Dog Driven

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “Ha!” Guy jabs at the fire, and sparks illuminate the angles of his grin. They also illuminate his serious hat head. “You’ll need a lot more than rest to beat me again. I’m onto you for real now.”

  As I stumble away from the fire, I feel that grin follow me. I normally don’t like being watched, but this time, I don’t mind at all.

  Wednesday, January 16, 2019

  Dear Foundation for Fighting Blindness,

  My name is Emma and I have Stargardt disease. My sister, McKenna, is bringing this letter with our dog team. I like sitting in the sled with her when the dogs run. They love it and they run FAST! Anyway, please, please find a cure for Stargardt’s. You have to help people see good again. I don’t like my mom being sad all the time. And I don’t like my dad being mad.

  From Emma Barney

  Chapter 11

  Stage two: Batchawana Bay to Gargantua Harbour

  78 miles

  I hear someone’s alarm going off.

  What time is it? I jump up and then fall flat. What’s wrong with my feet? I reach down and feel that my bootlaces are tied together. On purpose. Someone tied them in a knot. Did I fall asleep with my boots on? I was so tired last night, I stumbled into the computer room, found my bedroll laid out on the floor where I’d left it, and passed out.

  I look around, trying to figure out what’s going on. My watch reads 5:32 A.M. It’s dark outside but there’s light coming from the main dining room illuminating the sleeping forms over the floor. Some people are up, banging in the kitchen.

  Dad appears beside me. Sees that I’m awake. Whispers, “Good, I was coming to make sure you’re on schedule for feeding.”

  I nod and untie my laces. I have a sneaking suspicion who would prank me and I can’t help grinning. Oh, he’s going down.

  It’s that predawn pure black outside with a light east wind. The skin on my face tightens in the chill. Crunch. Crunch. The darkness makes my steps sound louder. Dog eyes shine back in the beam of my headlamp. They rise, shake; their collars jangle. On my knees, I make my way down the line, breathe in their morning dog smells. They blink sleep away.

  Lizard uncurls and gives one of his trademark smiles, peeling his lips back in a toothy grin. Terrifying. Despite the crisp air, warmth spools off his soft parts like he’s a cat who’s been sleeping in the sun. On to Haze next. Noses touch. A whiskered sniff. I rub my fingers in her ears, which fold over at the tops. They’re warm inside too. She goes still and closes her eyes.

  The dogs stretch and wag, ready for the day. Sumo flaunts his tongue in a yawn. Damage pokes his nose too close to Aspen and then wisely retreats. Mustard has a lot to say, as usual, until Twix solemnly taps her front toes on his face.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Translation: Will. You. Shut. It.

  I cook them a warm breakfast, then scoop poop. Mushers have to do all their own chores looking after their dogs. I’m glad for that; it makes a race better when you protect that bond between a musher and team. After chores, I go inside to eat a bowl of oatmeal with Em while the sky slowly brightens.

  “Oh, good,” Mom says when she sees me. “Help Emma eat while I pack up.”

  This is a heated point of contention in our household. Emma’s counselor shared her food-tech teacher’s concerns about Em not being able to spread butter on a piece of bread. She couldn’t fill a glass of water from the tap. And she wouldn’t eat food that she couldn’t pick up with her fingers. I’m not sure why that was a shock to everyone, since this has been going on for years. The counselor basically blamed it on Mom, which started the angry discussions between our parents after we’d gone to bed.

  I push the oatmeal toward Emma and clank the spoon against the bowl.

  “Did you know you’re in third place?” she says.

  “Fifth place. The dogs were fast yesterday and the trails were no problem. Told ya.” I’m careful what I say with Mom bustling nearby.

  Em flashes me a secret smile but with a question clearly in it. She wants to know how my eyes are. At times like this, I really wish she could see my face. I squeeze her hand, and after a weighted pause, she nods. A full conversation in a few gestures.

