Chatterbox: Inkwell

Critique, please.... I just finished Call of the Wild and was inspired to write this story I've been thinking about doing for a while.

There is a myth in the higher regions of Alaska, a myth that is often told around fires in taverns at mining towns. The tale is told like this:      

Once there was a sled team that was among the many leading their owners to the gold of the north. The name of the driver is not important. The name of the lead sled dog was Oro, after the gold they were traveling to find. He was a white dog, white as the snow which blew over the snow-capped mountains. He was known for his persistence and determination. The team had been traveling for many days and was cold and sodden. The snow was blinding and thick. Oro did his best to lead them across the ice of a frozen lake. But the ice was thin. In one place he misstepped, and a thin crack needled out in all directions. The dogs stopped short but the sled slid forward on the ice. Oro looked on in horror and vowed he would do better next time. But there was no next time for him. The ice caved in and the sled fell in to the black depths dragging all the dogs with it.             

Summer came, and the ice thawed. The snow melted form everywhere but the mountains. And then winter came again. And another sled team came traveling over the frozen lake. The name of the driver was Philip. Philip was only a little worried about crossing the lake in a blinding blizzard. He did not know that a dog team had vanished there only last year. But as the drove the dogs out onto the ice the snow suddenly became harder. The blizzard reached a fever pitch. Philip could barely see the lead dog. They struggled forward. Suddenly the lead dog became clear. And ahead of it- something else. Another dog white as the snow around it. It almost seemed to be part of the blizzard. And the lead dog was following it! The snow dog led them for a while, and it seemed to be taking them in a wide circle, though it was impossible to tell through the snow. After they had gone quite a ways, and Philip still had his eyes quite firmly on the snow dog, they arrived on the other side of the lake. Suddenly the white dog stopped. Raising its head it let out a triumphant howl. And as he watched it, its white coat faded in to the snow and its howl turned to the howl of the storm. Rubbing his eyes, he continued his journey.            

When he reached a small town he reported his story to everyone there, but no one believed him. And the white dog has never been seen since.