And all of that is if the weather and trail conditions are perfect. What if there’s a storm? Icy sections of trail? There’s just no way I can run a team on unknown trails.
I could get us all killed.
Em is still waiting, hopeful. Me being six years older makes her think I can do anything. I want to give her anything. I want to give her the stars. I want to give her her sight back.
But I can’t do this.
December 11, 1896
Dear Margaret,
We are having a strenuous time on the lake ice, enduring the immense cold that seeps into one’s bones. The wind is incessant. I am grateful that we are sharing the wigwams of the Ojibwe as we were drenched through from slush after wrestling with the sleigh. Swift water lurks underneath the snow in places. But do not fret; my companion is exceedingly knowledgeable about where to step.
Your loving brother, William
A postscript: Please do not tell Anna about her uncle freezing half to death.
Chapter 3
“Em,” I begin. “I . . . I’m too busy with school right now to focus on a big race like that. I’ve got tests coming up and assignments. And I’ve got that project on ancient Egypt I haven’t even started.”
She makes a rude noise that surprises me. “Yeah, right.”
I see that’s not going to fly. “I’m not even in shape. You know I quit the running team. I’ll cough up a lung. It could actually happen.”
“The dogs are in shape.”
“I’ve never run the trails up there. I might get lost.”
“You didn’t get lost running the UP Midnight Run last year,” she points out.
“Em . . . I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
Emma grows serious. The hope slips from her face. “Why not?”
I owe her something. And not an excuse; she’s too smart. What am I going to tell her? The seconds tick by. She’s going to figure it out if I don’t say something. She knows more than anyone how it feels to have this. Maybe I should be honest with her. Adrenaline surges through me at the thought. I swore to myself no one would know.
My voice is limp. “I . . . I’ve been having some trouble . . . with my vision.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? What can you see? Do you think it’s Stargardt’s? But the doctor said your eyes are clear. They’ve always been clear! You need to get tested right away. We have to tell Mom and Dad!” Her words are rapid gunfire.
I panic. “No! No, no, we’re not telling them. It’s not as bad as yours. It’s just a bit of blurriness in the sun. I didn’t tell you because there’s almost nothing to tell.” Everything is happening too fast. I haven’t even processed the fact that I have it too. I don’t have a plan yet besides keeping it from my parents at all costs. I have to stay independent.
“No! You have to tell them now! You could hurt yourself!”
Her face is full of heartbreak and scares me more than anything. It’s always been a possibility in my mind, this thing I might have. But now with it out in the open, especially with Em, who knows exactly what it means, it’s just too real for me to think about right now.
My brain backtracks. “Em, I’m fine. I’m totally fine. It’s nothing to worry them about. Imagine what this news would do to Mom.”
My sister’s face falls even more, and the guilt kicks me in the gut. That was low, but I’m desperate. At least the part about it not being as bad as Emma’s is true.
“How can you be fine? I don’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll prove it!” I blurt out. “I can do the race. I can absolutely deliver your letter. It’ll make the news. Girl with Stargardt’s helps raise awareness of the disease by having her sister deliver a letter by dog team. You’ll see. I’m totally fine.”
Emma hesitates. A sudden shriek comes from the pen. The yearlings’ play fight ends abruptly. “But then why did you just say you couldn’t do it?”
“Well, you surprised me. But now that I’m thinking about it, yeah, I can. I just wanted you to know.”
“Well, what can you see? Can you see Sumo?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the purple thing in the middle of your eyes? Can you see colors? What about me? Can you see my face?”
“Yes, I can see your squirrelly little face with the booger sticking out of your nose.”
She laughs and wipes her nose with the back of her mitten. “So, you think you can do the mail run? Like, for real? You won’t get hurt?” I can tell she’s torn between worrying over my safety and wanting so badly for me to run the race.
“Yes, yes! I can do it! Imagine telling all your friends that their letters will be carried by your own dogs.” I pause. “We don’t have to say anything about this to anyone else, okay? We’ll keep it between you and me.”
The silence next is so heavy, the dogs pause to stare at us. For a beat, the kennel is ominously still. Waiting.
“Okaaay,” Emma says. “But if your vision gets worse or it’s too dangerous, you have to stop. You have to scratch the race, okay? And then you have to tell Mom and Dad. Or I will. Deal?” Emma still looks worried.
“Deal. If I don’t deliver your letter, we tell them.” I reach forward and take her hand. We shake on it.
“Here.” Em digs into her pocket and pulls out her magnifier. She hands it to me. “Just in case you need help reading something, you should keep this. I’ve got my other one in my room.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need it.” I wrap my fingers around Emma’s magnifier. What I don’t mention is that I know she has one in her room. I’ve borrowed it to do homework when no one was looking.
Nervous energy flows through me; I’ve avoided the disaster of Emma telling Mom and Dad. My legs jitter as we make our way up to the house, my sister gripping my arm. I adjust my sunglasses and angle the visor of my ball cap down in an effort to see where we’re going on the well-tramped snowy trail.
After keeping this secret even from myself, I feel a weird mix of relief and regret that I’ve shared it with my sister. Of all the people to tell, Em understands the most. I press her hand with mine in a rush of emotion.
