Dog Driven

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “Good girl,” I say, stroking her back. Sometimes the dogs just need a dining companion to coax them.

  I smile to myself as I watch her finish. Being in the top five is not what I expected when I signed up for this. Even though I’ve finished in the top five in past races, this is the longest and hardest race I’ve ever run. My chest swells with pride for my dogs. I can’t wait to tell Em and my parents.

  January 10, 1897

  Dear Uncle William

  We got a letter from you! It took over a month to reach us here in Toronto. Killarney sounds very exciting. I will tell you a secret. You are my favourite uncle. Do not tell Uncle Stephen. When I grow up I want to go on adventures like you, but Mama says that is not for young ladies.

  Love Anna

  Chapter 19

  Once the dogs are settled, I head back to the center to find my family. But when I step inside, I hear their angry voices and it makes me pause by the door. They’re at the first table and I can feel the tension from here. I want to turn around and leave.

  “I’m very sure, Beth,” Dad is saying when I join them.

  “Sure about what?” I ask, wishing we weren’t in the middle of a community center with all these people around. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” both my parents say at the same time.

  “Some of us are being so pigheaded they don’t see what’s right in front of them,” Mom says.

  I look at Em, but with the lighting in here, I can’t see her face clearly. Nonchalantly, I get up and move to the chair next to her.

  “Everyone is doing fine where they are,” Dad says.

  And then I know what they’re talking about. A glance at Em confirms it. She knows too, even though they think they’re being so stealthy.

  “Remember, you’ve got to let them fail,” Dad continues. Seriously, does he think we’re so stupid that we don’t know what they’re discussing?

  “Well, that’s not an option,” Mom snaps. “I’m just saying, this week proves my point.”

  Her point is that she wants to pull Emma from school so she can homeschool her. We heard them discussing it a few months ago. I’d been in Emma’s room when their whispers reached us from the kitchen.

  After Emma had fallen down the stairs two years ago, everyone moved bedrooms. Despite Dad insisting, “You can see this stair, right, Emma?” she couldn’t see the contrast between the last two steps and the floor. It’s not as though she got hurt, but from then on, she was confined to the main floor unless she was with someone. I even dragged my mattress off my bed and down the carpeted stairs—thump, thump, thump—and wedged it next to the bottom stair. I thought I had solved the problem. I was twelve.

  So Em’s room is in my parents’ old room on the main floor down the hall from the kitchen. Even if you’ve got the door partially closed, if your parents start to whisper, it’s amazing how your hearing instantly becomes supersonic.

  “She wouldn’t have to worry about getting around the school anymore,” we’d overheard Mom say. “Or about getting the right books or organizing her homework. Those teachers don’t have time to help her, and they don’t understand her needs. I could join the homeschooling association and learn—”

  “No way!” Dad sounded like his jaw was clenched. “She’s going to school like a normal kid.”

  “Dan, she’s not . . .”

  If she says Emma isn’t normal I’m going to slam the door, I thought.

  “It was because of your stubbornness and your refusal to accept that there was something wrong that we waited so long to take her to the doctor,” Mom hissed.

  “My stubbornness? Who’s the one who packs her backpack for her every morning and reads things to her even though we’ve been told that she needs to do all that herself?”

  “If she’s at home, at least we wouldn’t have to worry about her all day.”

  “Who’s worried? I’m not. Emma isn’t. The only one worried is you. You’re making this into something it’s not. She’s going to school. End of discussion,” Dad said then.

  “End of discussion,” Dad says now in the community center.

  Mom takes the Thermos that she was pouring something into and places it on the table. She stands and walks away. I glance at Emma and see her eyes shine with tears.

  Inside, I seethe quietly for Em. For me.

  These arguments are getting old. And they’ve gotten worse. I would have thought that, with time, they’d both come to work together, but it seems to have only pushed them apart. More and more I feel like this family doesn’t have room for another case of Stargardt disease.

