Ice Dogs Read Online Free PDF

drop lines on the cable picket. Each dog scratches and sniffs and circles around in the deep snow as if this is a perfectly fine place to catch a nap. Whistler waves her butt in front of Gazoo and then snaps at him when he pokes his nose too close. My heart swells with what a good job they’ve done today and how hard they’ve worked. They’re going to need snacks.
    I turn back to the sled, and bend to help Chris out. “We’ll stay here a while—maybe it’ll stop snowing.”
    He wobbles and leans heavily on me. He smells like winter.
    When he’s got his footing, I sort through my gear. “I’m going to make a fire . . . there’s a sleeping bag in here somewhere . . . you’ll be warm then . . . where is it? Ah, you were sitting on it.”
    I pull out the bag and send a silent thank you to Dad for reminding me to bring it. Once I’ve grabbed the rest of the gear we need, I close the sled bag so snow doesn’t get in.
    â€œYou g-g-got a hot tub in there?” He stands with his arms wrapped around himself.
    I know you start getting confused with the onset of hypothermia. He doesn’t realize how serious this is.
    â€œOr maybe a cell phone?”
    â€œCell phones don’t work out here.” I hack spruce boughs off the trees with my hatchet and spread them out, making a thick pile under the hanging branches of another spruce. “Perhaps if you were dressed properly . . . ” I hear the condescending tone in my voice and try again. “You’ll have to take off those stupid jeans, they’re wet and only making you colder.” I hold up my spare woollies. “I’m not sure these will fit, but they stretch.”
    â€œTh-they’re pink.”
    â€œYeah, present from my mom. Sorry ’bout that, but beggars can’t be choosers.” The sleeping bag crunches in the cold as I pull it out of the stuff sack. “Come sit here.”
    He slumps down on the branches and takes the bag with shaking hands. When he tries to climb in, I see how uncoordinated he is. I squat down and help him into the bag, flipping the hood over his head and zipping it up to his chin.
    â€œWe’ve just met and you’re already t-trying to get me in the s-sack.”
    I stare at him. He either thinks he’s charming, or when he hit his head, he damaged his social skills.
    I open my mouth, then think better of it and push the water bottle at him. “I’m going to collect firewood. Stay here. Drink. And take off those jeans.”
    He burrows into his cocoon and I slide the sled beside him as a windbreak. With the trees at his back cutting the south wind, and the sled bag blocking the swirling winds from the west, it should be a warm enough spot once I get a fire going.
    Southwest winds.
I curse myself for not paying attention to this. They usually bring storms.
    As I break off dead branches, I remember winter camping with Dad. “That’s it, Vic,” he had said. “These spruce needles will be good for insulation under our tent. And the bark off the birch makes a natural fire starter. We have everything we need to survive right here.”
    One ice-fishing trip we camped just for fun. We stayed for three nights. When we took down the tent, the melted indents in the snow where our bodies had slept proved he was right; the spruce needles underneath had kept us warm. But in the end, all the bush knowledge in the world couldn’t help Dad.
    Because I wasn’t there.
    I close my eyes and tap my forehead with the back of my glove, and then light the pile of tinder I’d gathered. I hang over the flame, using my body as a windbreak, and coax it to grow by feeding it some bigger sticks. It’s amazing how much better everything seems with a fire. It pops and sparks and immediately warms the skin on my neck and face.
    Whistler lets loose a long, slow howl. Seconds later, the