Free The Middle of Everywhere by Monique Polak Page B

Who needs a snowmobile, I think, when you can travel by dogsled?
    I can’t help feeling disappointed when Steve tugs hard on the harness and the dogs slow to a stop. The wind is picking up; the sky is still completely dark. We’ve reached the first bend. I hear barking in the distance. P’tit Eric’s dark ears prick up again. Some of the other dogs are panting, their purple tongues hanging out of their mouths. Maybe they need a rest, but not P’tit Eric.
    Two more dogsled teams—one is Joseph’s—are meeting us here.
    Joseph’s team turns up first. His dogs growl when they get close to Steve’s team. P’tit Eric bares his teeth, then Steve’s other dogs start growling too. I hope this isn’t going to turn into a dogfight. But Joseph takes charge. “Hey,” he says sternly, and all the dogs, even Steve’s, settle down, though they are still eyeing each other as if they are not quite sure whether the other team can be trusted.
    Joseph nods when he sees me. “Ay, Noah,” he says, “these are a couple of my IPL students.” He turns to the two boys riding on his qamutik . “Tom and Roy.” Both boys nod at me. I notice Tom’s eyes aren’t as dark as the others. Maybe he has Qallunaaq blood in him.
    Now another dogsled team pulls up next to Joseph’s. These dogs are a little smaller than the others and less aggressive. A couple of them try to sniff one of the dogs at the back of Joseph’s team. When the dog growls, the smaller ones back off, their tails between their legs. Their musher is a tall Inuit boy with flushed cheeks. “This here is Jakopie,” Joseph says. “He’s IPL too. Jakopie has his own small dogsled team. This is their first long trip. That’s why Jakopie only has one passenger.” Jakopie’s passenger has his back to me. “I think you know Lenny from school.”
    Just my luck. I’m going to be spending the weekend with Lenny Etok.
    Lenny turns and smirks at me from the back of Jakopie’s qamutik .
    â€œLenny’s not an IPL student,” I say.
    â€œNeither are you,” Lenny says.
    He has a point there.
    Etua gets off our qamutik . “Dad,” he says, jumping up and down as he speaks, “Can I ride with cousin Roy?”
    â€œIt’s okay by me—as long as the other guys don’t mind switching places.”
    Etua and I are the only ones without rifles slung across our chests. Because they’re Inuit, or like Steve, married to an Inuk, they have hunting permits.
    Tom slides off Joseph’s qamutik to give Etua his spot. Then Tom comes over to our qamutik . “Nice to meet you.” He reaches for my hand. By now, I don’t expect a proper shake. “So you come from the south,” Tom says as he sits down next to me.
    â€œI guess I do. I’m just not used to thinking of Montreal as south of anyplace. In Montreal, south usually means Florida or maybe Mexico.”
    Tom grins. “Just about the whole world is south of George River,” he says.
    Joseph’s glasses are fogged over from the cold. He wipes at them with his mitts, then reaches into his pocket for what turns out to be a battery-operated gps. “Let’s review our route,” he says to Steve.
    Soon we’re off again. Our team is up front; Jakopie’s is in the middle, followed by Joseph’s. When I turn to look behind me, all I can make out is a blur of dogs—ears and muzzles and legs and torsos and tails—all flying over the snow.
    I tug on my ski tuque so it’ll cover more of my forehead. I’m the only one who isn’t wearing a nassak . Still, my tuque has got to be warmer than their nassak s, which don’t even cover the bottoms of their ears. Maybe people up here are just more used to the cold.
    I wiggle my toes inside the boots Dad lent me. They’re a touch big, but I wore an extra pair of socks to make up for it.