Ice Island (9 page)

They shook snow from their coats. The colder it got, the faster water froze—and the faster it dried—just like wet laundry. But instead of sleeping, the dogs acted excited, like they were on a long vacation.

“Better unload the sleds,” Cole shouted over the wind.

They moved feverishly without talking, wading through deep drifts, carting everything inside—snowshoes, shovel,
ax, and a couple of thermal blankets. A sled was a type of mobile home.

Working helped take Tatum’s mind off their nightmare. If she stopped moving, even for a nanosecond, cold seeped inside her clothes.

Cole lit a can of fuel. It burst into smoky flames. He shoveled snow into the cooker, watching it melt. Gradually the room warmed up enough for them to shed parkas and gloves. Tatum checked the dogs’ feet, just like she did for Beryl, then helped feed and water them.

Bandit ate like a racehorse, making up for not finishing her breakfast.
Was that this morning?
It seemed like eons ago. Wolf picked at his food, leaving half of it on the moldy floor. Brooks and Denali jumped up, growling to see who’d get it.

Cole waved his glove. “Hey!”

The dogs shrank back.

He dropped two sealed bags into the simmering water, waited for them to thaw, then passed Tatum a steaming bag. “Homemade chili.”

She took it, grateful for a hot meal. “Thanks.”

“No one predicted this storm.” He said it like an apology.

Tatum started to reply, but thought better of it. Nothing she could say would change their grim situation.

She sat on an upended crate, eating chili from the bag—that was how Beryl ate on the trail, so she wouldn’t have to wash dishes. Ziplock bags were good for all kinds of things. Mittens or socks, in a pinch. Beryl once made an emergency rain poncho from a plastic garbage bag.

Tatum took in the sight: Bandit, Brooks, Chugach, Kenai, Alyeska, and Wrangell, Cole’s lead dog, curled up
and asleep. Bandit looked like she was winking. Tatum smiled; even Wolf seemed content.

Cole opened the door to a blustering wind. It was loud enough to be heard in Nome.
Is it ever going to let up?

He dragged both sleds inside, blowing on his red fingers. A halo of light from the flames shone on his torn basket.

“No one knows we’re here,” she finally said.

He took out dental floss and a needle large enough to suture a whale. “Standard repair equipment,” he said, and made a big, looping stitch.

After a while, Tatum took over. She finished the job with a knot. “Will someone be looking for us?”

“This summer I’m working with kids—teaching them our language and customs,” he said instead of answering her. “When I shot my first seal, my mother threw a party. We divided the meat and blubber among everyone in the village. I stood outside our door giving away gifts of seal oil, rice, and toilet paper.

“The village kids need survival skills. If it comes from someone younger—not just the elders—maybe they’ll listen. It’s happened in other villages.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” she snapped at him, tired of being ignored. “We’re stuck here overnight.”

Tatum awoke stiff and sore, feeling like she’d spent the night in a rock tumbler. Bandit slept next to her, warm as toast. Tatum’s stomach grumbled. There wasn’t much trail mix left. And the supply of dog food was dangerously low. She’d rather eat snow than touch what they’d brought for the dogs. Not that dog food, turkey skin, or whale blubber sounded appetizing.

Cole was buried in his sleeping bag.

She checked her watch: 6:42 a.m. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since they’d left Wager. How had it gotten so late? Even if the storm cleared they couldn’t make it back in time for the flight to Nome. She was really in for it now!

Tatum scooted out of her sleeping bag and tugged on her boots. She fought to open the door, praying for sun. A solid white wall blocked their exit. She couldn’t tell how thick it was.

Cole made a noise and opened his eyes. He yawned noisily and looked around as if he didn’t know where he was. Then he saw the wall of snow. “I’ll get my ax,” he said, kicking out of his bag.

Tatum built a fire in an oil drum that had been sawed in half. It was elevated off the ground by a metal frame, like the one on the deck at Skilak Lodge. Only there she’d helped barbecue chicken and moose steaks for guests. She found matches in a plastic bag and squirted kindling with Blazo. Thankfully, hunters kept the place stocked with basics. Like a row of dominoes in reverse, the dogs stood up, shaking themselves off.

Wrangell gnawed on his bootie like it was a chew toy. Wolf hunkered in the corner, watching Bandit. Bandit ignored him, wagging her tail, ready to get going.