  December 20, 1896

  Dear Margaret,

  I must tell you of the heroics of my companion Mr. Miron and his pole, which he fashioned from a length of spruce to pry at the sleigh in the slush. Unfortunately the ice gave way underneath me. I was at once plunged into water so cold that I could scarcely take a breath. I do not think I uttered a yell, but Raymond heard the splash and fetched that long pole. He crawled over the ice so that I could take hold, and, somehow, he plucked me out, which was well since I hadn’t the strength to do it myself. I was even too cold to walk. Raymond said, “Mon dieu!” and proceeded to pull me to an island and built a fire.

  Your loving brother, still alive, William

  Chapter 20

  Mushers are drawn to the nightly bonfires like parka-clad moths.

  All the same young crew from last night are here except for Guy. I hold my hands out to the warmth of the flame and listen to the conversations around me. I want to soak up this sense of community. I want to forget about my own problems for five minutes.

  Laughter nearby startles me. I hear Guy’s voice. “Yeah, yeah. I got carried away with the makeup. Trust me, I’ve been hearing about it all night.”

  He sits beside me on the bench. “There you are, enemy mine. You wouldn’t happen to know why I’m turning Klingon, would you?”

  “It’s a good look for you. Very bold statement.”

  “Mmm.” He rubs at his eyebrows with a finger. “I think I’ll keep it. The vet really likes it too. Didn’t know it would be so popular with the ladies.”

  “The ladies? What are you, forty?” I laugh. “How did your vet check go?”

  Guy turns serious. “I just dropped Muskrat and Icon.”

  “Oh no! What happened?” It’s always painful to leave dogs behind. I think of my own vet check. I’d asked her again to look at Aspen’s shoulder. She’s the only dog I have to worry about. Well, I’m always worried about Sumo, but not in the same way. The vet said my dogs were strong and healthy, even Aspen. They all still have so much heart in this, and I was proud the vet noticed.

  “We talked it over,” Guy says. “The vet didn’t think I had to drop them yet, but it’s better for the dogs. Muskrat’s got an abrasion between her toes on her left front foot. Now her pads are red and starting to swell. It was totally my fault. The snow was so grainy. I should’ve been quicker to replace the bootie she blew.”

  Guy worries at a thread from the hem of his anorak. “I massaged her feet and I’ve got them all wrapped now. She’ll get the royal treatment riding the rest of the way in the truck with Dad and his girlfriend.”

  “What about Icon?” It’s a tough decision to drop any dog, but especially a leader.

  “He’s got a stomach bug that’s not going away. I think he’s lost weight. Seems sluggish. If I’m not careful, that could spread through the team, right?”

  There’s such angst in Guy’s voice. I nod in empathy.

  “Icon’s good for Zesty’s confidence in lead,” he continues. “She’s always leaning on him, like she’s soaking up his courage, you know? But if he’s not having fun anymore, I’m not asking him to keep racing. Now I have to use Diesel up in lead. I should have brought more leaders in my race team in case this happened. But at least I still have Zesty.”

  “How do you run with a blind lead dog?” I can’t help but ask.

  “You know the conn
ection you have with your leaders?” Guy says as I see Harvey walk over to us. “It’s even stronger with her. She doesn’t let the fact that she’s blind stop her—what? Oh, thanks.” Guy takes a bag from Harvey, pulls out a piece of red licorice, and passes the bag to me.

  I pull out one piece, the sweet smell of the candy familiar and calming, then pass the bag on to the next person. When I take a bite, the licorice is cold and hard. I hold it in my mouth to thaw a little before chewing.

  “The best thing about animals,” Guy says, “is they don’t feel sorry for themselves. Zesty loves to run in lead. But she has to listen to me because she can’t see where she’s going. She has to trust me more, so we have an even closer relationship. And she’s so confident up there. She understands me better than any dog I’ve ever run.”

  I think of the bond I have with Mustard, which is sort of the same thing as what he’s talking about, just in reverse. I’m the one who has to listen to Mustard more. “I know what you mean.”

