Something about alaska, p.1
Something About Alaska, page 1
First published 2022 by MidnightSun Publishing Pty Ltd
PO Box 3647, Rundle Mall, SA 5000, Australia.
www.midnightsunpublishing.com
Copyright © J. A. Cooper 2022
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers (including, but not restricted to, Google and Amazon), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of MidnightSun Publishing.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Abby Stout
Internal design by Zena Shapter
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Printed and bound in Australia by Ovato. The papers used by MidnightSun in the manufacture of this book are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable plantation forests.
For Rosy
CHAPTER ONE
I hardly recognized Dad at first. When I got off the plane I started to worry he hadn’t shown up, the way Mom said might happen – only half joking. Scanning the sea of faces beyond the glass security doors, I couldn’t see anyone who looked like Dad. At least, not like I remembered him.
I was looking for a smooth face and a crew cut – maybe one of Dad’s classic screwball expressions. But when I finally spotted him he was standing well away from the crowd with his hands in his pockets.
I could hardly believe it was him. It was like he’d shrunk – maybe because I’ve grown. He seemed a lot pudgier too, compared to when I saw him last. In fact, it was almost scary how different he looked, with his hair grown out and his unshaven face all peppered with gray. And streaks of silver above the ears, too. It made me realize how little contact we’ve had all these years, apart from the occasional email and phone calls for birthdays and Christmas.
But it was Dad alright. The Orioles cap gave him away – that faded black and orange number he’s worn about as long as I can remember. And something about the face. The dimpled chin and those long dark lashes. They haven’t changed at all.
Dad’s still pretty handsome for his age, I guess. Just kind of weathered.
I waved to him, but he didn’t pull a face the way I expected – simply nodded hello from across the terminal. It wasn’t much of a welcome, but at least he was there to meet me, and seemed to recognize me.
In the past, whenever Dad’s come to visit me and Mom in San Diego, we’ve been the ones waiting at the airport, welcoming him into our world. Coming to Alaska, things were different. I was entering unknown territory, and without Mom for backup. So things would have been weird enough without that look Dad was wearing – half squint, half scowl, like he was trying to sum me up. Trying to figure out just by looking at me how much I’ve changed since we last saw each other.
Worried I might be giving Dad the exact same look, I tried flashing him a cheesy grin. But he missed it, checking his phone.
I bustled my way through the crowd of people welcoming their loved ones home – all smiles and hugs, laughter and tears. For them it all seemed so natural and unrehearsed, nothing like the emotional train-wreck in the pit of my stomach.
Four years ago, when Dad last visited us in California, I’d have run through all those people, thrown my arms around Dad’s barrel chest and squeezed it as hard as I could. The old man would have roughed up my hair and growled Hey shrimp! His prickly chin would have tickled my ear and the ten-year-old me would have loved it and hated it all at once.
In my imagination that’s even how I’d rehearsed it. But now I had my doubts. What with Dad looking so old it occurred to me I must have changed, too, and I found myself wondering – can a kid my age hug his father like that?
As it turned out, things didn’t go that way at all. Instead, our reunion kicked off with a clumsy handshake that fell apart almost as soon as it began.
‘Hey,’ I said, trying to sound casual, but friendly.
‘Hey,’ Dad fired back, reaching out a weathered paw and yanking the sleeve of my sweater. ‘What’s this?’ he growled.
‘New sweater,’ I told him.
‘That wool?’
‘Yeah. Grandma knitted it.’
‘Sheesh...’ There was no hiding the disapproval. ‘You’ll freeze your ass off in that thing. I told your mom you’d need some decent cold weather gear…’
‘I got thermals,’ I reassured him. ‘And a new fleece, in my pack. I didn’t wear them on the plane.’
Dad looked doubtful. ‘Better than nothing, I guess. We’ll get you fitted out properly later.’
Just then a long announcement about airport security played out over the loudspeaker, killing the conversation completely. For a full twenty seconds we stood there awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look.
After the announcement, Dad started up again, clearly trying to lighten the mood:
‘So, Christmas with your old man, huh? How long’s it been?’
‘Six years,’ I answered straight away. I’d done the math on the plane. ‘At Grandma’s, before we moved to California.’
‘Oh yeah…’ Dad sounded like he wished he hadn’t asked. ‘The great Christmas in Seattle experiment. Well, this year’s gonna be different… guys only!’
‘Yeah, should be cool.’
I was trying to sound upbeat, but the thought of passing Christmas Day thinking up things to talk about that didn’t include Mom or Grandma or anything from the past suddenly seemed too hard. Then I remembered Mom telling me how Dad was seeing some lady who runs a mobile library.
‘What about Debbie?’ I asked, proud of myself for remembering the name.
But either Dad didn’t hear me or else he was pretending not to. Worried I might have struck a nerve, I decided to change the subject. ‘You look different,’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize you, with the long hair and all.’
Dad nodded then looked me up and down. ‘You can talk,’ he replied. ‘Look at you… skinny as a weasel. We’ll have to fatten you up for Christmas… stick an apple in your mouth and roast you on a spit like a hog.’
