in good company

It was ten above zero and dark when I pulled into the little rural gas station on the way into town. It was ten-cent-off Friday, and my wallet needed the discount as much as my truck needed the gas. When I looked up from the nozzle, another truck with a dog box had pulled in behind me. As soon as the owner saw me glance his way, he called out “How many dogs.”

“Eight. You?”

“Twelve.”

He was older than me, perhaps in his late forties, with an Ester Fire Department jacket flapping open in the slight breeze. I recognized his blue-and-orange dog-box from around town. We continued to pump gas in silence for awhile.

I turned to continue the conversation just as he started speaking again, “Where do you live?”

“Cripple Creek,” I waved up towards the hills rolling to the south and west behind the gas station. “You?”

“Old Nenana,” he indicated the direction with his chin – same hills, just to the north of the artificial barrier made by the Parks Highway.

Gas continued to flow, charges continued to ring upward.

“How far you running?” Now I could hear the thick northern European accent across the cold air.

“Ten to fifteen now, I want to work them up a bit and do some camping.”

“Yeah … camping.” There was a pause, “That’s what we like to do … but now I’ve started to race and I pretend like we’re still just camping.”

I laughed, “Yeah … I’m sure that’s where we’ll end up eventually.”

“It’s a slippery slope. I started with just two, skijoring. Then I got a sled, and needed four. Then four wasn’t enough for camping, so there were six … then eight … and now … “ He chuckled and shook his head. His gas nozzle clicked off.

“I was warned, and I’m sliding down the slope anyway.”  My gas nozzle clicked off, and I turned to set it back in its cradle.

He was opening his truck door, “Enjoy the trails this weekend.”

“You too.” And we pulled out of the gas station, two empty dog trucks headed to town and work, both hoping desperately for more snow before Saturday morning.