“The dogs can have the rest of the whale blubber,” Cole said.

Feeding the dogs didn’t take Tatum’s mind off being hungry, until Wolf threw up. “He ate too fast,” Cole said.

Tatum hoped he wasn’t getting sick. “You okay, fella?”

Wolf growled.

She kicked straw over the mess.

Cole kept hacking away at the snow until there was a tunnel wide enough to crawl through. He stopped to rest, looking exhausted. He sat on a crate and took off his beanie and wet gloves. His hands were white and shriveled, his black hair plastered flat. “No wind,” he mumbled.

Tatum stirred cocoa into mugs of hot water. She handed one to him.

“The snow—” he said, and took a noisy slurp. “It’d take a bulldozer to plow through it. There’s a creek nearby.… The footing will be firmer. Faster too.”

“But it’s March,” she said, worried about overflow ice.

Cole watched Alyeska and Denali chase each other through the tunnel, as if it had been dug for their amusement. “Ice doesn’t thaw this far inland for another month or more.”

Tatum dumped water from the cooker into the fire drum. The last of the coals sizzled and died. She heard a rumbling sound, and part of the tunnel collapsed. Alyeska and Denali barked, barely escaping.

Cole swore and grabbed his ax.

Tatum picked up the shovel.

•  •  •

The snow outside the cabin looked so new, so clean, not a bootprint or any other sign of life. The bluster had blown itself out; the blinding brightness was harsh in a different way. No matter what the conditions, the dogs rarely got discouraged.

They packed up quickly.

Then Cole wandered off. Tatum didn’t ask where he was going. Guys had it easy in the outdoors when it came to personal business. Tatum looked for a private spot.

She came back, finished packing, and put Bandit in the lead.

Bandit licked her nose, happy to get going.

Tatum and Cole walked in front of their teams to help blaze a trail. The dogs sank shoulder-deep with every step.

“It’d be easier to carry them,” she muttered, worn out all over again.

Cole released the tuglines so his dogs could run without shouldering any weight. Half an hour later he rehitched them. It was Bandit’s turn to break trail. Cole’s team followed. Tatum rode up a steep knoll, only to discover that their path was blocked. The dogs hated backtracking.

The wind had swept clean patches, making the next stretch slick and fast.

Tatum struggled to keep her sled from slamming into the steep sides. The dogs struggled to keep their footing. Booties fell off. They didn’t stop to pick them up. The sound of scraping sled runners filled the morning air. She tried to remember a time when she had thought this was fun.

Grandfather had to know about the cabin—that they would have spent the night there. Tatum listened for an engine, a plane, or, more likely, a snowmobile. Thoughts of being rescued flooded her head.

They climbed another steep crest. The creek twisted below, a frozen rope speckled with fog. Cole’s team slowed halfway to the bank. “Better snack the dogs,” he called to her.

Tatum helped check harnesses and replace lost booties. Both teams were antsy, sniffing the air like it held a secret. Cole swapped Wrangell and Alyeska. When it was time to get going, Wolf spanked the ground with his tail, refusing to get up. Cole tried coaxing him.

“Maybe he’s sick,” Tatum said.

Cole looked uncertain, then dragged Wolf to the sled and heaved him inside.

They took off again.

Soon they were in the heavy fog, solid and low. The fog reminded Tatum of Portland. Every year dense fog caused car wrecks, closed freeways. It was so thick you could reach out and grab it.

The wind kicked up, howling from the west, straight from the sea. Tatum yanked up her face mask, thinking that everything that could go wrong had. Now fog
and
wind. She wondered how that was possible. Then a gust caught her basket.

We can survive the cold, but the wind will be the end of us!

Her team zigzagged to keep from getting hit head-on by the wind. Cole’s sled slowed, partly because Wolf was inside. That and the loss of muscle power in his team.

To keep from going crazy she thought about camping last summer with her dad … crackling bonfires … pan-fried fish … 
s’mores!
She thought about Skilak Lodge … counting bald eagles … picking berries. Grizzlies loved berries. Her dad taught her to sing or wear bells on her boots so they’d hear her coming. He said bears avoided people whenever possible.

She kept moving.

The fog finally lifted and the wind died. The sun sparkled on the creek, turning it into a blanket of diamonds. They stopped and dropped their hooks. Wolf lifted his head from the sled, sniffing the clean air.