  We chew our licorice in silence. I search for something to cheer him up.

  “Do you have any more old letters?” I ask.

  “From Grandpa Desjardins?” Guy asks eagerly. He plucks the little book out of his pocket. “In fact, I do. Let’s see what the mail couriers are up to.”

  As he reads, I notice how nice it is to be sitting side by side feeling the warmth from the fire and the warmth from Guy’s shoulder next to mine.

  Soon it begins to snow. Guy tries to protect the pages, but they’re getting wet. After he’s finished a dreadful story about the couriers falling through the ice, he tucks his book away.

  “More snow,” he remarks, tilting his face up. “Did you know Lake Superior gets the most snowfall of anywhere in Ontario?”

  “No, I didn’t. Good thing I have my walking encyclopedia beside me to keep me current.”

  “Just saying, you never know what kind of dangerous adventures you could run into out there.”

  Chapter 21

  The mushers sleep in a prospector tent set up next to the community center.

  There are cots inside lined up in two rows with very little light. I slip in and quietly find the cot I picked out earlier and claimed with my sleeping bag. It’s closest to the door and breezy, but I don’t have to stumble or trip over anyone to get to it.

  The cot creaks and my bag crinkles as I lie down. Earlier, I left my boots here to dry, taking out the liners and wearing my camp boots to go out to the fire. I lean over and put my hand in to check them, muffle a surprised noise, and whip my hand back out. Then I press my lips together and gingerly feel inside again. There are small hard things like pebbles in the bottom.

  I stick my nose into my boot and sniff. Yup. Dog kibble.

  Someone has been messing with my boots again, and he probably looks like a Klingon. I dump out both boots and then shake my head. Amateur.

  I hear the murmuring and shifting of sleeping mushers as I stare at the ceiling. I glance at my watch. In only five hours I have to get up to water the dogs and prepare for the day’s race. And I’m already exhausted from the past two days. I need to be rested for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow is going to be the big test. A hundred and thirteen miles without a stage stop like this one. A long time without help if I need it. The worst part is the Cascades. After the final checkpoint, I’ll still have to somehow make it through the Cascades before I get to the finish line. Before I can hand over my mailbag.

  I keep imagining how it will feel to turn to Emma and say, “See? I’m fine.” In my mind, it’s a great moment.

  I close my eyes and try to ignore all the strange smells and sounds of this place. I miss my bed. Suddenly, I miss all the familiar comforts of home. I miss the security of knowing exactly where everything is. I miss knowing what obstacles I’ll have to face the next day. Here, everything is unknown and new. As I toss in the narrow cot, my thoughts are interrupted by a noise outside.

  I hear a single, long howl.

  It starts low and rises, beautiful and lonely and haunting. In the next instant, the howl is joined by several other voices. They all have different tones and pitches but somehow, it’s harmonized. The song builds, with more and more howls joining in until every single dog in the parking lot is a part of it. There are over a hundred dogs out there, all throwing their heads back and singing their hearts out.

  Their voices weave in and out with one another’s. The howls rise and fall; some voices are rich and full, others are squawky and hoarse. With so many voices, the sound is deafening. Thunderous. It vibrates all through my body like drums in a drumming circle. It feels ancient and raw and true. It reaches into my soul and touches me, wraps me up in its expression of unity and joy. The whole camp has paused to listen. The dogs have cast a magic net and joined all of us together.

  The howl rises in a crescendo. One pack of dogs devoting their entire spirit. There is nothing but the song. I let it seep into me. I can hear it with my heart.

  Slowly, the noise begins to fade and I come back to myself. Once again I’m lying on my cot in the middle of a musher tent. The last note of the song ends. Everyone pauses as it hangs in the air. I imagine it drifting off into the night sky like the fog of frozen breath.

  Conversations from the fire pit start back up and reach me, muffled by the canvas of the tent walls. But now, somehow, I don’t feel so alone.

  I close my eyes and sleep.

