Dog Driven

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  We’re silent as Guy tries fitting the stanchions back together. I see what he means. There’s no way he can use this sled. And making new stanchions would take too long.

  “You could join your dogs with mine,” I suggest. “One long gangline. We’ll run in together.”

  “Then we’ll both be disqualified,” Guy points out. “Neither of us will win.”

  I look over at my sled. I’m close to winning this race, to proving what a sight-impaired person can do. How satisfying would that be?

  Guy is close to winning too. And thanks to Harper, I’ve got my mailbag back. I can deliver Emma’s letter.

  But Guy needs to keep his dogs.

  “Use mine.” The words come suddenly, surprising me. But I mean them.

  “What? No, I can’t leave you here.”

  “Guy, you could win this whole race if you go now! Go—win the race, keep your dogs. Go deliver the mail! Isn’t that what you came for? Think of your grandpa.”

  Guy searches my face. “But you should win this race. You’ve got more dogs than me. You’re a faster, stronger team.”

  We look at each other as precious seconds tick by. We have no more time to discuss this. “I know I could win. That’s enough for me. Now go.”

  Guy looks over at my sled, then back at his small team. “I could go and then come right back for you. We’re only what, about ten miles from the finish? I could be back soon. Are you sure?”

  “Just hurry. We’ve no idea where Bondar is.”

  Chapter 33

  10 miles from the finish line

  While I wait, I sit with Mustard in the snow and stroke his forehead.

  “Sorry, bud,” I say. “I know you wanted to win.”

  He rests his chin on my leg, stares up at me. I’m overcome with love for him. I’m lucky to be able to run these dogs. And I think Mustard’s been trying to tell me that. It’s so easy to focus on the things that we don’t have rather than the things that we do have.

  Mustard snorts.

  “You’ll get over it,” I say.

  Inside of me, I have warring feelings. To be honest, I’m a bit deflated I won’t get to cross the finish line on my own. After all the work to get here, I’d love to complete the race as a whole team—just me and my awesome dogs.

  But that doesn’t quite beat the warm feeling of satisfaction I have knowing Guy will win this race. He’s going to keep his dogs. I smile.

  The noise of something approaching breaks through my thoughts. I hear sliding on ice, runners clattering. Someone swearing. Dogs panting. And then out of the fog, Marc Bondar comes through. He glances at me. “You okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Someone’s coming to get me. Don’t worry.”

  As he runs by and continues on down the trail, I check my watch. He’s only a few minutes behind Guy.

  I stand, full of nervous energy now. My dogs are offended by Bondar passing. They’re up too and whining. Sumo pegs me with a look that would be comical if I didn’t fully understand him. How long are we going to have to wait here?

  I glance at Guy’s broken sled. It’s just sitting there on the side of the trail looking forlorn and lopsided. The broken stanchions jut out from the back of the sled. With the front of the sled angled upward, it looks like a drunken grin.

  I shuffle over to the stanchions and wiggle them. They’re cracked all the way up the length of wood. When I flex them, they break apart into shorter pieces. Wow, Guy. How hard did you roll this thing?

  I fold the bottoms of the stanchions inward onto the sled floor and tuck the pieces that broke off into the sled bag. Some of Guy’s gear is still inside the sled bag. He hadn’t grabbed it when he took mine. Gingerly, I move the gear and sit on the sled. I bounce slightly.

  Could I . . .

  I inspect the bridle where the gangline gets attached. It’s solid when I tug on it. Nothing seems broken except the stanchions. The only thing wrong with the sled is there is nothing for a musher to hold on to and steer with.

  What if I just laid down on top of it like I was riding a toboggan and hung on? It sounded like that’s how Harper ran the race—just closing her eyes, hanging on to the back of her sled. And somehow, she got through some pretty crazy sections.

  I check out my full team of eight strong and manic dogs. I peer up ahead at the trail. It’s only about ten miles. What could go wrong?

  I grin.

