[ The wilds could change at any moment, and all those changes brought perils of their own. Too much sunlight would melt the ice under the sled, creating slippery ravines that dropped away to certain death below. Too much snow would make it impossible to see further than the end of their noses, cover pitfalls, and the dogs would take them clean off the edge of a cliff in new territory without knowing it was there. Too much wind would do the same, only the cold would whip fiercely at their faces, biting through exposed flesh, blackening extremities with frostbite.
And even if the weather didn't kill them, the wild animals were similarly capable.
It was the wind that had brought them to a stop this time. They'd found a hollow in which to pitch their canvas tent, lit the stove fire and fed the dogs, and then he set off to fetch firewood--they wouldn't get through the night without it. It didn't keep him from almost getting lost on the way back; in fact if not for the sound of the dogs, he'd have walked right past the tent without finding it again.
And as he pulled open the canvas door, the wind roared in behind him, snatching away some of the warmth that had already built up. He dumped his sack of timber on the floor, turning to strap up the canvas again behind him. ]
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And even if the weather didn't kill them, the wild animals were similarly capable.
It was the wind that had brought them to a stop this time. They'd found a hollow in which to pitch their canvas tent, lit the stove fire and fed the dogs, and then he set off to fetch firewood--they wouldn't get through the night without it. It didn't keep him from almost getting lost on the way back; in fact if not for the sound of the dogs, he'd have walked right past the tent without finding it again.
And as he pulled open the canvas door, the wind roared in behind him, snatching away some of the warmth that had already built up. He dumped his sack of timber on the floor, turning to strap up the canvas again behind him. ]
We were making good time.