"Go, James, go!" young boys shout as metal runners on my dog sled slide through the village. Their shouts are usually for me on the Polaris. Now though, I've signed up for an eight-dog Junior National so I swear off the snow machine. The dogs need hard work to toughen up for the races.

After my last class today, I head out under a blue sky. This is our last run before we head for Fairbanks tomorrow. Rather then the old trail beside the Yukon River, I take the dogs on a bigger challenge. I holler, "Gee, gee."

Light catches the silver edges of Luger's perked-up ears as they swivel as if the order for a sharp right turn is surprises my leader. Without hesitation he heads the team into a dense forest of alders. The dogs flourish with energy and seem to fly through narrow openings. The sled bounces off tree after tree testing my sense of balance as my boots fight to stay on the runners. It's a trail stamped with moose hooves and barely wide enough for energetic dogs. Eight tails joyfully rise up as we enter into an open meadow.

Speed picks up on the flat stretch. Luger takes a quick jump, then Blackie leaps before I see a rock hidden behind a snow drift. Each dog makes over it, but the sled hits hard. My feet slip off the runners and the sled tips on its side.

I barely hang on. The dogs drag me over fresh tracks and snow scoops over my head. My prone body slows the dogs so I give a heave and manage to right the sled. My feet dig in, get me into a run, and I fight until my boots are back on the runners.

I spit out mouthfuls of snow and choke out a loud, "Whoa."

One stomp gets the brake set and brings the team to a gradual stop. I plunge the anchor hook into the snow and stagger off the sled to touch each dog.

"Hey, Adak and Kiddo you're good jumpers." Adak gives me a whine and Kiddo barks.

I run my glove through Ruby's rusty colored hair. "You look good, too, Goldie, Denver, and Billie. No growls out of you big guys."

Luger's dark eyes gleam and his ears flatten back in fear as if I'm about to scold him. I stroke him with a bare hand and give his head a good petting. "Hey, Luger, it's strange you chose to jump over the rock. At least I survived. Both you and Blackie look up to more running and tricky turns."

We get into motion again, and the sled sails smoothly through the meadow to the foot of a hill. A good set of twists and turns give my leader a challenge to pick out the best route. We weave fairly well on this part of the trail and roam for quite a distance.

Brooke's lead dog, Shemya, has no doubts on a trail. With keen instinct he avoids objects that can tip the sled and tight turns that could entangle the whole team. It still bothers me that I owe Shemya an apology. It was a mean remark that I said just to set a spark out of Brooke.

"Haw," I call, and we swing left at the base of the hill. Moving forward means we go uphill. The strong wheel dogs, Denver and Billie pull with power to get the sled started uphill. With my feet are off the runners, I run and push on the sled. The strong dogs pull at a slower pace. I'm proud that Luger keeps the lines taut so the team makes a smooth ascent to the hilltop.

On the high ridge, I slow them to a stop so they can cool off. The temperature is no colder than ten degrees and that long run builds up heat for both me and the dogs. Their tongues are hanging out, and the hard-breathing dogs lap up bites of snow.

I pull off my top jacket and reach for a bottle of water. Luger scratches a hollow in the snow, plops his belly down, and turns his ears and nose toward me.

"Just a short rest," I tell him and sit back on a fallen log.

At the top of this hill, wilderness country spreads across wide open terrain. Dad's job is what brought us to the Alaska bush. I was in the fifth grade. The first couple of years Mom claimed to be a happy school teacher, but then she got sick. Cancer ended Mom's life so painfully soon.

Quiet moments out here in wild land bring memories with a clarity that tightens my throat. I imagine Mom's smiling eyes and the soft arms that would envelope me. Dad keeps reminding me that mother's greatest wish is for me to study hard, and he also says she wants me in sports. It has a lot to do with how she watches over us from heaven.

Wisps of clouds stretch ribbons across the vast sky and begin to tint with color. The hint of a setting sun gleams in shades of gold, pink and deep red.
A bark from Luger breaks the silence. "Ho, dogs, let's take that same trail back to Denaaka."

By noon on Friday, I leave school and start packing the dogs up for travel to Fairbanks. My buddy, Walter Evans, shows up.

"Hey, James, you packing eight dogs in just six boxes on this pickup?"

Walter's boots stomp on hard packed snow between me and the Chevy. His glove slaps the plywood dog boxes that Dad and I made last summer and never got painted.

I give my best friend a quick punch on his shoulder. "Billie, and hyper-sensitive Adak, don't mind cuddling up for the drive. Neither do Ruby and Goldie."

"Oh, swing dogs. You keep them behind the leader, don't you?"

I nod and stuff another blanket into a dog box. "Most of the time, they are easy going. Don't growl much like Denver."

"I know Denver's strong body is your best wheel dog. Since it's a week before the Friday start in Fairbanks, you'll have time to whip the team into champion shape on trails there."

"When are you getting off work at the store, Walter?"

"Mercantile payday is next Wednesday. The next day I'll catch up with you."

"Hey, you'll have a buck or two to spend in Fairbanks."

"You bet. I'm going for an IPod, like the one Brooke has."

I hooted like a snow owl. "She's got one of those? I didn't know she ever did anything that didn't involve her dogs."

"Well, today is your chance to find out plenty about her." Walter wore a grin that made his sunny face a teaser.

"What do you mean? I sure won't be seeing Brooke today."

"But for hours, you'll be sitting right next to her dad. He'll love to talk about his favorite daughter."

I swallow down a silly sentence that haunts my thoughts, 'There's only one daughter he's got, only one Brooke Anne Malden'. Instead, I flip Walter's cap off into snow and say, "Who might that be, Walter?"

Walter's head goes back in a laugh. He reaches for his cap and gives it a shake.

I turn away to hide a hot flush painting my face beet red. With a tug on his arm, I command, "Give me a hand to get the dogs settled on board."