Was that supposed to be a compliment? An insult? A joke? I couldn’t read Dad’s tone.
In the end I decided it must have been a joke because he suddenly pulled a face like a stuffed pig. I didn’t really see the funny side, but I laughed anyhow.
After that, the wall of cold waiting outside the terminal came as a relief – something less personal to talk about. A huge cloud erupted from my mouth as I followed Dad out to the parking lot.
‘Whoa!’ I cried.
‘Welcome to Alaska!’ Dad called over his shoulder.
‘Is it always this cold?’ I stammered, humping my pack and trying to keep up.
‘Colder, usually.’
‘Really?’ I knew perfectly well, but the conversation was feeling better at last.
‘It’s supposed to get real cold by the end of the week,’ Dad went on. ‘A heap of snow too.’
‘How cold’s real cold?’
‘Thirty, maybe forty below.’
‘Man, that’s crazy!’
‘You’re lucky I don’t live in Fairbanks,’ he said. ‘They had a cold snap up there two weeks ago. Got down to fifty below.’
‘Minus fifty! What’s that like?’
Dad pulled another impossible face and shuddered for effect. ‘F-f-f-r-e-a-k-i-n’ f-f-f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g!’
I laughed again, only this time for real. That was more like the Dad I remember.
Twenty minutes into my stay and I’d been starting to worry that maybe coming to Alaska had been a mistake. But when Dad burst out laughing, too, I felt I could relax a little. Like we’d finally hit things off. And maybe everything was going to turn out alright after all.
CHAPTER TWO
The thing about Alaska is how cold it gets in winter. Back home in San Diego, it gets pretty cold, but nothing like it does here. At worst, winter in California means a little mist and rain – a sad kind of cold that mopes around like a stray dog for a few days before finally drifting on. Most of the time, it’s fine and mild. But the cold here is hard and invisible and lasts for half the year. It’s a wicked cold, the Alaska winter, and can kill a man in a second. That’s what my old man says anyhow, and he ought to know.
Dad’s run the Iditarod three times – 1100 miles by dogsled in the middle of winter, from Willow in the south of Alaska, to Nome on the west coast. So, if he knows about anything it’s how dangerous this place can be. And he’s got the frostbite scars to prove it.
I’m no Iditarod veteran, but I am getting ready to harness up a team of dogs and take them out for a run while Dad’s in Anchorage buying up salmon spoils from the cannery. When he told me at dinner last night that he thought I was about ready to break some trail, I just assumed he was yanking my chain. Turns out he was serious, though. He was up and gone by the time I crawled out of bed this morning, but he left a note to say he’d be back after noon, and that, if I wanted to make myself useful, I could give some of the dogs a workout.
Take a small team, go slow, and stick to the groomed trails.
I can’t believe Dad’s letting me go out solo bec
Never let go of the sled, that’s the main thing to remember…
You let go of that sled and you’re a dead man, cos those dogs’ll keep on mushin’ til there’s no more trail, or else they drop dead o’ cold.
That’s what Dad told me the first time we went out. I remember we were rounding a bend on the edge of the tundra when the sled dipped down into the soft trail edge and I lost my balance and fell off. Luckily, Dad was driving another team up front. He wrangled up my team as best he could while trying not to let go of his own. But they all got tangled up in a big mess of ropes and sleds and snarling huskies that took forever to sort out. Dad sure was pissed…
Don’t ever let go of the sled, numb nuts!
That seems to be Dad’s way nowadays. Every five minutes it’s: do it like this or don’t touch that or I said turn the goddam thing anti-clockwise, pea-brain. What are you, deaf?
The last time I saw Dad – over four years ago now – he wasn’t like that at all. Back then, I was still a kid – only ten years old – so he spent most of the time taking me places and buying me things I didn’t really need. I thought it was great, though Mom hated it. You shouldn’t spoil him so much, she kept saying.
That’s what kids are for, he’d answer back.
Now, it’s like I have to earn his respect. I guess I’m not a kid anymore.
The thermometer on the big birch out front says it’s nearly twenty below, which is pretty darn cold. Of course, it gets a hell of a lot colder than that. Still, minus twenty is cold enough to get you killed if you don’t know what you’re doing.
Down below, I put on long-johns and a pair of fleece pants. Up top, it’s a thermal shirt and a polar fleece sweater, the one Mom got me especially for the trip. Over all that I pull on a snowsuit and the dirty old ex-army goose down jacket Dad says I’ve got to wear if I don’t want to freeze to death.
Next, I jam my feet – already snug in a double layer of socks – into a pair of the insulated rubber bunny boots Dad keeps on a rack by the door. Then it’s thermal gloves, neck warmer and mittens and finally, a bunch of harnesses for the dogs.
I open the door and the cold’s there waiting, grabs me by the ears and yanks real hard – you forgot your hat, dipstick!
There’s a whole sequence to getting dressed to go out here, and it’s easy to screw up. Now I have to take off the mittens to get my hat on right. It’s funny how just going outside is such a big deal. But I love the ritual of it all, and how, even though it’s cold enough to kill you here in winter, it doesn’t stop people living their lives. I’ve even seen little kids getting around on snow machines the way most other kids go by bike. It’s what they’re used to, I guess. In time, I might get used to it, too. Maybe there’s hope for me and Dad yet.