  Suddenly, I’m in a hurry. I want to catch up with Bondar. My dogs obviously do too. They’re full of zip.

  “We’re doing this,” I tell them.

  It doesn’t take long to hook the carabiners on the gangline into the bridle of the sled. I screw them closed, reattach tuglines, and then hop on the toboggan. My weight shifts the bag around on the smooth bed of plastic underneath. It’s a weird angle from down here. I can’t see as far. But then again, I can’t see far lately anyway. Without overthinking, I reach out and pull the hook.

  “Ready? All right!” The dogs take a second to realize that they get to run again. There’s something different going on back at the sled. They glance behind them, and then, as if shrugging it off, turn back to the trail, and the sled takes off like a jet.

  Immediately I realize that this is going to be wild.

  I slide on the narrow bed as soon as we start down the trail. Every bump threatens to throw me off. I cling to the sides of the toboggan. The dogs dart around the first corner and the sled keeps going straight, then jerks to follow them. I almost go flying. Without the handlebar and since I’m not able to bend and lean, there is no steering. And the brake is behind me. I can’t reach back and shove it down without losing my tenuous grip on the sled.

  Snow and ice pellets spray me on the face while I try to think.

  Suddenly, I remember the gee pole that the old couriers used to control their sleds in Guy’s story. We barrel around another corner, and I just barely avoid somersaulting off. As we careen down the trail, I cling to the toboggan with one hand and root around underneath me with the other. When I feel the broken stanchion pieces, I pull them out. They’re pointy and jagged on the ends.

  I grip one in each hand and use them to dig into the trail. It keeps me centered on the toboggan bed. I shove the right one down and the sled pulls over to the right. I dig the other one into the trail, and it brings the sled over the other way. I can use these to steer. I whoop out loud.

  “Yip, yip, yip! Let’s get to that finish line, guys!”

  * * *

  In the end, I was right about the ride being wild.

  By the time we cross the line and the timers stop their watches, I’m coated all over with hoarfrost. I’d lost my hat way back on the trail. My ears are burning and feel like ice cubes. My hair is full of snow and sticking up. My eyes and nose stream goo, which has frozen on my face. And I’m certain my wide grin makes me look like a lunatic. But I can’t stop smiling.

  There’s a crowd gathered, probably because Guy and Bondar had come through. So I get a full welcome with horns and cheering and loudspeakers announcing me. There are people everywhere.

  My family is here. Mom sees the sled and her eyes go wide. Em hops up and down, screaming her head off. Dad is hooting and waving his fists in the air.

  Guy is next to the trail preparing his dogs to come back for me. When he sees me, he laughs in relief. “Guy is impressed! But you stole his dogsled.”

  “It pulls a little to the right. You can have it back.”

  “Congratulations on completing the Great Superior Mail Run,” one of the checkers says. “That’s an unconventional finish, to say the least.”

  “Thank you. That’s the way I roll.”

  I slide off the sled and go thank the dogs.

  February 10, 2019

  Attention: Foundation for Fighting Blindness

  I am the mother of Emma Barney, who is eight years old and living with Stargardt disease. Emma has written to you using a special dogsled envelope to ask for a cure. If someone could please take the time to respond to this c
aring and brave little girl, I would be forever grateful. It would mean so much to my family if you could include some form of encouragement for her.

  In addition, kindly direct me to the best contact for helping organize a Vision Walk fundraiser in my community this year.

  Sincerely, Beth Barney

  Chapter 34

  I approach Guy’s truck in the parking lot but don’t see him.

  I bite back my disappointment. I haven’t seen him since this morning and I really wanted to talk with him again. We’ve spent the day here waiting for the rest of the teams to arrive. There’s been a party-like atmosphere. The entire town of White River must have the day off to celebrate with us. There are so many people and so much noise, it makes it hard for me to find any one person. I hope I can meet up with Guy at the ceremony.

