Mom was a musher. She ran the Iditarod four times. She never won. But that didn't matter. What she was real good at was the Yukon Quest. She never won that, either, but she said that it was only a matter of time. She needed more time with her dogs, training them, making them faster, stronger, and smarter. 

            Everyone knew who Mom was. I pointed her out on the Iditarod tracker when we checked in PE class. The PE teacher, Mr. Bow, put me in front of the class and quizzed me. Hike! Gee! Haw! Easy! Straight ahead! On by! Wooaaah! I even put up my hand and got a couple of laughs. 

            Mushing week was my favorite in PE. I paired up with my best friend, Myla. Myla's mom wasn't a musher. I wasn't sure what she did. Myla said she collected bottles. Green, tall, fat. Lots of bottles. Mom had bottles, too. She said they kept her warm sometimes, but they were only for practicing and retired mushers. I didn't think Myla's mom mushed. 

            In PE, we were given a scooter board and a jump rope and told to pick a role: dog or musher. I was always the musher. I sat on the scooter board with one end of the jump rope. Myla had the other. I gave her commands and she had to follow. I told her to go on all fours to be more realistic. She told me I already didn't let her be musher. Well, of course, I was a musher. I wasn't a dog. 

            Myla didn't realize how good she had it. A mom at home and a dad who knows where. Mom didn't live with Dad and me. She was out toward Palmer with the dogs. Dad and I were up in Fairbanks. Mom said they had too good of a school for me to move, and she was focused on mushing. But I knew the real problem was Dad. 

            He worked at an accounting firm, money stuff. Boy was I mad when he showed up to Career Day instead of Mom. Everyone leaned toward the door with their eyes half-closed when he walked in. Mom was a musher. No wonder she got bored. 

            For Christmas, I got to go to Mom's. Dad came, too. He didn't do much besides make hot cocoa and try to get Mom and me to watch those cheesy holiday movies. Mom kept tending to her dogs. She had a new litter, a bastard litter was what she called it, between Knick Knack, a big Siberian husky with a coat that must have made up half of her size, and who Mom thought was Kenny, a smaller mutt husky with a coat greasier than reindeer sausage. The puppies all looked like baby otters, that's why Mom thought Kenny was the dad. Kenny wasn't for real mushing. He only did the touristy stuff like pull babies on a plastic sled. But Mom said she'd make sled dogs out of them yet. 

            My favorite part of the visit was the mushing. Mom let me go around the tourist trail with her, but I had to sit in the sled with Dad. He wrapped his arms around me so tight I could barely breathe. Mom had a permanent smile on her face. She cheered and yelled commands at the dogs. I mouthed along with them. When I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I was at the sled, wind whistling against my ears and cold air burning my eyes. 

            On my last day, Mom told me to pick a puppy from the bastard litter. Dad said she shouldn't use "bastard" around me. Mom said eight is old enough to know what bastard is and that she was only talking about dogs. I picked a brown-grey one. Mom said I'd have to put Q-tips in his ears if I wanted him to look right. Dad said that would be cruel. Mom said she knew more about huskies than him. I named the dog Yukon. 

            Dad and I went home. Mom gave Dad a big list with everything needed to take care of Yukon. Inukshuk dog food. Life is Good chew toy, it had to be red. Never tap water, store-bought or filtered at least three times. 

            When we got home, I told Dad we needed a doghouse. He said Yukon would stay in the house. I said Mom's dogs were outside. He said Yukon was an indoor dog, not a sled dog. I told him that's dumb and stormed off into my room. Then he knocked on my door and said that I should have at least taken Yukon, so I opened the door and let him in, Yukon, not Dad. 

            The next day at school, I told Myla all about my new sled dog and how he'll probably be the lead dog when I become a musher and win the Yukon Quest. I took Myla home after school and she said he didn't look like a sled dog, too small and ottery. I told her that's just because he was a puppy and needed training. We decided to both train him after school to be a sled dog. Hike. Gee. Haw. Easy. Straight Ahead. On by. Woah. He started to get the basics at around seven months old. 

