Her tail goes up. She glances nervously back at me. I don’t want to push her. It might sour her and make her decide leading isn’t fun. Also, having a nervous lead dog is not good for team morale. They could turn on her.
I stop the team.
“All right, Twix.” Her confidence is gone, and there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to risk it.
I take time to carefully kick in the hook, making sure it’s solid. Still, I don’t trust it. I scurry up to the dogs, giving them a steady stream of soothing words, my blood pumping.
I reach Mustard and Twix and stroke them while I try to come up with a plan. There’s an endless list of options before me, all with various possible outcomes. Not every dog can lead. It takes self-confidence to run in front of all the other dogs. I have only so many dogs who can do it.
I can move Saga up in lead. I think she’d do well on the lake. But Twix and Aspen can’t run together, two dominant females. Put Haze up with Aspen? But I don’t want to put Twix in wheel either. She likes having room around corners.
“Good boy, Mustard,” I say as I unclip Twix and bring her back to point position directly behind Mustard. My bare fingers feel the bite of the wind and freeze instantly. Quickly, I move Lizard back to run with Aspen and then shuffle up to Mustard again with a lunging Saga and hook her into double lead. She looks around proudly.
This is taking too long. Damage starts his screaming, frazzling my nerves. The whole team is yelling at me while I dart back to grab the sled. They’re clearly saying, We’ve noticed we’re not running and we are totally ready to run, just so we’re clear, one hundred percent ready, not currently running, so we can run now, just say the word, all set to stop not running any second now . . .
I jump on the runners as the hook pops. Bending down to grab it, I laugh at the rush I feel as the dogs hit hyperdrive. It’s as if they’re all cheering Saga on in her new position. At this speed, I feel the icy temperature cut straight through me. It’s windy and wide open out here. I work the drag brake, bringing them to a better pace. “Easy!” This is the race strategy Mom suggested. Conserve energy the first two days, then give them their heads. It’s worked in the past. “Long way to go yet, you crazy heathens.”
We end up staying on the ice for a couple more hours, so I assume we’re crossing Montreal Harbour. Once the sun breaks through the clouds, I have to squint so hard I can barely see my dogs, never mind the scenery. It’s like my eyeballs are being stabbed.
So I don’t see the point where we hit the bush until we literally hit the hard ridges of ice that mark the spot where the lake ends and the trail begins. The sled teeters for a tense moment before I gain control. Then we fly down a nice trail, hard packed with a good base. It’s a relief to be off the ice. We’re going so fast, I hardly have time to register the trail marker as we zoom past it.
“Whoa! Whoa, guys! We missed something.”
Asking the dogs to come around in such a tight space puts pressure on the leaders, so I get off the sled to do it myself. I take hold of the double lead between Saga and Mustard, turn them around, and march them toward the sled, past the team. Twix pauses to growl at Aspen.
“Hey!” I yell, and I drag her forward, picking up the pace. This is a prime opportunity for a tangle or a fight, everyone bunched together.
The sled pivots as I hop back on. We gallop along in the opposite direction. But I don’t see another trail sign. Have we gone too far? Did we miss it, or should we keep going?
Now I’m the one who loses confidence. I can’t tell where we are. I don’t see any dog-team tracks in the snow, but I can’t see that kind of detail anyway. And the dogs aren’t telling me. They seemed content to go the wrong way back there, so I can’t be sure if we’ve got the trail now.
We zip along, the runners hissing beneath my feet, trees whipping past. The dogs are all perfect, paced down to a ground-eating trot, about ten miles per hour. But are we going in the right direction? Indecision claws at me. My mouth is dry.
Suddenly, Mustard and Saga climb up a snowbank and disappear. The sled launches off the top. I hang on, knees bent, my guts left someplace in the air behind me. I crash down. Miraculously, I somehow land upright. We cross a snow-covered road that, also miraculously, has no traffic. The dogs sense that I’m hanging on to control by only a hair. They break into a lope. But the fact there were no officials at that crossing probably means we’re not on the race trail. Unless that was an unused road, so they didn’t need to be there?
