I have been thinking about this a lot. “Part of me wants to finish the Appalachian Trail. I … had a promise I wanted to keep to a friend.” I shake my head. “But I’m going to go home. Moose needs some love and attention. Real dog food. Rest. I will hike the trail. But I’m going to do it when he’s ready. And when he is, I’ll be, too.”
Sadie swings a leg around the front the vehicle. “Hop on,” she tells me.
I climb behind her and grip the bars under the pack. Sadie turns her head. “No. You gotta grab onto my waist. And hold tight. We’ve got bumps ahead.”
I wrap my arms around Sadie as she flips a switch on the four-wheeler. The engine rumbles to life, and we are off with a jolt.
After a few miles, Sadie turns off the main drag onto a narrow dirt road. The motor thunks when she switches it off. “Lewis’s place is a half mile farther,” she says.
I hop off the four-wheeler and decide to leave my pack behind so I can be light on my feet for the rescue. We make our way down the road to an old, ramshackle farmhouse with faded white paint. Ivy chokes the rain gutters and creeps down the corners of the house.
I look across the road, to a large field covered in corn, their silk tassels rustling in the summer wind. I spot a big straw hat in the middle of the rows.
Lewis.
I nudge Sadie and point to the hat. She nods and we duck around to the back of the farmhouse, out of sight of the cornfields. There is a half-falling-down barn with moldy, rotting shingles and a sagging roof out back.
And then I see him. Attached by a thick iron chain to a pole in the ground. Panting in the sun, with no shade. Or water. Collapsed on the ground and barely breathing. Moose.
I forget to hide. I break out from the side of the house and run to him. He struggles to his feet when he sees me, but something is wrong with one of his legs. He is limping, his right paw up.
My vision goes red with rage. I unclip his collar from the chain. “C’mon, Moose. I’m getting you out of here.”
“Are you now?” I turn around. Lewis is in the farmhouse, grinning at me through an open window.
For a second, I refuse to believe it’s him. I’ve seen his straw hat. Saw it bobbing in the fields across the street.
And then it comes to me. Scarecrows in cornfields also have straw hats.
Lewis reaches down with one hand. When he brings it up, it is holding a shotgun. He rests the long barrel against the windowpane and trains the muzzle straight at me. “You are trespassing, you no-good, dog-stealing runt. I have every right to blow you away.”
“Lewis, don’t!” cries Sadie. She runs out and stands between me and the gun. “We’ll leave, promise. We won’t give you no trouble.”
“Hey, Lewis.” My heart is thumping like a jackrabbit’s, so hard I’m afraid it’ll burst out of my chest. But my hands are steady. “Hey, Lewis. I’ve got a deal for you.”
I reach into my pocket and take out my Ziploc with my trail money. I had hoped to make a clean getaway with Moose, but it was time for plan B. I hold up the money and wave it in the air. “What do you say I buy Moose from you? I’ve got eighty-two dollars. If I give you every last penny I have, will you give him to me?”
Lewis lowers his gun for a moment. Then he shakes his head and retrains it on Sadie and me. “First of all, this here dog’s name is Buster. Not Moose. Second of all, your money’s mighty tempting, but you’re not getting my dog. He’s mine.” The last word is accompanied by the click of the shotgun hammer as Lewis removes the safety.
Plan C, plan, C, plan C!!! my brain screams. I don’t have a plan C, but words start tumbling out of my mouth. “Well, then, how about this. We have a contest. We put Moo—Buster between the two of us and call to him. If he comes to me, I get him. But if he goes to you, you get him—and all my money, too.”
Lewis works over the details in his head. It takes him a while. “So if Buster comes to me, I get my dog and your money?” He lowers the shotgun and smiles. “You got yourself a deal, kiddo.”
WE FACE OFF behind the farmhouse. Sadie draws a line in the dirt with her toe and tells me to stand behind it. She counts ten paces, scuffs out a center mark, counts ten more paces. She draws another line in the dirt with her toe, and Lewis swaggers over to it.