            Dad wasn't a fan at first, said I was teaching Yukon to pull on the leash so he'd never be good walking. I told him Yukon wasn't meant to walk, he was meant to run. After that, he bought me a little wooden sled like Mom had but much smaller and lighter so Yukon could pull it. When the snow and ice melted, Myla and I stole a scooter board from PE and strapped it to the sled using bungee cords so we could still train Yukon. 

            Mom called more often. She talked about her dogs and dumb tourists and the finicky electricity company. I tried to tell Mom about school. She asked me if I liked school. I said no. She said why would I tell her about it and told me how to correctly pet Yukon. Against the fur around the scruff. Back and forth on the tummy. With the fur everywhere else. I tried to tell Mom about Myla. She asked me if I liked Myla. I said yes. She said good and told me how often to bathe Yukon. He was greasy, had to be bathed more than usual sled dogs. 

            I got in one or two more words, then Mom said she was late for a meeting training some Southeasterners how to mush so they could do the Quest in a couple of years. They had no aptitude for mushing, but their parents were rich, so it didn't matter. Then she hung up. 

            A few months passed and Myla spent more and more time at my house training Yukon. Dad made her hot cocoa and let her use his old gloves when it got too cold. Every night, Dad drove her back home later and later until one night she asked to stay the night. Dad said it was okay as long as her mom approved. She said she did. She never asked her mom. I just about lost my jaw at that. In the morning, Myla told me not to say anything about it, and Dad drove her back home. When I saw her at school the next day, I asked how badly she got in trouble. She said her Mom didn't notice. I didn't say anything about it after that. We just went to my house and trained Yukon. 

            It was early December, and Mom called home in a huff. She wanted to talk to Dad but I was the one who answered the phone. She told me about the Southeasterners she was teaching. They quit on her, said she was a terrible teacher. Mom could train a dog to juggle but didn't know the first thing about humans. She said they were bad students, never listening enough to understand her. I suggested that I was a good student. She dismissed me and whined about how big of a financial client she lost. I told her to talk to Dad; he knows about money. She hung up. 

            When I met up with Myla, I told her about Mom's phone call, and she agreed with me that I would be the perfect student. I told her she wouldn't be too bad, either. She was good enough as a dog in PE; she'd do fine as a musher. We didn't finish our training session that day because Dad yelled at us to come inside. It was too cold. He saw on the news that a kid from a neighborhood not far from ours froze to death. She got lost on her way back from school. I told Dad he was being too cautious and that mushers could brave the weather. He told me that I wasn't a musher, I was his daughter, so I had to do what he said. 

            He was right about one thing, and it made my little heart ache. I wasn't a musher, not yet. But he was wrong, too. I didn't have to do what he said. 

            Before Dad took Myla home, I told her I was going to run away. She looked at me all bug-eyed and asked why since I had such a nice dad. I told her he was boring and that I could never become a musher with him; I had to go to my Mom for that. She asked if she could come. I said why not. I told her we'd do it after school, act like we were training Yukon but really we were running away. I told her to bring some of her Mom's bottles, too. I wasn't sure how far Fairbanks to Palmer was, but I knew it'd be long and cold. We'd need more than just coats and gloves to stay warm. She said she'd hide them in her backpack. 

            The next day, we met up, and I had a surprise for Yukon. The night before, I emptied all my Gold Nugget gum sacks I got from the Midnight Sun Festival last summer. They had little drawstrings on them. I put them on each of Yukon's paws, pulled the drawstring, and tied it off in a bow so the sacks wouldn't fall off Yukon's paws. He took high steps afterward like he was a dancing sandhill crane. Myla and I loaded up the sled. We made sure to only have the essentials since we didn't have a full team, so we only put her mom's bottles and some bags of Goldfish in the sled. We erred on the side of caution and stole a couple of pairs of Dad's mittens to put over our gloves and I took Dad's old compass from his boy scout days. 

            I went inside and asked Dad if he could make Myla and me some cocoa. He lit up and went right to work. Dad's only true passion was probably making cocoa. Then Myla and I took the opportunity to bolt. We tied Yukon up to the sled, and Myla jumped in. I gripped the handlebar so tight I couldn't feel my fingers and put my weight on my heels. My heart beat so loudly I thought it must have filled most of my chest, leaving little room for my lungs, hence why I was so breathless. I commanded Yukon to go with a hike, and he did as told, rushing forward with broad shoulders ready to bear the weight of the sled. 

