As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskies with ice-hung lips and Flews swung in from the trail skirting the lee shore of Big Island and the driver in belted caribou capote, a rim of ice from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire from cedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican, and feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes.
"The Whelps of the Wolf"
George Marsh