  I think back to all our conversations together, late at night on Emma’s bed. I’d ask her over and over, “But what can you see?” It was so confusing because Emma couldn’t explain it well. Sometimes she’d say she couldn’t see the dogs in the dog yard, but other times she could. She couldn’t see my face, but she saw a bat flitting over our heads. It was frustrating.

  But now I understand. Everything depends on how much light there is, on the contrasts and the shadows. I can see things like the trees but not the details of the branches. Sometimes my brain plays tricks and I see things in the branches that aren’t even there.

  I look at Em now and I’m torn between fear that I’ll be like her soon and guilt for thinking that way.

  “So, you have to wait longer to go out, right?” Emma asks. “Since you’re one of the faster teams?”

  “Yeah, the mass start was just for the first day.” I give a little cheer, waving my fist in the air. “From now on we’ll go out in the opposite order of our times the day before. So I’ll be fifth to last.”

  I shove a spoon of oatmeal in my mouth and stick my tongue out. Emma’s expression doesn’t change and I chide myself for trying. I swallow the sticky mess around the sudden lump in my throat. “It’s going to take a little time getting the mail stamped at the post office this morning,” I continue. “Then we start the race from there, so I should see you at the Gargantua checkpoint after dinner.” I put extra enthusiasm in my voice to convince myself I’ll get there.

  “You okay, Emma?” Mom asks. She’s got a load of gear in her arms, but she bends down to look at my sister’s face.

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  I notice Mom carrying Emma’s cane. I brought it inside so Emma could use it. It’s the same white cane that the counselor from the Blind Institute gave Em at that first meeting two years ago. Emma needs to learn to use it, she’d said. Mobility training was part of what she’d need to be independent and look after herself. My parents looked physically ill seeing Emma with it in her hand, as if the cane made it real that there was something wrong with her. Hating the cane is the one thing they agree on.

  I cram in the last spoonful of breakfast, jump up, and begin to layer on my gear for the day. Mom shifts a sleeping bag to one hand so she can wipe the side of Emma’s mouth. It’s okay that she doesn’t wish me luck. She’s busy with Em.

  I hurry outside to prepare the sled and harness the dogs. It’s an overcast morning. Perfect. But not as cold as I’d hoped. The dogs run faster on hard-packed frozen trails from cold nights.

  “We’ll have to make sure you don’t get overheated today, right, chum?” I say to Sumo after pulling his harness over his wide head. He butts me with it. I don’t see it in time and get my nose smashed.

  “Ow! Meathead! I know you want to get going again.” I give him a good-natured rub on his chest and then visit with my lead dogs.

  I lie in the snow next to Mustard to chat with him, like I normally do. He places his paw on top of my hand and stares intently into my eyes. I feel as though he knows everything that’s in my heart when he assesses me like that. He sees my drive to stay independent and do things on my own without anyone asking me if I’m okay. He sees the fear too, that little voice inside wondering if I can run this race, if I can still do things on my own.

  Chapter 12

  The dogs are ready.

  I keep them tied to the dropline of the truck while we’re waiting our turn so I can avoid the chaos until the last minute. I try not to think about the fact I have no sunglasses. When I asked my family last night, the only pair anyone had belonged to Em, and I’m not taking hers. Maybe it will be overcast all day.

  Guy appears beside me. He’s wearing a normal anorak and fur hat. I guess the courier uniform was for the mass start.

  “Oh, you are racing today,” he says. “You k
now, if this weren’t a stage-stop leg, I’d be way ahead of you by now. When I left, you were sleeping in.”

  “Is that right? Did you happen to notice I was still wearing my boots?”

  “Now that you mention it, I did notice that. Good racing strategy. Did it get you up and running any faster?”

  “You know you’ve started something, right?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, we should be safe today out on the trails.”

  “Safe?” My heart does a little thump at the thought of any dangerous obstacles that I’m not aware of.

  “You remember, I read you about the wolf problem they used to have around here,” Guy says. “The earless pig was just one instance.”

  I relax. “Right. I’ll protect my ears.”