            I expected a slower start with all the weight Yukon wasn't used to carrying, but instead, I felt as if I was going to be thrown from the sled. He was only able to pull us for about fifteen minutes, but, by then, we were already in the woods where Dad and nosy neighbors couldn't find us. Yukon slowed, loping through the jagged snow and pines that towered over us like a certain overbearing parent. It was windy; snow danced like ice skating fairies on the ground. I had hoped it would snow to better hide our tracks, but the wind should have done a fair enough job. All in all, not bad weather to run away in, aside from the freezing cold. 

When Yukon became so tired that his tongue grazed the snow, Myla and I got out of the sled. I almost suggested she help him pull the weight, but I thought back to PE class and decided Myla wouldn't like the comment. 

            We continued forward, pushing the sled. I kept checking Dad's compass to make sure we were still heading South. The brush bow nipped at Yukon's back paws until he finally decided he had enough and crawled into the sled, curling up to the bottles and Goldfish. We pushed for a few more minutes with Yukon in the sled then I turned to Myla and told her I was cold. She was too. We took out a couple of the bottles. It was hard to open them with gloves and mittens on but eventually, we got the tops off. I took a sip and immediately spat it out. Myla took a sip but swallowed. She told me it tasted bad. I told her I would have liked a warning before. I took another sip but instead forced myself to swallow. It felt like soft fire traveling down my throat and to my belly. I took another sip. Then a swig. Then the bottle was empty. My belly and chest tingled. My head felt a little funny, too. I got another bottle. 

            Myla and I sat in the sled with Yukon. We crushed the Goldfish packets, there was hardly room for one of us, much less two and a dog, but we made it work. Myla and I giggled, and I booped Yukon's nose. He growled then closed his eyes again. I snorted and rested my head on his neck scruff. He was greasy. I should have given him a bath. Mom would have been disappointed. 

            My eyes got heavy. Myla was already asleep, drooling on Yukon's tail. My head felt fuzzy, like Yukon's mom. I closed my eyes and decided rest was in order. There were rest stops on the Yukon Quest. Mushers got sleep, too, although they always slept with one eye open so they could see other mushers leave and get ready to get back on the trail before the competition. I tried to keep one eye open, but it was like my eyelids were made of lead. Both of my eyes fell shut and I couldn't have opened them if I wanted to. Mom would have been disappointed. 

            The next part is a bit of a blur. I remember hearing a loud braaaap followed by a bright light. I thought I was dead. Then someone emerged, standing in front of the light. I knew it wasn't God. God wasn't that short. I thought it was Mom. I even called out to her, but it wasn't Mom. I was disappointed. 

            I woke up in my bed, my head throbbing and my face feeling as hot as a campfire. I had a couple of extra blankets piled onto my bed, a green quilt and Dad's heated blanket. I barely had the strength to pull them off me and get out of bed. I slipped on a pair of moccasins and trudged to the living room. I peeked out the window and saw Dad leaning against his blue 700 Polaris snowmachine talking to a policeman. After they finished their conversation, the policeman tipped his hat to Dad and left. Dad turned to go inside, and I bolted back to my bedroom, kicking off my moccasins so they hit the door and fell to the ground with a thud, then doing my best to squeeze under my weighty covers. 

            Dad came in. His face was hard to read. His brows and lips were low, but his eyes were soft. He berated me for acting so carelessly and putting Myla's life in danger, too, then he switched to thanking God that I was okay, then telling me he almost died from worry, to telling me how happy he was that I was alright. I nodded as he spoke, not quite getting every word with my pounding head. Unfortunately for me, Dad continued this cycle of dialogue for months, so I pretty much knew every word he was going to ever say to me. 

