The obnoxious roar of a snow machine sputters to a stop outside my dog yard. All by but one of the dogs yip and yelp as if a bellowing wolf made of steel might attack.

"Hey Brooke, you're never going win another race with Shemya. That dog is useless to you now," he yells. A taunting grin from under his gleaming black helmet flushes me with heat.

"A lot you know, James Samuelson." My jaw tightens. I glare into his confident gray-green eyes. I know he's come around just to bait me. "My dogs will beat the socks off your team at the North American."

"Ha! Not with a deaf dog, you won't." He cranks the Polaris's throttle wide open. The black and yellow monster kicks up a spray of snow, leaps forward, and thunders away.

I turn my back to him with cheeks red hot. I stomp the snow as I fasten booties on Tok's paws. All seven dogs are harnessed and tree-tied. They lunge and bark furiously until James vanishes beyond the last house in the village.

Only Shemya does not bark. A shiver trembles through him as he stares after the snow machine. His ears are pinned back and his tail is down.
In moments, the roar fades and the afternoon quiet settles over my anxious dogs.

I kneel before Shemya. I did not put a harness on Shemya and don't expect to ever harness him again. He sits obediently. Sharp, blue eyes look hopefully from a mask of white and black velvet fur encircling his brow.

"I know you hate those machines, Shemya." My throat tightens as I stroke his head. I know he shares the memory of that awful night when a snow machine crashed into his doghouse.

Every home has a snow machine. They are important for getting around during the winter months and they rarely cause problems. But Andy Chinkov was drunk last Saturday night. The crash gave Shemya a terrible whack to his head and left him bruised and unconscious. The bruises healed, but my best lead dog was left deaf.

I hug his sturdy body. "You can't hear my commands anymore, Shemya."

"Need a little help Brooke Anne?" my Uncle Earl calls from our house. He, in a springtime jacket, hustles up a path hard-packed by a hundred footsteps.

"Your dogs are raring to go." He chuckles. Grabbing a hold on the sled, he jams the heels of his mukluks into the snow.

"Thanks, Uncle Earl. You'll be help with this wild and crazy seven." He grabs hold of dogs in harness to keep them from tangling.

I tie Shemya to what is left of his damaged doghouse. As I turn away, a mournful howl stops me. I return and wrap my arms around his big, fluffy body. Trust shines in his blue eyes.

"You must stay here from now on, Shemya." I pick up one of the plump, fuzzy puppies that scamper around us. "Look, you can take care of little Muffy here and teach her to be a good leader like you did Tok."

The growling, playful pup sinks teeth into Shemya's thick fur. I leave him with a proud head tucked down. My heart aches.

I hurriedly brush by my uncle and untie the sled. Tok yelps, bursting to lead the team through the village. I mount the sled runners and jam my boot hard on the brake and call, "Okay, Uncle Earl."

He unhooks the rope that anchors the sled to a tree. "Get going, you huskies."
I stand on the sled runners and hang on tight. I free the brake and the sled lunges forward. "Haw!"

"Swish," go the runners sliding with ease behind high-flying tails. I glimpse Mom's smiling face pressed to the window of our wood-frame home.

Twin girls hop in flowered kuspiks and call, "Go Brooke. Go, go, go!" In summers I babysit them at fish camp so they don't fall into the Yukon River or try to climb a churning fish wheel. I wave at the jumping girls as the dogs pull onward through the village on a twisting path.

The sled eases around a turn beyond the village and there, within inches of the trail, James sits smirking on his idle Polaris. Perched on a mound of snow, he is obviously spying on my every move. He makes me feel like one of those reality TV contestants standing before a mean panel of judges.

The thing is, James knows that a racer's confidence is crucial. I know he is trying to shake me up enough to gain an edge over me. If he were any other guy, I'd think he's flirting. But, believe me, James only interest is in out racing me. We've been adversaries at every sport since he came to the village about five years ago.

I grit my teeth and shout to the team, "Haw". Tok jerks the team to the left onto a well-packed trail leading into a deep forest. Like scurrying rabbits, we flow away from James into a forest of snow-crusted spruce trees. Limbs are so thick that I keep ducking and dodging slaps from pine scented branches.

I hear no roaring motor so James is not following us. That makes me start humming a happy tune. Last spring my dogs, lead by Shemya, nosed out his team at the Junior North American races. With no Shemya, it'll take a lot more work to be a winning team.

"Come on guys," I shout to the dogs. "In just two weeks we have to be ready."
In the silent forest, sliding runners whisper on the trail. Booties on each dog paw make rhythmic thuds on hard, icy snow. The dogs pant and send gulps of steam into cold air.

I call, "Gee, Gee." Tok responds with an unsteady veer to the right. I think of how deftly Shemya would have managed the curve. We pull away from the forested trail and plunge down a steep bank onto the frozen river. The runners grate on patches of wind-swept ice.

I call one command after another and Tok responds with less hesitation than I expect, despite his tender age. He's Shemya's pup, born less than two years ago and has so much to learn. Will he make it in time for the races?

My eye catches the blur of something moving among trees then onto the ice right beside us.

It's Shemya. His tether drags out behind him. It is attached to a scrap of lumber that trails and bounces dangerously.