  “Another time the couriers were followed by the wolves. To keep them busy, they had to ditch the load of beef they were delivering to the camps.”

  I know what he’s doing. “You think I’m going to be afraid of wild animals?” I say. “A little knot in my laces? You’ll have to try harder than that.”

  Guy looks offended. “I’m sharing real history with you. I’m not making it up.”

  Four volunteers approach. “You’re next to line up,” one of them says to Guy. “We’ll help you there.”

  As they head toward his team, I barely catch the satisfied grin Guy throws me over his shoulder. “Happy thoughts out on the trail. Don’t worry about the hungry, stalky wolves.”

  What a dork. I’m still smiling when some race officials approach me. “Morning, Miss Barney. We’re doing spot checks for required gear.”

  “Right. It’s all here.” Thank goodness for my organization. I know where everything is in the bag. “Up here’s all my cold-weather gear: parka, boots, spare mitts, socks. I have a compass, a cooker, fuel, food. All my first aid is here. That’s for the dogs. Bootie bag, two sets each. Foot goop and ointments . . . oh, that’s in case they get diarrhea.” I pull things out for the officials, and they tick things off the lists on their clipboards.

  “Along the side here I keep my ax, zip ties, and toolkit . . .” My stomach lurches. Where is my toolkit? I recall how I was dragged along the trail yesterday. Could I have lost it?

  “Do you have the cable cutters?” one of the officials asks. “You need cable cutters to complete the check. Also, here’s a tip: You should keep them handy in case you need them quickly. You never know what could happen out on the trail. You just can’t predict it.”

  “Um. They were right here. Wait a minute.” Why didn’t I check my bag after I had the spill? I madly toss things out onto the snow, strewing all the gear from my perfectly packed bag around my sled.

  That’s when the girl from yesterday strolls by, the one with the dog tangle out on the lake. I recognize her bright pants.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey, uh . . . would you happen to have some spare cable cutters?” I ask, desperate. I hadn’t seen her out on the trail again yesterday, and she’s not out yet today, so I figure she must’ve scratched the race, which means she wouldn’t need the cable cutters anyway.

  “Sure.” She spins and I’m shocked to see her run to the fancy dog truck in the parking lot. I can’t read the name on it from here, but everyone knows what kennel that truck is from. Rodney Bowers has won every race he’s entered this season. He’s won the Wawa Gold every year for six years straight. I heard last night around the fire that a musher named Harper Bowers had the fastest time yesterday. She’s Harper Bowers?

  She comes back waving cable-cutting pliers.

  I show them to the official, who ticks it off. “Good enough. That was a close one, eh?” She winks at me and turns to the girl. “Is your sled ready?”

  “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

  “Thanks, Harper,” I call. “I owe you one!”

  “We’re even now,” she says.

  Chapter 13

  We run along the ditch toward the tiny Batchawana Bay post office.

  Each musher takes a turn getting his or her bag of letters stamped. The official race time starts up again after we’re back on the trail, which is behind the post office on the snowmobile trail leading through the bush toward Pancake Bay. Volunteers and officials wearing chartreuse safety vests direct us.

  After I hand over my bag of mail, I sit outside with my team and wait. They’re uncharacteristically patient. Aspen climbs onto my lap and rests her head on my chest in a position that does not look comfortable. Sumo eats snow. Damage sadly inspects the booties on his feet. He knows he’s not supposed to pull them off. Mustard sits, airplanes his ears, and mutters to himself.

  “Are these your dogs?” a young girl about Emma’s age asks. She’s perched just above me on top of the snowbank in a red snowsuit.

  “Yup. Do you want to meet them?”

  She shakes her head, shy. “Where are you from?”

  “Soo, Michigan. What’s your name? You live here?” I think of the cluster of houses that make up this small community. Imagine how it must be to grow up in a place like this, secluded, not many kids around to play with. It’s a lonely way to live, so cut off.

  “Kelly.” The girl fidgets with her hat. “I’ve never been across the border.”

