Love Is Snowblind

Chapter 1 Outside of Fairbanks, Alaska January 5 “Whoa.” With a shouted word, Dylan Norgard halted the sixteen-dog team. He cast an anxious look at the lowering sky. Definitely time to head back toward home. Before he yelled, “Come, ha,” to turn them around, he walked the length of sled and team, scanning each of the dogs with a practiced eye. He stopped to give each a scratch and a personal word. They all appeared fit and not overly stressed. Good. This had been only a fifty mile test run, but proved his contention. He and the team were ready. The first of the critical quaifying mid-distance races would begin in three days, and gods willing, the storm would have passed to the east and south by then. A series of reliable finishes in the mid-distance races was necessary to establish positive credentials before he entered the Iditarod, the big one. Although he could not really feel the talisman through his parka, he pressed a hand just below his collarbone where his Thor’s hammer hung from a leather thong, a silent pledge to his beliefs and heritage. He’d paid his dues, beginning with two years in the Dog Warriors project, started by a fellow Middle East vet. Dylan was supposed to assist the other guy, based on having played with dogs a bit when growing up on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He soon found he was not cut out to be a mentor, so he severed those ties and moved out by himself. The first year on his own, he’d been naïve and ill prepared. The second had been bad luck. This time maybe they’d make it, at least that goal of the Iditarod finisher’s buckle. Only a few hundred of them had been earned and none were ever given away. It was not going to be easy, but nothing worthwhle ever was. “Third time is the charm,” his superstitious Welsh-Irish mother always said. With success and a few prizes in hand, he might finally move to the ultimate phase of his life-long dream. It was time. “Tighten up and line out. Ready, hike.” Freya and Thor, the lead pair, surged forward to lean into the harness at his command. The rest of the dogs responded almost as quickly. In seconds, they moved forward at a smooth trot, drawing the sled across the packed snow. It was as if they already scented the warm, rich meal awaiting them at the homestead. Situated in a sheltered tree-lined vale just far enough from town to be protected from public scrutiny, and blessedly quiet, Dylan’s home was not fancy, luxurious, or anything beyond utilitarian. Still, it was good, it was right, and above all, it was home. For him and the twenty-four dogs he kept, it was more than enough. The cabin and outbuildings provided shelter, warmth, food, and comfort. It was safe, private, and it was his—perhaps the most important quality of all. Solitude suited him. Too many years wasted jammed elbow-to-elbow with people who could tolerate crowds, noise, and who wore the mental blinders permitting them to ignore the clamor, had convinced him that life was best spent alone. This remote outpost was where he’d finally dug in to stay. A trace of modernity had crept in to the Alaskan bush with the advent of cell phones and satellite communications. He’d allowed himself a small diesel-powered generator and a snowmobile that let him travel without working the dogs when necessary and to save gas for his big four-wheel-drive pickup. He almost wished the high-tech items did not exist, but, at times, they were essential to survival, especially for one who had not grown up with the wilderness skills of the past. For that reason, he tolerated them. Still, he preferred as close to total isolation, solitude, and off-the-grid lifestyle as he could manage. He found it the only way he could survive with a modicum of sanity.