The dogs’ charging is finally slowed by a creek. It comes up so quickly that I’m sure Mustard didn’t notice it until he was in it. He hates running through open water. Saga pulls him through. The runners clatter over icy rocks. My boots get wet, but I don’t want to turn around in the middle of a creek, so we keep going.
Now I’m certain of it. We’re lost.
A hot panic rises inside me. I twist my head from side to side, searching for some sign of which way to go. A ten-foot-high rock encrusted in ice on our left. Snow-covered spruce on our right. The sun’s behind me, so we’re still traveling west. Should we turn around? That wouldn’t make sense. I need to figure out where we are! If only I had a cell phone with GPS, but race rules don’t allow phones. Probably wouldn’t get service out here anyway.
We hit a steep hill. As we climb, I take the opportunity to look behind us. But then I want to kick something in frustration. I can’t see where we are, even from up here. For a moment, I want to give up. I feel immensely sorry for myself. It’s so not fair that I’m losing my sight! That coil of terror and self-pity slithers up again. It would be easy to just wallow in this grief.
I can’t let myself.
Sled-dog up, McKenna! Shake it off. Focus.
We need to go back. I stop the team again. As soon as I step off the runners, Saga drags Mustard around toward me.
“Saga, no. What are you doing?”
Mustard allows himself to be pulled. He’s usually so good at staying out, but he creeps toward me. Now all the dogs try to crowd around me for comfort. Mustard’s lost his confidence, or he’s trying to comfort me. Somehow they can always tell when I’m stressed. I’m bringing everyone down with me.
I string them back out, taking time to visit with them and reassure everyone. They roll in the snow and grunt. I give Mustard a belly rub. Twix snags my pant leg from behind to drag my attention to her.
“Hey, don’t rip them!” I say. “Yes, you’re a good girl.” I rub her chest and she flops over, splaying her back legs out wide.
I go back to the sled and smash off the ice that’s formed on the runners so I don’t slip. While I’m doing that, all the dogs perk their ears up at the same time.
They look to the left.
Dread hits me. Is it a moose? I was just thinking this is very moosey-looking country through here. Or maybe it’s wolves?
“Stupid Guy,” I mutter under my breath. Then I hear something.
A voice calls. “Gee!” The distinct sound of sled dogs panting reaches me. I hear them, but I can’t see them. They sound like they’re right on top of us.
“Hello?” I call.
“Whoa, Trucker,” the male voice says. A pause. “Aanii! Hello!”
“Are you on the right trail?” I call.
“I think so. Where are—oh, there you are. Yeah, the trail is right in front of you.”
I step off the brake, letting my team move forward, and a moment later we come out on a nice wide trail. I feel like a complete idiot, but I’m so relieved, I don’t care.
“Oh, it’s you, McKenna!” It’s the big guy from the fire, Harvey.
“Hey, thanks, Harvey. We got turned around somehow. You know where we are?”
“Should be coming up to Sand River soon.”
That tells me exactly nothing. “Great. Lead on!”
The chase helps Mustard find his confidence again.
Chapter 15
We eventually had to pass Harvey.
My team was too fast, especially g
oing up hills, where Harvey really lagged. And now it seems like we’ve been climbing for hours.
I get off to run as much as I can, saving the dogs from pulling me. I think this gives me an edge over the older mushers. I love to run and I’m good at it.
I used to run on the cross-country team, but it’s one of the things I quit this year. If I’m being honest with myself, I miss it. I miss the motion of just pumping my legs, one foot in front of the other. Mile after mile. It allows my thoughts to wander. It’s weird that exercise can be described as relaxing, but that’s how it works for me. So I’m grateful to be out here with the dogs. I can hold on to the handlebar and run beside the sled. Not that I need a guide dog. But Mustard is the closest thing to it.
The exercise is good. My boots crunch on the trail rhythmically. My breath pushes in and out in a cloud in front of me. No wonder the dogs are always so full of joy. When you’re running, you can’t look too far ahead. You can’t look behind. You can focus only on the now.
