In 1985, Gary Paulsen brought his passion for dogsledding to his career as a novelist, and his popularity rose to levels he'd never known in almost two decades of writing. Dogsong was cited for a Newbery Honor, and Gary Paulsen's acclaim continued to grow after that. He had found his audience, and we've been grateful ever since. Paulsen transports us to Alaska in Dogsong, a story of a culture changed by outsiders into something unrecognizable to those who knew its glory days. By the time fourteen-year-old Russel Suskitt comes along, the Eskimo way has lain forgotten for generations, held to only by Oogruk, an elderly man who remembers the white missionaries who reformed Eskimo spirituality and culture. Other young Eskimos are content to lead modern lives, but Russel has the itch for something more than urban comforts imported to his remote village. He consults Oogruk, asking the old man to show him what life was like before. Oogruk agrees to share what he knows, but warns that he hasn't long before he passes away. Russel must assimilate the dying Eskimo way of life before the last man who lived it is gone.
"It isn't the destination that counts. It is the journey. That is what life is. A journey. Make it the right way and you will fill it correctly with days. Pay attention to the journey."
—Oogruk, Dogsong, P. 119
Oogruk's mentorship is irreplaceable, but he also leaves Russel something tangible: his team of sled dogs, fat from recent inactivity but ready to run once they're reconditioned. Russel ties the dogs to Oogruk's sled and drives them away from civilization into the howling snowstorms of Alaska's wilderness. Wolves, bears, and other predators prowl here without fear of people, and caribou and deer lope across unbroken landscapes of glittery snow, ripe for hunting. It takes Russel time to learn his dogs' subtle signals and earn their trust, to know them so that his mind and theirs are as one, an efficient apparatus for survival. Russel has returned to the primitive lifestyle his spirit yearned for before he even knew it's what he needed, yet he senses there's more for him to discover. Russel will make that discovery in one final test of man versus the arctic wilderness, as he confronts the region's most awesome predator and starts down a path toward a future in which he and his dogs won't be alone. Russel's life has truly begun.
We learn a lot from what people tell us, but not as much as from watching their lives: the beauty of people being who they are, a song so complex it can't be explained. You just have to observe it and know the truth about them in your soul. This is why Russel's father urges him to spend time with Oogruk; Russel isn't happy in the village, and the song of the old man's life can help. "Songs and words are not always the same", his father tells him. "They do not always say the same thing. Sometimes words lie—but the song is always true. If you listen to Oogruk's words, sometimes they don't make sense. But if you listen to his song, there is much to learn from Oogruk." We may espouse falsehoods about ourselves or the world, borne of bitterness, fear, or naiveté, but the song of our life speaks truth because it has no ulterior motive. Humans like to quantify every commodity they can, but that doesn't work with heartsongs and wisdom. Oogruk understands this. "Men and dogs are not alike, although some men try to make them so...Because they try to make people out of dogs and in this way they make the dogs dumb. But to say that a dog is not smart because it is not as smart as a man is to say that snow is not smart. Dogs are not men. And as dogs, if they are allowed to be dogs, they are often smarter than men." If you measure value by presuming human or adult behavior as the ultimate standard, you'll conclude that animals or kids are inferior. But they aren't men, and to dismiss their differences as weakness is to be blinded by ignorance. If you accept that their minds work differently, you can learn from them rather than assuming that animals and children are only valuable the more they act like adult humans.
I can't say I didn't expect more from Dogsong. The words flow nicely, but the action feels distant, not affecting the reader emotionally. It reminds me of some of Scott O'Dell's novels, notably Black Star, Bright Dawn, also about dogsledding. Dogsong isn't as evocative as other Gary Paulsen books; read Woodsong or Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers: Reflections on Being Raised by a Pack of Sled Dogs to get a taste of how splendidly sensuous he can be when telling dogsledding stories. I wouldn't have given Dogsong a 1986 Newbery Honor ahead of Cynthia Voigt's The Runner and Robert Cormier's Beyond the Chocolate War, but it's not a bad book. I'm not sure I entirely grasp its meaning, but at least it will keep me thinking.