Sadie gently takes Moose by the collar and leads him to the scuffed-out center mark. “When I count to three, I’m going to let go. Both of you do what you think you gotta to do to get this dog behind your line. No moving one toe over your line. Ready?
“One, two, three!”
I can do this. I crouch down and lay my elbows against my knees. “Here, Moose! Here, boy!”
On the other end, Lewis’s voice booms out. “Buster! Get yer mangy butt over here!”
Moose looks back and forth between us. His tail thumps the ground uncertainly.
“BUSTER!” Lewis stomps his foot on the ground.
Moose plasters his ears against his head and whines.
Lewis jerks his finger down and points toward the dirt beside him. “NOW!” His fixes Moose with a stare so vile, so full of anger and hate, that Moose’s legs buckle, leaving him cowering on the ground.
I thought this would be easy, but now I’m starting to realize how powerful fear is. What if Moose is so scared of Lewis that he won’t disobey him? I hadn’t truly thought that Moose might go anywhere but straight to me.
I’m not giving up, though. “Hey, Moose. Hey.” My voice is nowhere near as powerful as Lewis’s. Or as commanding. I clap my hands, trying to distract Moose from Lewis’s hypnotizing glare.
One of Moose’s ears perks up. It’s as if he can hear me, but from an ocean away.
“You scruffy flea-ridden mutt!” screams Lewis. “If you don’t get yourself over here right now, you’re gonna wish you were never born.”
Moose whines. He hears the venom in Lewis’s voice. And the promise of violence. He starts to slink toward Lewis.
“That’s what I thought, you ugly cur. C’mon.” Lewis reaches his hands out.
“Moose, no!” I am about to lose everything. All my promises. All my hope. I start to take a step forward.
“Get back behind the line, you filthy maggot!” Lewis’s fingernails are inches from Moose’s collar. He glares at me.
He’s no longer looking at Moose.
My foot hovers, an inch from the line.
“Back!” Lewis bellows.
I step back and whistle. Moose, free of Lewis’s gaze, perks up his ears and swings his head toward me. I can see the whites of his eyes. “Moose,” I say. “Moose. Buddy. Listen to me. You don’t belong here. This isn’t your home. I am your home.” My voice cracks. “Hey, Moose. Hey. I love you.”
Moose turns. He straightens up and starts to move back toward me and my heart soars—and then Lewis makes a grab for him. Moose swerves and dodges, avoiding Lewis’s big hands, and in a few hobbled bounds he is over to me and I’ve got my arms around his neck and my face buried in his fur.
“Good Moose,” I say. “Good dog.”
“He chose Toby!” Sadie shouts. “Deal’s a deal.”
Lewis doesn’t answer. He turns toward the farmhouse, and even though I want to believe that he’s going to be true to his word and will let me and Moose and Sadie go, I know that he’s going for his shotgun.
I pick up Moose. “Run,” I tell Sadie.
We flee past the house and down the dirt road. Moose is heavy in my arms, but it doesn’t stop me from running faster than I ever have in my life. I hear cursing behind me, foul words that singe my ears like flamethrowers. I look back. Lewis is on his front porch, the shotgun stock braced against his hip. He pumps it once.
I tackle Sadie, and we both go down. I arch sideways, keeping Moose from hitting the ground as my shoulder absorbs the impact.
Lewis fires the gun. There’s a roar, and dirt kicks up twenty feet away from us. “Give me back my dog!” he screams. He throws his gun down and starts toward us.
Sadie pulls me up. “C’mon.”
Adrenaline explodes through my veins. My shoulder aches, but I barely feel it. I focus on the road. My breath is even. My legs move like pistons. The endurance and strength I have built over the weeks on the trail steady me as I sprint forward, a twenty-pound dog clutched in my arms.
We make it to the four-wheeler. Lewis is thirty yards behind us, but closing fast. Sadie yanks on the starter rope. The engine sputters and dies.
Sadie yanks again. The motor catches and rumbles to life. She hurtles onto the seat. “Get on!” she yells. Lewis has ten yards before he is on us.