It isn’t until later, when I’m setting the table, that what I’ve done really sinks in.
October 23, 1896
Dearest William,
You have been gone so long I have taken to reading the northern newspapers for lack of letters from you. Apparently a farmer’s unfortunate pig had its ears chewed off by wolves. It has become quite famous, people traveling just to view the “earless pig.” Why on earth do you wish to work in such a place? . . .
Anna has written a letter, which I have enclosed, along with a box of my butterscotch cookies that you so enjoy.
Your sister, Margaret
Chapter 4
One day before the race
The weeks after our secret deal were filled with race preparation.
Measuring and stuffing frozen raw meat into bags, sewing booties, deciding which dogs would be in my race team, arguing over which batteries lasted longer in cold temperatures. A hundred and one chores needed doing.
Through it all, I worried that Emma would slip up and say something. She never did. Not once did she betray me. I felt the shift in our relationship. We were more a team than ever now that we had this thing looming that would define our future.
The mushers’ meeting deadline felt a safe distance away. There was so much to do before the race, and I didn’t have time to think about how I was going to actually race it. Until the day of the meeting arrived.
That morning we load the truck with the dogs, musher gear, dog gear, sleds, quick-change runners, food, and a bucket of different brands of batteries. And then all four of us cram in for the forty-five-minute drive north to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. The meeting is at the Ermatinger House Museum, a national historic site that used to be a Hudson’s Bay Company post. We also need to have all the dogs checked by the veterinarians, who are across the street at the plane museum’s parking lot, where there is
more room.
We arrive at the Ermatinger House slightly late, since one of us insisted on stopping along the way for a pee. Hazards of little sisters.
“We’ll drop the dogs, McKenna,” Dad says. “Get in there!”
I stumble inside and wait near the doorway. It takes a million years for my eyes to adjust from the light outside. People of all ages are packed around tables spread out through a room with a big stone fireplace and hand-hewn-log walls decorated with furs. Suddenly, I’m the one who has to pee.
Officials at the front of the room are showing a PowerPoint presentation. There’s a lady who’s already started her speech. I’ve missed the instructions on how to get to the McNabb staging area, where the race will begin tomorrow.
“And as a reminder, I wanted to briefly go over the required gear. It’s listed on page two in your packets.”
I search for an empty chair close to the front, but there aren’t any. I have to sit near the back squeezed between a man and a woman who are both wearing what look like entire wolves on their heads.
“Where did you get your packet?” I ask the woman.
She points to the table right by the entrance. I’ll have to get mine later.
“This is the same list you received in your e-mail,” the announcer says. As she ticks off the items on the list, I peer around. I’m comforted to see that the table directly in front of me has a row of mushers about my age. At least, I assume they’re mushers. They’re dressed with various earflapped hats and anoraks and have the telltale odor of dog. Or it could be that they’re just handlers—helpers for the actual musher running the race. My whole family will be my handlers, waiting for me at each leg. Dad took the week off, and Em got excused from school.
“In addition,” the announcer says, “you will need to carry on your person a lighter, matches, a knife, and a survival blanket in case you get separated from your team. Officials may ask to see these items at any checkpoint.”
Yes, yes. We packed all that and then some. I continue checking out the competition but can’t make out details of people beyond my own table. Everyone is looking up at the screen at the front of the room. Everyone is looking with eyes that work.
In an instant, my mind goes to the place I’ve been avoiding. A tsunami of grief swells inside me. Grief over my fear for a future with low vision. I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat and shove my worries back down. This is not the time to deal with them.
“Next, we’ll go over the race route,” the announcer continues. “The Great Superior Mail Run is the first of its kind, celebrating the pioneer mail carriers who, a century ago, delivered mail and news of the world to the isolated communities along the shore of this great lake. So, for the most part, the trail follows the original route along the sections of lake ice that are travelable.”
She puts up a map that I really wish I could see.
“We’re mixing traditional stage-stop-race formats with a section of a long-distance-race format for a total of three hundred and fifty-four kilometers, making us a qualifier for the Yukon Quest.”
Cheers break out from across the room as my insides tighten. That’s over two hundred miles.
The announcer continues describing the route. All the distances are in kilometers, but living in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, so close to Canada, I’ve gotten used to converting the mileage in my head.
When she mentions the last leg of the race is one hundred and eighty-one kilometers, though, I have to stop and think. That’s one hundred and twelve miles, which means at least ten hours on the trail. I knew this was going to be tough, but suddenly I worry. Mom’s confidence in the dogs and me has given me a false sense of security. Even though I’ve been racing dogs since I could walk, that’s a lot of miles to cover alone across unfamiliar terrain. It’s even more than the Midnight Run, which was ninety miles. And I did that when I could see.
“Officials will be keeping track of your racing times at all checkpoints. The times for all three legs of your race will be added together,” she continues. “And the musher with the best combined time wins.”
She finally looks up from her notes to see hands raised. “Yes?”
“How are the ice conditions?”
“Most of the ice is over eighty-five centimeters thick, so there’s plenty of it this year. But of course, that’s not uniform everywhere. Please stay on the marked trail. There are some areas around islands where ice is thin.”
