinner.

Next was Rudy, and finally Sencha. With each dog she repeated the contest of wills she’d had with Nook. Rudy dipped his head immediately, clearly granting her authority, and his reward was dropped at his feet. Only Sencha was left. She was still whining, and as Hannah approached her, the Dalmatian began to pace.

Hannah’s family had a tendency to quickly give in to Sencha’s quirks and manipulations, and holding still was excruciating — Hannah was so tired. But she stood with the food in her hands at waist height while Sencha lifted her paws and put her bum on the ground only to spring up again right away, all the time staring at the food and not at Hannah. Finally, she sat, then lay down on her elbows, still staring at the food. Hannah waited.

Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, Sencha’s eyes rose, returning often to Hannah’s waist, but eventually, agonizingly, making contact with Hannah’s eyes. It was even longer before Sencha showed any submission, but finally she reached out her neck and sniffed, then placed her head on her paws, relaxing her body. It was not perfect, but something in Hannah told her it was enough, so she knelt and put the food in front of Sencha, patting her flanks.

Now that she’d fed the dogs, Hannah turned her attention to putting up the tent. The ground sheet, the poles, the tent, and the vestibule — one thing and then the next.

By the time the tent was up, the dogs had finished eating. Rudy, Nook, and Bogey were curled up, the sled dogs’ tails over their noses and Bogey’s over his feet, as before. They were all asleep.

From her spot, still lying down, Sencha watched Hannah. When she saw Hannah looking at her, she wagged her tail.

“C’mere, Little Jane Austen,” said Hannah. She got her packsack from the sled basket, took out some

clean clothes, then laid it sideways as she had the night before. Sencha burrowed in without a backward glance and was asleep in seconds.

Hannah pulled the rest of the sleeping gear into the tent. She pulled off her parka, took her almost-empty water bottle out of the pocket, and gritted her teeth. She needed to clean off the sweat of two days, or risk getting sick from her body being overrun by bacteria or being unable to regulate its own temperature.

She wet her dirty shirt with the water left in the bottle and sponged herself off, trying not to shout when the freezing water hit her skin. It made her teeth ache and her jaw clench, and wherever she sponged, the sore muscles underneath the skin contracted in miserable rebellion. The sensation was like burning, or stinging ants, or the time she’d spilled rubbing alcohol on her shoulder: a white-hot cold.

She dried herself with the small camp towel in the emergency kit and put on the fresh clothes she’d dug out: a sports bra and an undershirt, a long-sleeved undershirt over that, a turtleneck and a sweater, a vest over that, and finally her parka.

She sponged her cold feet and inspected her toes in case they, too, had gone white, but they were fine, as poling all day drove blood to her feet, and for most of the time she’d been awake today, she had been hot, not cold. She put on new socks. She couldn’t bring herself to change her pants. It was already hard enough to pee during the day, when she had to spread her parka around her while squatting to keep out the worst of the cold; there was no way she was fully removing them. Half-clean would have to be better than all dirty. Through the tent wall she saw the faint glow of a fire, and she was suddenly ravenous. She stuffed her discarded clothing around the Dalmatian, still out cold, checked her nose to make sure it wasn’t warm, then went out.

Her teeth were chattering by the time she got to the fire. Peter stood up when he saw her, the bent camp stove tines peeking through his fingers.