At night I lie awake too often and worry about the future. About things like getting my driver’s license. Am I going to be able to pass the test? What will happen when all my friends start driving and I can’t? Will I be able to keep reading books? Should I learn Braille? What about going to restaurants and reading the menu? What kind of work can I do when I grow up? Would I even be able to move away from home and have a life of my own?
And I worry about Mom. She doesn’t sleep when she’s anxious. We all know when it gets bad, especially if Em has a test or something to do. Mom has a way of saying “I’m fine” with a certain tone in her voice that lets us all know she’s not sleeping.
Piercing glare bounces off the snow around me and I desperately wish I’d brought spare shades. All this painful whiteness is killing me.
As we trot together, I can hardly see Mustard and Saga. But their breathy panting is carried back to me on the wind and I can tell they’re happy. We’re all breathing the same winter air, smelling the same smells. Well, maybe not exactly the same. I can smell their dog odor. They can smell a lot more.
I heard once that a dog’s nose reveals another world beyond what humans can see. I like that idea, imagining the dogs being able to know so much more than us. With their noses, they can see where people go, where they’ve been, what they’re feeling. I wish my nose were as keen.
I stumble, and my focus returns. The task at hand is this hill. It demands my attention. It blots out the horizon. It blots out my fears of what lies near the end of this race.
The Cascades.
One foot in front of the other. Guy’s great-great-grandpa climbed this hill with his mail. I wonder what’s in the letters I’m carrying. I imagine delivering them to a town back then. Sitting with a hot cup of tea with some villagers around a fire and sharing the stories of my adventures out on the trail. How long has it been since I even sat with my own family around a fire?
We crest the hill, and there’s the highway we’ve been warned about. I hear the wet sound of trucks going by as the trail runs next to it. Lizard glances at the passing truck but mostly keeps focused on pulling straight.
Volunteers are sitting on snowmobiles along the side of the trail. Yes. I’m on the right trail this time. One of them is waving and pointing left, the direction we’re supposed to go to the crossing. If she could just point out every turn for me like that, the knots in my stomach would finally loosen.
“Way to go, Barney!” They cheer as I go by. Too late, I see someone had a hand out for me to high-five as I passed.
“Sorry!” People must think I’m stuck-up.
We follow the bend in the trail. My dogs hesitate in confusion over all the commotion. Several handlers jump in and grab sections of my gangline. “Ready? It looks good to go right now. We’ll help you cross.”
“Thanks!”
I’m so glad they’re here. If they weren’t, I’d be stressing about crossing this highway by myself. Mustard and Saga might decide they preferred to run on pavement for a while. Without snow for my brake to sink into, I’d have no control over where they took me. I wouldn’t be able to stop the sled if they charged right down the highway. It sucks for the volunteers to have to sit out here all day, but they’re definitely needed when a race trail crosses a road.
I hop off the runners and jog beside the sled as we cross so the smooth plastic underneath doesn’t get gouged from the pavement. From the horrible scraping noises, I’d say they’re getting gouged anyway.
There aren’t any cars. Thank you, northern Ontario, for quiet roads. It’s all over in a blink. The handlers let go of my dogs; my dogs scuttle sideways to get away from them, and then they shake it off. They point their noses to the ground and get back to pulling. The noise of the crossing fades the farther we sink back into the trees.
I get back to running. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
I try to be like the dogs, thinking only of each step.
February 8, 2019
Dear Aunt Mae,
We’re doing another race and I’m going to be the musher. You know how much I love that. But this one we carry letters, so I thought it’d be neat to send you one the old-fashioned way. And check out the cool stamp. You can never have enough sled-dog stuff. I’m working at the grocery store this summer, so can’t come visit. : ( But maybe you can ask my dad if I can come for March Break? I miss your fab mall. Miss you too of course.
Love, Harper
Chapter 16
The dogs have been pulling for hours, eating up the miles.
I notice some of them pacing, rather than trotting, a sign they’re resting muscles, so I step on the brake. “Whoa. Whoa, guys. Time for a snack.”