With my hat on, I’m finally through the door, but only gone ten yards when the tips of my ears and nose start to burn. I pull off a mitten and prod my face, which has already started to go numb. It’s like it’s not where it should be.
Damn, it’s cold!
I put the mitten back on and pull up the hood of my jacket, the one Dad’s lending me while I’m here. He wore it the first time he ran the Iditarod and the hood is lined with wolverine fur. The fur traps warm air around your head and without it you’d get frostbite.
If you don’t want your nose to look like this – Dad said, before we went out mushing the first time, showing me the stump of his amputated big toe, the skin all pink and melted looking – you’ll keep your freakin’ hood up.
I stand in the yard a moment, just taking it all in. Outside, everything’s perfectly still, like I’ve entered another world. Not underwater. Not outer space. But somewhere just as weird. Just as still and quiet.
That is until the ravens start up with their weird tik-tok, blip-blop call that echoes through the woods. It sounds like dripping water, as if the whole place is melting. Of course, it’s way too cold for that.
I tramp across the yard towards the kennels. Frozen snow crunches underfoot, biting and squeaking like a fist-full of marbles. Some of the dogs peek out from their kennels to see what’s up. When they spot the harnesses swinging in my hand they clamber out and start to stretch and yawn. They know something’s up, for sure, even though Dad’s not with me, and the others soon get the message.
Now they’re all out and up on their kennels, fawning and whimpering – choose me, choose me!
I love this feeling of being prepared, of knowing what you’ve got to do and having the right equipment – the clothes, the harnesses, the sleds hanging up in the barn and an endless forest full of trails to explore.
I like the dogs, too, because they know what’s what and don’t complain. They’re just happy to be heading out. Sometimes they bitch and fight, mostly over nothing. The trick is to grab them by the scruff and haul them apart. Even put the boot in if you have to. That’s the language of the pack these dogs understand. Tough love, Dad calls it. Show ‘em who’s boss and they’ll respect you for it.
There are three sleds hanging in the barn. The old wooden one Dad’s been using to teach me how to mush, a long canvas covered one he uses for passengers and equipment, and his brand new sled with the carbon fibre frame and laminated ash and fibreglass runners. I didn’t ask him if I could use the new sled, but then, he never said I shouldn’t. If he were here for me to ask he’d probably say hell no. But he’s not. So I guess it’s my call.
The thing is, Dad’s new sled is super lightweight and handles better than the clunky old crate I normally get to use, so if anything I’ll be safer with it. And if Dad does happen to ask which sled I used, I figure what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Setting up the sled’s a bit of a production, but I’ve seen Dad do it plenty of times and asked enough dumb questions that I think I know the drill by now. Besides, he let me set up my own sled last time we went out and didn’t say anything, so I must have been doing something right.
I take down the new sled and drag it over to one side of the kennels. The dogs are going crazy as I stomp the anchor into the ground. The anchor’s a kind of metal claw and your only way of keeping the dogs from running right off when you’re out on the trail. Here in the yard, there’s a quick release cable connecting the sled to a concrete post as backup.
After that I lay out the gangline, and then it’s time to pick a team. Six dogs should be plenty.
Ruby, she can be lead dog, together with Marley, Dad’s favorite. She ran the Iditarod with him the last two times and gets to come inside by the fire more than any of the rest. One at a time, I choose the team, pinning each dog between my knees as I feed their front legs – already trying to run – into the harnesses.
I can hardly think over all the yapping and howling. The way these crazy mutts leap around and yank on their chains, it’s a wonder they don’t break their stupid necks.
One after another, I drag them to the gangline and clip them on. It’s like they died and went to heaven, jumping and shouting – let’s go, c’mon, let’s go already!
Ruby, Marley, Wenonah, London, Zulu and Denver make up the team, all female Alaskan sled dogs, purpose-bred for breaking trail. Dad mostly keeps bitches, though you wouldn’t know from the names. He says the females eat less, don’t fight as much as the males and have better endurance anyhow, making them perfect for lightweight, long-distance runs.
Twenty-two dogs in all, Dad’s got, including the six males he keeps for breeding and hauling heavier loads. He doesn’t race any more, though, just takes tourists out in winter.
Greenvale Kennels – that’s the name of Dad’s business. From here, he takes clients way out to Swan Lake where you can see the whole Central Alaska Range laid out like a jagged saw-blade of rock and ice. Sometimes he takes them right up to the Moose’s Tooth and camps out overnight. People pay good money for the experience and tip big if the weather’s kind enough to offer up a decent view.
I figure I might come back to Alaska one day, when I finish school, and help Dad out with the business. I’ve always loved the outdoors, and I can’t think what else I want to do. Mom says I’m a thinker, like her, and that I’ll end up an artist or an academic. Personally, I don’t see it, and my grades sure as hell don’t agree. So, helping Dad with his mushing outfit seems as good a bet as any. Maybe we’ll end up running it together.