  His gear rack is open at the back of the dog truck. There’s a pair of binoculars hanging among the dog harnesses. Did he have that in his sled? Doing some birding along the way?

  On his tailgate are a pair of boots, a rag, and shoe polish. It looks like someone had been weatherproofing them and stopped with the job half done. “Hello?” I call. No one is around.

  Well, this is an opportunity too good to let pass. Quickly, I dip the rag in the can of black goop and coat the eyepieces of the binoculars. When he gets home, he’ll have something to remember me by.

  “McKenna!” Emma’s voice.

  I turn to see her standing there with her cane. She’s alone. Not holding on to someone’s arm, just standing tall by herself. My throat feels strange as I try to swallow.

  “We’re looking for you,” she says. “Mom wants pictures with the dogs before all the awards and ceremonies start.”

  At the truck, I give my team a good rubdown while Mom snaps pictures. Each dog gets full attention and love and gratitude. I rub their backs and their shoulders, loosening the joints. I rub their butts and hamstrings. Sumo gets the biggest rubdown of all. He leans into me and lets himself slide down until his front elbow hooks on my knee.

  “You’re such a goof!” All he needs is a pair of shades and he’d make a great Instagram celebrity.

  I move from dog to dog, all of them lolling their heads back and closing their eyes. I tell them all how brave they are, how much food they’re going to get when we go home. How thick their beds will be with fresh straw. And how many more runs we’ll do together. Because I’m never giving this up.

  Boots crunching on snow behind me. I turn around. “They’re starting in twenty minutes, McKenna,” Dad says. “Sounds like all the teams are in now, and they’ve finished calculating the times.”

  At last, we’ll find out who won. Em takes my arm with one hand, her cane in the other, and we walk toward the center together. We walk like that not because she has to, but because she wants to. The counselor had instructed her in how to use the cane. Em will have to practice more, learning things like when to tap and when to swipe, but it’s a start. Dad’s mouth is set in a grim line, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Once we’re inside, we’re directed to a table right next to the stage. It has a little placard on it. I hesitate a moment before using Em’s magnifier to read it. RESERVED FOR BARNEY FAMILY.

  I glance at my sister and then pull out a chair, pleased. It will be easier for Em to see what’s going on from here. And then I realize that I can see the stage better too. Such a little thing to make life easier.

  When we sit at the table, I look around at my family. I drink in the details of their faces because I don’t know how long I’ll be able to see them clearly. My throat tightens at the thought, but I blink it away. Right now, I can still see their faces. No one knows what the future holds.

  And besides, Zesty has shown me that seeing is something you can do with your heart, not just your eyes.

  By the time the room fills up with milling bodies and voices, the announcer is on the stage. “We’ll begin by having all the mushers form a line at the side of the room there and deliver their mailbag to our postal representative, please.”

  I go over and stand in line along with everyone else, holding the mailbag that has made such an impact on my life. One by one, mushers hand their bags to the lady from the post office.

  “Here you go,” I say with pride. “Safe and sound. Delivered by dog team.”

  “That’s the idea.” She winks at me.

  “And can I also give you this to put in the mail? It’s from a friend of mine.” I hand her Kelly’s letter to her grandpa.

  “Thank you. I’ll make sure it goes in. Great job in the race.”

  When she takes the bag, I feel relief and loss in equal measures. Suddenly, I’m no longer a sworn mail carrier. But I managed to deliver the letters from Emma’s whole class. I kept my promise. And I have some idea of how William Desjardins felt.

  Wednesday, January 16, 2019

  Dear students,

  Surprise! Now you are the ones receiving an envelope with a “Delivered by Dog Team” stamp. And since you were such good letter writers, everyone wins one of these special dog-paw stickers, which were carried along the historic trail by sled dogs. You see, I told you getting mail is fun!

  Love, Mrs. Wright

  Chapter 35

  Once all the mushers find their seats again, the announcer goes back to the mike.

