Two hours of that steady trot got Dylan close to the GPS coordinates he’d received. The wind had started swirling the dry surface layer of snow as he made his cautious way down a ridge. A bad forest fire had ravaged the area two years past. Now, dead trees that had not completely burned lay like giant jackstraws, and holes left where some had blown over, pulling out their roots, lurked under the snow to trap a dog or tip a sled. It was ugly terrain.
Freya seemed to have an inborn sense for hazards. She slowed from the trot and zigzagged along, picking her way as daintily as a gymnast or a dancer. The rest of the dogs followed her lead, also showing cautious alertness. The ridge finally leveled off into a gentle bowl. Just before a stronger gust obscured his view, Dylan thought he saw a fl