  December 20, 1896

  Dearest Anna,

  Finally I have time to write as we rest here from our last leg. When I come home, we will go see the diving horse. I wish I could take you to see the races here on the frozen Massey River. A pet moose races the horses! Reportedly he is the fastest trotter there ever was! . . .

  I am busy feeding and caring for the sled dogs and attending the sleighs. We cover them with tarpaulins, employing a crisscross system of strapping, so if they roll, the mail does not get wet. I think of you every day and look forward to your next letter. It has made my work lighter.

  Love, Uncle William

  Chapter 22

  Stage three: Gargantua Harbour to White River

  113 miles

  Because of my team’s fast time on the last leg, we have to start near the end of the pack today.

  The first few hours I spend just passing other teams.

  “Trail!” I call again and again. Mustard and Twix behave themselves up there and don’t tangle with the other dogs.

  Some people who don’t mush think it’s crazy to trust any dog so much, to depend on him. But I know Mustard. I know his mind. And he knows what I want. I trust him to make a clean pass.

  But some dogs are sneaky. They know what they’re supposed to do and yet constantly try to get away with not doing it. Lizard can be like that when he’s in a mood. You have to watch those kinds of dogs all the time. They’re like the class clowns, always spending energy testing how far they can push it. But dogs like Mustard are known as honest dogs. I can depend on him doing his best up there, even though I can barely see him.

  Again, I wish I could’ve studied a map of where we’re going. Harper had called me hardcore when I admitted I hadn’t really looked at the race route, and I sort of agree with her.

  My concern about it had made me risk a peek last night when I pretended to drop something in front of the posted map at the checkpoint. I’d bent down, then brought my face next to the map. I had time to see the red line running the north shore of Superior but not any details. When I stood, I thought I caught sight of Guy watching me.

  I adjust my sunglasses to let out the steam from my sweat that’s fogging them up. Thank God for Harper giving me her spare. I’m still wearing Guy’s hat too. It smells like boy. When I rub at an itch on my temple, something scratches me. I peel off the hat and feel something hard and sharp that I’m pretty sure is frozen snot, but at this point, I’m not sure if it’s mine or Guy’s. I shrug and stuff the hat back over my greasy hair.

  We still haven’t come across Guy. He went
out not far ahead of me. Harper went out behind me. Being in the leader group, she’s been going out near last every day.

  I’m busy straining to see ahead—searching for Guy, if I’m honest with myself—when I notice the trail getting narrower. Clumps of alder and slender birch have grown in and made a tunnel. The trail is icy here. The runners clatter noisily over the ruts.

  One of the ruts is deep. My sled’s ski hits it, catches an edge. It shoves the sled onto its side. I heave it back. We pound into another hard rut. The sled is wrenched over to the other side. A sharp, knobby branch grabs my sled bag, pushing until we break free. On its side, the sled skates and rattles across the icy ruts like a runaway lawn chair in a stiff wind. Grunting, I finally wrestle it back upright by grabbing the stanchions and heaving with all my strength. The trail is sloping downhill. The dogs speed up.

  I work the brake. “Easy, easy.”

  The points of my brake dig in. But the trail is furrowed, minimizing the effect of the brake. I stand on the drag. We don’t slow down. The momentum is a rolling barrel, and now the dogs are in full charge. All I can do is hang on. We hit a bump; the sled goes airborne, then slams down hard. We crash into another rut and keel sideways again. This time, I throw the sled on its side on purpose to slow us down. I drag along the ice, one leg bent and one stretched out behind me. I skid on the side of my thigh, sparing a thought to my brand-new shell pants. I hope they don’t rip. I don’t even have another pair and it would be highly embarrassing to show up at checkpoints with ripped pants.

  The trail levels off and I fight the sled back upright again. It takes all my concentration to keep us under control.

  I’m drained and exhausted by the time we break out of the tunnel. Sweat plasters my hair onto my forehead. I’ll be happy if I never see another alder again in my life.