  “Thank you, everyone. I hope you all enjoyed our first annual Great Superior Mail Run. It’s been such a success, and we have you all to thank for that. We hope that you come back to race it next year. And tell your friends! Now, to the awards!”

  Everyone cheers. My heart stutters.

  “We’re going to break with tradition and begin with first place. So, without further ado, after calculating all the times, we’ve arrived at our winner. A local from Sault Ste. Marie and one of our younger competitors, Guy Desjardins!”

  Pure joy seizes me, and I hoot my head off. Someone stands up from the tables. I can’t see who it is from here, but as he makes his way to the stage, I recognize Guy’s walk. Another person, bulkier, also joins him onstage. Guy’s dad, I assume, and it makes me so glad for him. The clapping in the room turns to laughter, though.

  I look around quizzically. “What’s going on?” I ask Mom, who’s sitting beside me.

  She’s laughing too. She leans toward me and says, “For some reason, Guy has big black rings around his eyes, like a raccoon. That boy is strange.”

  I cringe. That wasn’t supposed to happen till he left here. Especially not in front of all these people. But it is sort of perfect timing. I join in the laughter.

  Guy stands in front of me onstage. He’s wearing his old-timey mail uniform again, which would be really impressive, except his whole vibe is marred by what looks like an unfortunate encounter with a door.

  I write the number one in the air above my head.

  He points to me and laughs before accepting his award and the purse. Five thousand dollars for first prize will buy a lot of dog food. If his father’s business doesn’t get the Amazon contract, at least that money will help.

  “I’d like to dedicate this win to my late Grandpa Desjardins. And thanks to my dad for sponsoring me with his business, Desjardins Delivery. We are four generations of running dogs and running the mail!”

  It’s Guy’s moment, and my heart swells to see him living it. There are reporters and media in the room snapping pictures and writing about what happens here. I hope they get his story right. And his black eyes just lend him an air of mystery that people can wonder about.

  He struts by our table on his way back to his seat. When he’s next to me, he pulls me up for a quick hug.

  “I’m glad I met you,” he says softly in my ear. He presses something into my hand.

  His whisper makes my face flush. The skin on my neck bursts into goose bumps. I glance down and I don’t need a magnifier to read the large-print phone number he’s written.

  “What?” I whisper. “We’re not going to write letters?”

  “There’s this thing
now called FaceTime. Try to keep up.”

  The next awards are being announced. Guy disappears, and I sit with a little smile.

  Second and third place go to Marc Bondar and Bailey Gant, respectively. Even though I came in before her today, Bailey had a faster time yesterday. My added times probably put me in fourth place, but fourth place doesn’t get a mention. I try not to let it bother me.

  “The Red Lantern Award goes to Peyton Tomlinson. This award is to recognize the dedication it takes for being last and not giving up. We had a lot of mushers scratch during the storm, but some of you carried on, despite the challenges. Congratulations, Peyton.”

  A tall woman in the crowd stands and waves and then sits back down.

  The announcer continues. “And by now, everyone must have heard about an unusual event that occurred near the end of the trail. The winner informs us that his win is due to one musher’s selfless act of lending her sled. In doing so, she sacrificed her own race standings. This year’s Sportsmanship Award goes to McKenna Barney!”

  Em punches me in the arm. I stand and bow. I can hear Guy over the clapping in the room saying, “Way to go, Barney! That sounds like a good dog name!”

  Mom looks at me proudly. Dad takes a picture and I feel so glad to be with them and not hiding.

  The announcer onstage isn’t finished. “And now for the last award of the night. Many will agree that this is the most important award in any dog race. And this year it goes to a very deserving musher. Her outstanding dog care shows in the fact that not only did she complete the full three legs of the race and deliver her mail, she also crossed the finish line with her entire team of dogs. McKenna Barney is deserving of the Humanitarian Award! Congratulations, McKenna. Come on up!”

  I sit back, stunned. A cheer goes up around the room and Emma gives me a sideways hug. “Oh gosh, McKenna! I told you you’d be great!”