Free Four Quarters of Light by Brian Keenan Page A

‘Away, Cou-caisse!’
    I ran the first few yards, following Dan’s example, then jumped onto the rear running board. The dogs barked and snapped to assert their position and then we were gliding easily over the snowy tundra. The concentration had quenched my excitement, and I had already forgotten whether haw or gee had meant right or left. I would listen to Dan’s first command and that should sort out my confusion.
    Everything at the beginning was perfectly pleasant, and I couldn’t understand why I shouldn’t sight-see; after all, there is no more original way to see Alaska than from your own moving sleigh behind a panting dog team. But once we’d left the clearing behind Dan’s cabin I quickly forgot about looking behind me. The land began to undulate and break up and all my attention was given over to avoiding being whacked by low branches. I quickly learned the importance of leaning gently to the right or left so as to glide the sleigh easily at the most appropriate moments. Just as I was becoming assured and was greatly enjoying my mastery of this primitive transport, Dan hurried the pace. I thought it was about time; I was eager to be flashing over the snow. Then, as suddenly as Dan had shifted up several gears, I wished he hadn’t.
    There were fewer trees now, but the terrain was rougher and filled with sudden crevices then short but steep slopes. The dogs were in their element and charged on regardless. As we banked and rolled and plunged over this white nightmare I became all too aware just how light the sleigh was under me. Dan raced ahead heedlessly, his body as fluid as hot gelatin. I was dreading the growing distance between us and my team seemed anxious yet encouraged by it. They charged harder and faster, trying to lessen the gap. The sleigh bucked and leaped into the air, banging back into the land and causing the dogs to strain and snarl at my incompetence. I had not forgotten to use my foot as a brake, or about the necessity to lean, thus displacing weight and creating traction on turns, but the terrain was too rough and the obstacles came at me too suddenly. All I could do was hold on and hope. Within the space of a few miles I was bundled into the snowseveral times with no hope of tossing out my anchor. Every time I took a spill my team barked and yelped as if they were a team of hyenas and my comic performance was to their liking. It was a clear signal to Dan to come back and wait for me.
    â€˜Do this blindfold, can you?’ he asked with gleeful sarcasm after my fourth tumble.
    It was pointless to try to reply with any type of macho excuse. I picked myself up, dusted off the snow and got back behind the sleigh with the words, ‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it.’ I don’t know if my feeble affirmation convinced Dan, but he tried to be helpful, explaining that everything was about co-ordination and compensation. I understood what he meant but that did not automatically provide me with the skills to perform the bodily contortions demanded by the landscape. Dan suggested that if I could persevere for another few miles, we would then travel down a snow-covered riverbed that would be a lot easier to ride on. Otherwise we could double up on his sleigh, towing my sleigh behind. Defeat at this stage of my Alaskan adventure was too devastating to contemplate. ‘No,’ I stated. ‘It doesn’t hurt much, even if my ego does.’
    â€˜Okay,’ said Dan, and we were off again without another word.
    Whether it was stubborn determination or the ignominy of returning ‘in the pram’, as I had come to think of it, I stuck at it, trying to worry less about myself and somehow marry myself to the movements of the sleigh. After all, it was only a piece of wood and I was the brains in the operation.
    Dan, of course, had lied. It was more than a few miles to the riverbed. Indeed, it felt like a few hours, but in that time I achieved some