  “What? Well, you should go, the grass is still green over there.”

  Her eyes widen. “Really?”

  “No, I’m kidding. We got snow same as here. In fact, I live outside the city, so it’s pretty quiet where I’m from too.”

  Kelly nods thoughtfully.

  Something about her seems so wistful and sad. I feel a kinship with her, living in a community at the edge of wilderness. Even though I’m in a bigger town, I know what isolation feels like.

  I think of our yearly back-to-school shopping trip. Me, Mom, and Em usually go together and spend the day at the mall, trying things on, laughing, goofing around. It was the only day we were allowed to eat lunch at Cinnabon. It was one of the few things Mom had time to do with me too, rather than just Emma. Because Em can’t read the signs to know the right buses to catch, Mom will always need to drive her places. And read signs and labels for her.

  But this past fall, I knew I wouldn’t be able to read the labels either. I worried about looking at the tags on the clothes, about being in the right section, about finding Mom in a crowd. So I bailed and missed it. I miss a lot of things lately.

  Kelly surprises me by pulling a letter from her pocket. “This is to my grandpa in White River. We don’t see him much since our car broke. Can you take it with you?”

  I nudge Aspen off my lap, stand, and then hesitate, not sure of the rules. Can I take it? She holds it out to me, but I can’t tell what it says. I have to look closer. I glance around, then take her letter and bring it up to my face. It has a stamp and a full address. I’m still peering at the address when I hear a voice I recognize.

  “Thank you. So, we go this way?”

  I snap my head up. It’s Guy on his way again. He’s holding his mailbag and turning away from me to talk to an official. I can’t tell if he saw me reading or not. What was I doing, trying to read with all these people around? Careless!

  “So? Will you?” Kelly says.

  I turn back to her. “I can, but I’m not sure it’s going to get the DELIVERED BY DOG TEAM stamp. It’s not in the special envelope.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just tell him it was. The special envelope costs four dollars, so I couldn’t get one. My grandpa has old letters in frames from when they delivered the mail by dogsled before, so he’d like this.”

  I smile at her then. “Okay. I’ll make sure I mail it when I get there. Maybe I can get one of the dogs to step on it with goop on his paw.”

  She giggles.

  “Ms. Barney!” An official is waving me up to the trailhead. She has my mail.

  I stuff Kelly’s letter in my sled bag and step on the runners. All the dogs stand. For a moment, I feel like a real mail courier from the old days leaving a village, all the people dep
ending on me to deliver their news to family. About to forge ahead into unknown country.

  “Have fun!” Kelly calls.

  I turn and wave, and the image of her sitting alone on a snowbank, a solitary figure stark against the remote landscape, burns into my brain.

  December 15, 1896

  Dear Margaret,

  Mr. Miron and I leave Sault Sainte Marie carrying a load of mail for another treacherous journey up the coast of Superior . . .

  We are expected at the Michipicoten post in four days’ time. I try to avoid my thoughts wandering to the question, If something were to happen out there, would anyone ever find us? I think I know the answer. We are truly alone.

  Your loving brother, William

  Chapter 14

  Once we hit the lake ice of Pancake Bay, I can tell I’m going to have to make some changes to the team.

  Twix is suddenly unsure of all this space around her. She doesn’t like the noises the lake is making, the eerie gurgling and thumping. I have to keep reassuring her there’s enough ice between us and the cold black water below.

  The actual trouble is that the snow cover on top of the ice is thin. If I stop and leave the sled, the dogs could pop the snow hook; there isn’t enough for the hook to dig into. Without me on the brake, the dogs could take off. A musher’s greatest fear.

  I glance around helplessly. I can’t tell how far away the end of the crossing is. Does the trail keep going all the way on to Montreal Harbour? I kick myself for not studying the map, but there were always too many people around for me to look.

  “You’re fine, Twix. I know it’s kinda scary, but that’s just the ice.” Maybe she’ll settle down.