friends killed in just this manner—dropping through the ice while running dogs—and there wasn’t much of a chance for me. The water was ten or twelve feet deep. I saw all the bubbles from my clothing going up to the surface and I tried to pull myself up on the rope. My hands slipped and I thought in a wild, mental scream of panic that this was how it would end.
Then the rope tightened. There was a large noose-knot on the end and it tightened and started pulling up and when the knot hit I grabbed and held and the dogs pulled me out of the hole and back up onto the ice. There was still very little time. I had a quart of white-gas stove fuel on the sled for emergencies and I threw it on a pine tree nearby and lit a match and set the whole tree on fire and,in the heat, got my clothes off and crawled into a sleeping bag. I stood inside it and held my clothes near the flame to dry them.
I would have died if not for Cookie.
She saw me drop, instantly analyzed the situation, got the team up—she must have jerked them to their feet—got them pulling, and they pulled me out.
That was January 1980. It is now 1997 as I write this, and everything that has happened in the last seventeen years—everything: Iditarods, published books, love, living,
life
—all of it, including this book, I owe to Cookie.
This book is dedicated to her memory.
Mother stood looking down at the puppy I was holding.
“This one,” I said. “I want this one.”
It was a little black female with a perfect white circle on its side and I clutched it close to my chest and saw only the puppy, me, and the endless possibilities.
I did not realize how impossible the situation happened to be:
I was just seven years old. We were in a mountain village in the Philippine Islands in 1946, where my mother and father had come on a sort of work-vacation-getaway trip. My father was in the army there and Mother and I had taken a troopship from San Francisco to be with him.
The dog represented a problem in more ways than one. We lived in strictly controlled base housing, such as it was, and Mother wasn’t sure if dogs were allowed. But that was just for openers.
The village we were visiting raised dogs for food. I had just—to my utter seven-year-old horror—watched them strangle a dog for cooking. I grabbed the puppy thinking only to save it, but it was so cute that I immediately loved it and would not let it go. I had never had a dog before but there wasabsolutely no doubt in my mind that this dog,
this
dog, was meant for me.
The village headman who owned the dog was not eager to give it away and had reached to pull it back. Mother, who had been dickering over some carvings she wanted to buy, had seen the man reach for me and had come over like a tigress, ready to attack him, only to find that I would not let the puppy go.
“This one,” I said again. “I want to save this one …”
“Save?” Mother asked.
“They eat them,” I said.
“Dogs?”
I nodded. “I want to save this one and take it home.”
She looked from me to the headman, back to me, then nodded and turned back to the headman. “How much?”
He stood mute.
“How many pesos for the puppy?”
He understood that and they started tohaggle over price. My mother loved it and was in her element. I knew I’d won when she finally nodded, handed the headman some money, and motioned to the Jeep where my father and our bodyguard waited.
I do not remember much of the drive back down to the base. I sat in the back next to the bodyguard—a sergeant who had just fought through the Second World War and was completely bored with me, the puppy and life— and cuddled the dog.
The Jeep was open, with the top down, and conversation was nearly impossible at highway speed, but as we neared the base Father slowed down and Mother turned to me and smiled. “What are you naming her?”
I pointed at the white circle on the pup’s side. “Snowball.”
She nodded. “Perfect.”
And so we became
Then the rope tightened. There was a large noose-knot on the end and it tightened and started pulling up and when the knot hit I grabbed and held and the dogs pulled me out of the hole and back up onto the ice. There was still very little time. I had a quart of white-gas stove fuel on the sled for emergencies and I threw it on a pine tree nearby and lit a match and set the whole tree on fire and,in the heat, got my clothes off and crawled into a sleeping bag. I stood inside it and held my clothes near the flame to dry them.
I would have died if not for Cookie.
She saw me drop, instantly analyzed the situation, got the team up—she must have jerked them to their feet—got them pulling, and they pulled me out.
That was January 1980. It is now 1997 as I write this, and everything that has happened in the last seventeen years—everything: Iditarods, published books, love, living,
life
—all of it, including this book, I owe to Cookie.
This book is dedicated to her memory.
Mother stood looking down at the puppy I was holding.
“This one,” I said. “I want this one.”
It was a little black female with a perfect white circle on its side and I clutched it close to my chest and saw only the puppy, me, and the endless possibilities.
I did not realize how impossible the situation happened to be:
I was just seven years old. We were in a mountain village in the Philippine Islands in 1946, where my mother and father had come on a sort of work-vacation-getaway trip. My father was in the army there and Mother and I had taken a troopship from San Francisco to be with him.
The dog represented a problem in more ways than one. We lived in strictly controlled base housing, such as it was, and Mother wasn’t sure if dogs were allowed. But that was just for openers.
The village we were visiting raised dogs for food. I had just—to my utter seven-year-old horror—watched them strangle a dog for cooking. I grabbed the puppy thinking only to save it, but it was so cute that I immediately loved it and would not let it go. I had never had a dog before but there wasabsolutely no doubt in my mind that this dog,
this
dog, was meant for me.
The village headman who owned the dog was not eager to give it away and had reached to pull it back. Mother, who had been dickering over some carvings she wanted to buy, had seen the man reach for me and had come over like a tigress, ready to attack him, only to find that I would not let the puppy go.
“This one,” I said again. “I want to save this one …”
“Save?” Mother asked.
“They eat them,” I said.
“Dogs?”
I nodded. “I want to save this one and take it home.”
She looked from me to the headman, back to me, then nodded and turned back to the headman. “How much?”
He stood mute.
“How many pesos for the puppy?”
He understood that and they started tohaggle over price. My mother loved it and was in her element. I knew I’d won when she finally nodded, handed the headman some money, and motioned to the Jeep where my father and our bodyguard waited.
I do not remember much of the drive back down to the base. I sat in the back next to the bodyguard—a sergeant who had just fought through the Second World War and was completely bored with me, the puppy and life— and cuddled the dog.
The Jeep was open, with the top down, and conversation was nearly impossible at highway speed, but as we neared the base Father slowed down and Mother turned to me and smiled. “What are you naming her?”
I pointed at the white circle on the pup’s side. “Snowball.”
She nodded. “Perfect.”
And so we became
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