Wonderful. I tend to see signs only if they’re right beside me, which means I’m usually past them by the time I see them. And while the ice on the trail will be nearly three feet thick, who knows how thin the ice might be if I stray off the trail?
“You might have noticed the windrows of ground ice in Whitefish Bay are over seven meters tall. But you won’t run into them out on the marked route. For the most part, the ice crossings are clear of obstacles. The Cascades will be the most challenging section of trail. We’ll keep you updated on trail conditions at each checkpoint.”
Wait. Back up. What’s the Cascades?
“Now for the interesting part,” the announcer says. “The mail.”
Applause from the crowd, and I join in.
Officials hand out old-fashioned canvas bags. Emma’s class already mailed their letters with the special Great Superior Mail Run envelopes. They went to the sorting post office. All letters we’re carrying had to be in the system and stopped at the post office here for us to pick up. Then we’ll haul the bags with us to the White River post office, the end of the race, where they will be stamped and put back into the regular mail.
When I’m given my mailbag, the weight of it surprises me. It has metal grommets along the top and a metal clip cinching it closed. Mom arranged it so I have the envelopes from Emma’s class. As far as she’s concerned, the whole point of my racing is to get the media coverage for Stargardt disease.
One particular morning keeps replaying in my mind. Em had made a joke. Mom was standing in the kitchen about ten feet from her and smiling. And when Emma said, “Are you smiling? I can’t tell if you’re smiling,” Mom had a complete meltdown. She didn’t come out of her room for hours, and when she did, her eyes were puffy and red. She wants a cure for this disease probably more than any person alive.
“The mail in these bags,” the announcer says, “is protected under federal law and so should be entrusted only to postal workers. Therefore, in order for you to carry this mail, you need to be sworn in and be designated as temporary letter carriers. So if I could get everyone to stand.”
It takes a moment. Once the noise of scraping chairs dies down, the crowd grows serious, as though the mention of a ceremony makes everyone feel a bigger responsibility. Everyone here has to make a commitment. But no one has more riding on the task of delivering the mail than me.
“Now raise your right hand and repeat after me. ‘I’—then state your name—‘do solemnly swear to protect the mail entrusted to me,’” the lady says.
The rest of the room repeats her words. The rumbling of voices reverberates through my body. There’s power in this, in standing here with my right hand raised and swearing to protect the mail that I have clutched in my left.
“‘And return it to the official postal representative on Tuesday afternoon at the White River post office.’”
We all repeat the words. And with that, I’m an official mail carrier. Carrying a letter that I have to deliver or my whole world will change.
October 23, 1896
Dear Uncle William,
You will never guess what has happened since you left. I lost a tooth. Sorry, it has a bit of mud inside I could not get out. Charlie stomped on it with his big hoof, but it did not break! So I am sending you my lucky tooth to help your journey. When you come home you can take me to see the diving horse. It jumps from a tower into the Toronto Harbour. Please write to me.
Love, Anna
Chapter 5
Stage one: Sault Ste. Marie to Batchawana Bay checkpoint
&n
bsp; 38 miles
The person who invented mass starts should be strangled slowly.
Obviously it was a non-musher who had the bright idea of making all the racers leave together. To begin, we have to lie on the ground next to our sleds, inside sleeping bags. Once the blare of the horn goes off—startling all the dogs—mushers have to spring out of their bags, jam their boots on, and start hooking up their teams. As if one screaming, frothing team of dogs at a time isn’t enough, the entire yard of dogs is clipped onto ganglines, right next to one another. The noise level builds until the crazed panic in the air sticks to everyone.
Definitely a spectator sport. I don’t know any musher who enjoys mass starts. So when I found out at the meeting that the race was going to have a mass start, I added it to the list of Reasons I Should Have Told Em No.
Now that the start is about to happen, I’m forced to admit I shouldn’t be doing this race at all. Thankfully, the sky is overcast. There’s a constant light without the variables of shadows, the kind of light my eyes like. So I can see pretty well.
But my other senses are assaulted.
The smell of the dogs’ nervous diarrhea, pee-soaked straw, and bloody chicken water, along with the smell of ripe mushers, hangs all around me. On top of that, I can almost taste the promise of snow on its way. The icy feel coats the air, making balls of frost form on the hair that sticks out from under my hat.
The mob of huskies creates a cacophony of noise—barking, howling, crying, yipping, growling. Mushers are yelling at their dogs, yelling to one another; spectators are laughing and shrieking. And above it all, I can actually tell each of my own dogs’ voices apart by the pitch of their frantic screaming. They’re telling me the reasons they need to go. Right now.
I agree. Let’s get out of here.
“Ten minutes to start,” Mom says. She’s holding Emma’s hand. Poor Em. Mom’s doing this in front of all the kids in Emma’s class, who were bused here to watch the start of the race, and half the city. And to add to our embarrassment, we’re parked right next to an enormous statue of anatomically correct cows. The female cow is sitting on the shoulders of the bull and her udders are hanging on either side of his head. It is very weird and tall and I try to ignore it and hope nobody is taking pictures of me with those horrifying pink udders in the background.
Dog Driven Page 2