            Those months were filled with going to the courthouse. Firstly, for Myla. Her mom got in trouble for the bottles, and so the judge decided Myla couldn't live with her anymore. I felt guilty; the judge asked me a few questions about Myla and the bottles. Dad told me to answer them honestly, and I did. Myla had to move to Anchorage to live with relatives. I felt like I was the one who sent her away. She said it was okay and that she was actually looking forward to it, but I knew she was lying. She cried. I cried. We hugged for a minute, then she left in a pickup truck with peeling red paint. 

            Earlier during those months, Mom called. She talked to Dad first. The whole time, Dad looked like he was about to crush the phone in his hand. He spoke so loudly I knew Mom's ears must have hurt. He yelled at her for not calling sooner, not coming up to see me. She said she had to prepare for the Quest. I understood. She was a musher. 

            Dad finally let me talk to Mom, but he muttered under his breath the whole time. I told Mom I was fine, and she told me how she dealt with the cold when she was out mushing. She told me I was dumb for not bringing any hand warmers. Never leave without hand warmers. I agreed and dropped hints that I would know that type of stuff if I had someone to teach me about mushing. She ignored me and talked about what she was doing to get ready for the Quest. 

            After a week's worth of angry phone calls of Dad yelling at Mom and gripping the phone so tight its plastic began to crack, he told me Mom and him were getting a divorce. I nodded and told him I understood. He told me I'd have to go to court and speak. I told him I understood that, too. He told me I had to tell the truth. I told him I understood that, as well. I knew it wasn't going to look good for him, but I was going to tell the truth, even if he told me not to. 

            Truth be told, I was excited for the divorce. Mary at school had parents get divorced. Afterward, she just lived with her mom. The judge would surely see that my best life would be lived with Mom. I was a natural-born musher, and Dad was holding me back. 

            Mom came home, and I realized it had been years since I saw her there. She slept on the couch and yelled at Dad every night about how she couldn't believe she was missing the Yukon Quest for this bullshit. Dad told her not to say "bullshit" around me. Mom said she can do whatever she damn well pleased. Dad was not looking good. The Quest was Mom's life. He was ruining my life and Mom's. The judge would not like that. 

            When it was my time to go to court, Dad made sure I wore my best clothes. I was in a baby blue dress with lots of ruffles and a high collar. My black-velcro strapped shoes were so shiny I could see my reflection stare back at me when I looked down. He even did my hair, spending hours trying to get the twin French braids just right. It was like I was getting dressed for Easter church. 

            I stood in front of the judge. He was a bigger fellow with rosy cheeks and white hair like a dark-colored Santa Claus. He asked me if Dad loved Mom. I said like one of her dogs. He asked what I meant by that. I said loyal and dumb. He asked me if Mom loved Dad. I said not like her dogs. He asked what I meant by that. I said the dogs were better. He asked if Mom loved me. I said I'm not a dog. 

A thousand little things happen, then the adults start talking about custody. My heart soared. Finally, I would be able to live with Mom and become a musher like her. Maybe I would even be able to see Myla. Palmer wasn't that far away from Anchorage. 

The judge suggested I leave, and Dad agreed. Mom said no and approached the judge. She looked pretty, too, but not like I did. I looked pretty like a little girl. She looked pretty like a woman. She wore heeled winter boots with fur peeking out of the top and a parka that slimmed at her waist. Her hair was thick, black, and bouncy, and she had on dark makeup like the weather girl on TV. Someday I would look like that. 

I bounced from heel to heel. Dad planted his hand on my shoulder, and I tried to conceal my excitement for his sake. Mom looked at me, then back to the judge with a sigh. "Sir, I am a very busy woman, and her father has done an adequate job raising her. I have races to worry about. He can have full custody. We can work out things like holidays on our own, can't we?"

Dad nodded and my heart sank to my feet. The world shattered and crashed, settling down with my unbeating heart and shiny shoes. She didn't mean it, did she? Dad shuffled me to a waiting room and left me there alone with the desk receptionist. I slipped on my winter coat and pulled the hood over my face. I cried as silently as I could, but my sucking breaths could be heard a mile away. Someone from behind me pulled up my hood and ruffled my hair. I looked up to see Mom, her red lipstick drawn too far over her lips and her mascara clumpy. "Sorry squirt, I've got a race to win."