Tatum pushed back her hood. Bareheaded, she felt her
tangled hair slapping her in the face. She hooked it behind her ears. Everywhere she looked snow was piled high. Spirits of the native people Grandfather had talked about seemed everywhere and nowhere.

Cole pulled a half-eaten Baby Ruth from his parka. “I wonder how long that’s been in there. Better save it.”

Tatum nodded. Rationing food was a reality check on how little they had left.

A blaze of sunlight drew Tatum’s gaze up the slope where a caribou and her calf stood shoulder deep in snow. Their legs were as skinny as Cole’s ski pole.

“Why aren’t they with the herd?” she asked.

“Parasites.”

Last summer she’d seen a young moose covered by so many mosquitoes it looked like it was wearing a thick blanket. “Mosquitoes are winged vampires,” she said, quoting her dad.

“Know why there aren’t any snakes on the island?” Cole asked.

“Mosquitoes ate them.”

That got a smile out of him. “Gnats and blackflies are worse,” he said.

They took off again.

The frozen creek changed colors at every bend. Sometimes the ice was as dark as coal; other times a shimmery
blue-green. Farther on, the snow on the frozen creek was deeper, but not deep enough to slow them down.

Tatum thought her sled sounded different. It even felt different. She squinted at the glare magnified by the endless whiteness and let herself drift into autopilot.

The creek curved back toward a wind-blasted plateau, narrowed for a snaky stretch, then widened again. She followed Cole along the shoreline. “We’ll stop around the next bend!” he hollered. “Regroup!”

And that was just what Bandit did, right then.

Stopped in the middle of the creek.

“Not here, girl,” Tatum said.

Bandit looked over her shoulder, tongue hanging out, holding back. She went a short way, faltered, slowed, and stopped again.

“Get up there!” Cole shouted.

Bandit dropped her head, laying back her ears.

“Come on, now!” Tatum echoed. Bandit had never acted like this last summer. Why now? “Hike!” she hollered.

Her dog took another cautious step, then hesitated. She dug in stubbornly.

“Make her do what you tell her,” Cole snapped.

Tatum stiffened, unable to shake a sudden feeling of dread. “What if she’s sick? Like Wolf?”

“Put Alyeska in front,” he said.

Tatum rushed to the head of her team and lined them out straight. In her haste she couldn’t get Alyeska’s tugline resnapped to the mainline. Her fingers weren’t cooperating; her mind wasn’t either. She should be taking her time.
Right!

“Hurry up,” Cole said, losing patience.

“I’m doing the best I can!” she shouted back.

“Before the creek thaws!”

Tatum finally got the dogs switched.

“Follow me!” Cole called.

Tatum’s team moved so slowly it seemed like they were backing up. Bandit tugged against the line, slowing them even more. Then the whole team started acting up. Suddenly they veered right and booked it for the bank.

Alyeska stayed close to Cole’s sled. Both teams worked their way over an expanse where the snow wasn’t as deep. They edged a ridge that made a steep climb. From the top it was a sharp downhill turn along a narrow ravine.

“Hold on!” Cole called back. “This could get hairy!”

Tatum tightened her grip, trying to breathe evenly. She timed her breaths with Bandit’s gait. Her goggles dug into her face. They were too tight. Within seconds she had a screaming headache.

They zigzagged around willows, squat shrubs shaped by fierce winds. They ticked off a couple of hard-fought miles and moved uphill along the high bank of a river, then veered downhill again. The route twisted with endless ruts and bumps.

That was when she heard it.

The unmistakable sound of cracking ice.

Tatum stopped, choking on a breath. Her brain didn’t know what to do—what to think—how to process what her eyes were seeing. They’d been running on a river without even knowing it.

A section of ice caved in on itself. “No!” she cried out.

The dogs went wild, pulling against the lines. Wolf barked from inside the sled. Another crack.
Crash!
Raft-sized jags of ice tilted upward. One hitched a ride on the other.

Ice shifted, tilted, bobbed.

The river was chaotic, shattering into countless islands.

Her dogs flailed in their harnesses.

Bandit had known it. She’d heard water below the ice, maybe even smelled it. That was why she’d stopped.

“Follow me!” Cole sounded frantic. He was actually shaking in his boots. He threaded his way around an open lane of water, desperately searching for a safe path to shore.