I swing behind Sadie, one hand around her waist, the other wrapped around Moose. Sadie throws the four-wheeler into first and slams on the gas just as Lewis reaches us. I glance behind me and see a meaty hand slam onto my tied-down backpack.
“Faster!” I yell as Sadie switches into second. I look back. Hand over hand, Lewis is climbing over my backpack and onto the four-wheeler.
There is no time to think. I let go of Sadie and twist around, unhooking the bungee cords keeping my pack in place. The cords whip through the rack, and suddenly they are free and tumbling off the four-wheeler, along with my pack and Lewis.
Sadie hits third, and my heart begins to slow as Moose’s former owner fades into the distance.
I let out a wild scream of victory.
I’ve got my dog back.
As I ride along the bumpy road, I glance down at this dog. I think about Lucas. And the trail. And promises—the ones that were meant to be kept. And the ones that turned into other promises.
It’s not about finishing the trail. It’s about finding what’s important in life and fighting for it. It’s about friendship and adventure and realizing how strong you can be.
Back at Sadie’s house, I ask to use her phone. I dial a number I know by heart.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Gran.” My voice nearly breaks. “I’m ready to come home.”
After I hang up the phone, there’s one more thing I have to do. I fumble in my pocket and pull it out. It’s weather-beaten and beyond crumpled, but the words are still so clear. Almost all of them are crossed out.
There’s a cup full of pens on the kitchen counter. I take one and go outside with Moose. Together we walk until the woods surround us, where all I can see are trees with their summer green leaves and the unmarked ground ahead of me. Unlike the Appalachian Trail, there is no path to follow, no white blazes to show me the way.
I take the List and rest it against the bark of an old oak tree. The tip of the pen touches #10, and I draw one long, unbroken line.
It’s time to make my own trail.
A huge thank-you to my editor, Emily Seife, who brought this book to life with her keen eye and unflinching red pen. Toby’s story is so much richer because of you.
Thanks to Beth Weick and Anna Sysko for providing Appalachian Trail maps for me to pore over and mark Toby’s journey, day by day.
When I needed to do firsthand research, Emile Hallez was my stalwart hiking and backpacking partner. Thank you for carrying the heavy tent (and that pesky one-pound jar of peanut butter) through our mountain adventures.
Finally, a quiet, bone-deep thank-you to my father, Toshio Hashimoto. You gave me the gift of the mountains, a gift for which I will be ever grateful.
MEIKA HASHIMOTO grew up on a mountain in Maine. She has traveled the world in search of calm forests and beautiful peaks, and found them aplenty. When she is not hiking and climbing, she is a children’s book editor in New York.
Copyright © 2017 by Meika Hashimoto
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hashimoto, Meika, author.
Title: The trail / by Meika Hashimoto.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Scholastic Press, 2017. | Summary: Toby and his friend Lucas made a list of things to do the summer before they entered middle school, but now Lucas is gone, and Toby sets out to fulfill the promise he made to his friend, to finish the list by hiking the Appalachian Trail from Velvet Rocks to Mt. Katahdin, an undertaking that he is poorly prepared for—and which will become not only a struggle for survival, but a rescue mission for the starving and abused dog who he finds along the way.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016040581 | ISBN 9781338035865 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Hiking—Juvenile fiction. | Camping—Juvenile fiction. | Survival—Juvenile fiction. | Promises—Juvenile fiction. | Friendship—Juvenile fiction. | Dogs—Juvenile fiction. | Appalachian Trail—Juvenile fiction. | Norwich (Vt.)—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Hiking—Fiction. | Camping—Fiction. | Survival—Fiction. | Promises—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Dogs—Fiction. | Appalachian Trail—Fiction. | Norwich (Vt.)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H27 Tr 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016040581
First edition, August 2017
Map art © 2017 by John Stevenson
Cover Design by Mary Claire Cruz
Cover Art © 2017 by Pierre Doucin
Stock photos © iStockphoto/Tinieder (landscape);
Shutterstock, Inc./eva_mask (bear silhouette)
e-ISBN 978-1-338-03588-9
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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