My eyes pop open in the twilight of early morning. I awake to the music of a dog team coming to a halt and hurry to my window. James is tying down his full eight-dog team then he disappears into the barn. After a few minutes, he emerges with Shemya frisking at his side. As soon as James sets the dog team off on the trail, Shemya bounds up onto the front porch.

In a warm robe and slippers, I scurry downstairs and let my beautiful Malamute come prancing in with the plume of his tail held high. I sink my hands into his deep fur and rub behind his deaf ears. "Okay, Shemya, we'll be on the trail this morning too."

I get dressed then eat toast and cereal quickly. Shemya and I dash out to check on the injured dogs. Blackie is standing wide awake, and Adak wags her tail wildly. I'm sure James found both of his dogs mending well so he can concentrate on racing.

Before long, I harness Shemya, Tok, Snowball, Bingo, Socks, and Dusty up to the sled and take my team onto the trails they love. Both Tok and Shemya lead us with steady confidence. Only Bingo seems more jumpy than usual, so I suspect he misses not having Libby at his side. It is nearly noon when we return. I feed the dogs and settle them down for naps.

Entering the house, Mom greets me with, "Brooke, your best friend called again. Amy asked if James is here."

"Her cousin's cell phone is never out of her hands or away from her ear."

Mom laughs. "Back home she'll have to do without a cell phone again."

With Amy in town, days fill with much more than running dogs. She insists we linger at malls and never tires of looking at clothes. Her pressure is non-stop to convince me I need something new to wear to the festival dance when the races end on Sunday. We go to a movie and drink more sodas than I've had in a year. It is a life vastly different than in our little village.

Of course, Amy asks a thousand questions about James, who I rarely see while he trains his team and I train mine. Amy is thrilled to learn he and I are no longer in the same race class. She vows to root for both of us.

The first day of sprint races begins at nine A.M. on Friday morning. The start gate is crowded with families from around the nation and fans shouting.

Threatening clouds clear away and leave a sunny day. The air is crisp and the trail icy enough to require booties on every paw. Dad helps me harness and bootie up the dogs.

With my team in a line and tugging impatiently to go, Dad holds them steady. I begin petting Snowball and Dusty, rub the backs of Sockeye and Bingo and give an ear rub to Tok. For Shemya I fling a big hug around him and look into his excited blue eyes.

"Go, Brooke, go," I hear Amy shout. A long, black braid hangs dramatically from a knit hat that matches her bright pink parka. I give her a wave.

The team in front of me is off and running. I securely grasp the back of the sled as I step onto the runners. With dad holding the team back, together we ease up to the starting line and I step firmly on the brake. The signal sounds and Dad lets go with a bellowing shout. "Go, go, Brooke Anne!"

The trail is fast on snow that has crusted since storms ended days ago. Shemya, teamed up with Tok, leads us up close to a sled ahead. At a right angle, we maneuver to run side by side then edge out in front. After almost eight miles, my sled crosses the line in front of the scorekeeper's clock.

Dad meets me by grabbing onto my excited dogs. With tongues hanging out and body heat up, they are ready to run more miles. We work together to get them out of harnesses. I unhitch a wiggling Snowball and jumpy Bingo and get them bedded down in the pickup carrier. Before all the dogs and sled are loaded, the loud speaker announces, "It looks like we have a winning time today for Brooke Anne Malden's team that completed the run in twenty-three minutes, fifteen seconds."

Squealing, Amy rushes from the viewing area up to our truck and throws her arms about me. "Did you hear that, Brooke? So far, you're winning."

"What with two races to go, I know at least a couple of racers are within just seconds of me."

"Here comes the last one," Amy says. A whoop comes from the crowd as the last sled in the six-dog race shows up. It is almost ten minutes behind me.

Holding a tight leash on grouchy Sockeye, Dad says, "I see most of the mushers against you are girls."

"Yes, I met one named Beth who is from Minnesota, and Jennifer is from Calgary. They're really devoted to their dogs."

Amy gives me a sideways teasing look. "Only a couple racers are Athabascan Natives like us. You notice that, Brooke?"

My confession to Amy about what I've always visualized that sled dogs are part of our Native culture. I considered others who race are intruders. But I sure don't feel that way about Beth or Jennifer and I know James is strongly attached to his dogs. I have no doubt that sled-dogging means as much to them as it does to me.

"I've changed my thinking on that. It was dumb of me to not believe racing dogs should be fun for anyone. But I do still think dog mushing is important to Native people,"

"That makes real sense, Brooke. What's made you change your mind?"

"Well, I admit all the racers I've met here deserve to run sled dogs. They're really hard workers and love to handle dogs."

"You mean even when their ancestors survived without sled dogs?"

"Yes, Amy. I mean that." We laugh.

Dad leads Tok and Shemya to the truck. I give Tok praise for a good job and let Dad get him settled on the back of the truck. Shemya nudges against my legs as if he wants me to bed him down. He is quick to curl up in comfort and peers out his screened window, not hearing the noise of the crowd.

Amy points at racers assembling dogs for the next race. "Right there, is super guy James."

"Walter is with him, Amy. Don't you think he's looking good too?"

She smiles. "He does know how to be fun. Let's go over there, Brooke."

Amy and I stand at a good spot near the starting line. She jumps with bubbly talk mostly about James.

Once all his dogs are in harness, they yelp, jerk and lunge forward, anxious to run. Libby's legs become tangled in a line. My breath stops. She appears unruly. Patiently, James untangles her, rubs a firm hand down her back causing her to stand at attention. He calmly speaks soothingly to each dog until all eight neatly line up.

Amy says with a swoon, "Wow, look at all that confidence oozing out of him."

I agreed he moved like an athlete in TV gymnastics. James is the seventh of eighteen mushers to line up sleds one at a time. With his dad and Walter holding the team in place, James steps up on the runners. The start signal sounds off and his feet hit the snow. His strong legs fly into a dead run behind the sled. It's a fast take off.

Walter jogs up to us with his usual sunny smile. "Hey, you girls want a coke? It'll be a half hour before James gets back."

"That'll be fast for ten and a half miles," I say.

"A coke sounds real good, Walter." Amy gives her favorite dance partner her glamour girl pose. A fur ruff on the hood of her parka frames her sweet dark eyes that light up like Coca-Cola is a special treat.

I don't follow them. On this first day of races, I want to see each team take off. Soon, James and his exuberant dogs pass over the finish line, their time is under thirty-two minutes.

When all the racers are in, an announcement sends a tickle all through me. A voice announces that his team has the best time for the day. He wins the first round of the eight-dog races.