I pull off to the side of the trail to make sure we’re not in anyone’s way. When I open the sled bag, the dogs look over their shoulders at me and start hopping. I grab the treats and walk down the length of my team, tossing frozen lamb snacks about the size of my fist. They snap them out of the air and hunker down to gnaw.
Once the snacks are gone, I tie off the snub line to a birch tree, stake out the leaders, and unclip tuglines. Aspen surprises me by trying to snag my glove. She’s usually so serious. I give her extra attention, which leads to extra attention for Haze, and the two of them end up on their backs in a competition for cutest upside-down smile.
While visiting with the dogs, I attend to their feet. I check that their booties are on properly and not rubbing, replacing any that’ve blown a hole. I have to do this barehanded. The cold nips at my skin.
“Are you having fun?” I ask Saga. She sneezes right in my mouth. “Augh. Thanks.” I spread her toes apart. “Look at this! No rubs or redness. No ice balls. Keep up the good work.” I blow on my hands, trying to make them work again, then slip a fresh bootie on her.
One thing Mom has told me over and over: No foot, no dog. With all the miles these dogs cover each year, she’s right about that. I stick my fingers in my armpits and look around.
It’s dead quiet out here, no sounds other than the contented grunts of these goofballs rolling around. Even the trees are silent. No wind to rub their branches, not quite cold enough for the loud popping noise of sap exploding. In the winter, there are no birds singing, no leaves rustling. Just an absence of noise. A profound silence. There is nothing to hear but your own heart beating. The stillness is so complete, it makes your ears feel weird. It’s my favorite season.
I take a moment to close my eyes, breathe in the fresh air, and blank my mind. The best part about being out here, just me and my dogs, is that they don’t judge. When I’m out here alone with them, I can relax and not worry about anyone else.
Next, I root through my sled bag until I find the cooker. It’s routines like this the dogs know. They see the familiar preparations and curl up on the line for a nap. Marathon dogs are conditioned to run for hours without getting tired, but they still need breaks, even in a race. A long-distance race is much different from a sprint. Out here, a musher needs to take the time to make sure the
dogs’ spirits are looked after as well as their physical needs. If they get bored or sour, they aren’t much good in a team.
I toss a bootie into the outer bucket that makes up my alcohol cooker and light it up. Booties make good wicks. Into the inner pot, I dump the water that I put in my Thermos at the checkpoint this morning. Water will boil faster if I don’t have to melt snow. My tea bags and sugar cubes are kept in a Ziploc inside a cup. As the water heats, I take a moment to relieve myself behind a tree. Soon I’m holding a steaming mug of tea between my fingerless gloves.
“Oh, thank God,” a voice says. Harper pulls off behind me. “I’d love whatever you’re having. My fingers have rigor-mortised to the handlebar.”
Mustard’s head pops up and I can tell he’s studying my face for cues as to how we feel about this musher catching up to us. Satisfied with my vibe, he’s content to sit and watch Harper’s team with interest.
Her dogs are all obvious champions. Not that their looks matter in how well they run, but they’re winning the intimidation factor. Every one of them is sleek, black, with perfect composition. They look like thoroughbreds. Next to them, my team looks like a group of misfit nags: Haze with her floppy ears, Saga with her spindly rat tail, Twix with her crabbing, sideways running. As if he knows I’m looking, Lizard lifts his head and displays his crazy teeth.
Harper settles her dogs and then trundles over. She plops down beside me, thrusting her hands out toward my stove. “Coffee?” she asks hopefully.
I pour the rest of the water into a spare cup and drop a tea bag in along with three sugar cubes. “If there’s enough sugar in it, does it matter what it is?”
“Sing it, sister,” she says. She takes the cup and then rummages in her pocket. She pulls out a Ziploc. “Carrot?”
I feel myself flinch and have to force a casual “No, thanks. I’m good.” It’s been a while since I’ve been exposed to carrots. Emma isn’t allowed to eat anything with a lot of vitamin A in it because it could make her condition deteriorate, so we just don’t have carrots in our house. I’d better be careful now too.
Dog Driven Page 6
