Dog Driven

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “For a while now,” I begin, “I’ve had issues with my vision.”

  “What?” Mom pales. Stands up.

  “What kind of issues?” Dad says at the same time.

  Emma bites her lip.

  I feel impaled by spears of ice, but I keep going. “I wasn’t sure for a long time, that’s why I didn’t tell you. But just before the race started, I realized that I have Stargardt disease.” My voice trembles.

  “But how do you know? Could it be you just need glasses?” Dad asks. “That might be all it is.”

  We look at each other and pause. Time seems to slow down. I watch him study my face for the truth. I watch his emotions go from disbelief to uncertainty. From denial to defeat. I see the realization come over him that both of his daughters have this. I can tell the exact moment when it hits him. And it breaks me.

  It sweeps across his face, raw and real. His shoulders slump, his eyes turn red, he covers his head with his hands and folds in on himself. He begins to cry in deep gasping sobs.

  In all of the hundreds of scenarios of this moment I’ve envisioned, I had never considered my father reacting this way. I’ve always imagined how it would destroy my mom. Somehow, I hadn’t even been worried about my dad.

  I stare at him in shock. I’ve never seen my dad cry, not even when we got the news about Emma. It scares me so badly that for a moment I’m frozen. Then my throat closes up.

  This is happening so fast. We’ve only just started talking about it. It’s as if Dad already suspected . . . I finally realize something that I should have seen sooner. Dad has known all along. It was his fear that kept him from accepting it.

  It’s such a strange new thing for me to suddenly see him as a human rather than just my dad.

  Em’s hand snakes into mine. Mom seems shocked. She’s motionless for a breath, her face worn and heartbroken. And then she reaches a hand to Dad’s back. His shoulders shake and terrible strangled noises come out of him. He sounds like an animal in pain. I put my other hand on his knee. Dad reaches for me abruptly. He stands and pulls me up with him and wraps me in a bear hug. Then Emma squeezes in and Mom joins us.

  All four of us huddle together in our own bubble of grief.

  * * *

  The dogs needed tending to. I’m still in a race, after all. That was a good excuse to take some time away and collect my thoughts. By now we’ve all recovered a bit from the news bomb.

  Mom crunches over to me while I’m massaging Aspen. She’s carrying Em and sets her down. It galls me that she’s still doing that.

  “What I don’t understand is how,” Mom says. “It’s not fair both of you are affected. How could one family be so unlucky?”

  Anger flares up. “Mom. So we’ve got low vision. Whoop-de-do. There are worse things in life! We spend so much time worrying about what Em can’t do anymore when we should be thinking about what she can do. What I can do. And what a blind lead dog can do.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll have to talk about this more later. But for now, I just wanted you guys to know before I finished the race.”

  “If you think you’re finishing this race, you are sadly mistaken, young lady,” Mom says. She tries to sound stern, but I hear what she’s saying underneath her words. She’s so afraid for me.

  “Mom. I can do this. Look at how far I’ve come! And nothing has changed with my vision from when I first started. I’ve done almost the whole race like this and done well. I’ve more than done well. I’m winning, now that Harper has scratched.”

  I spare a thought for Guy, the other team ahead with me, but I don’t dwell on it.

  “I could win! And don’t forget, I promised I’d deliver the letters from Em’s class. Her whole class is counting on me. I am going to finish this.”

  “Beth,” Dad says softly. He reaches for her hand. “Remember what the doctor said when you asked about donating an eye?”

  My head shoots up. “What?” She tried to give Emma her own eye?

  “Sometimes, there is nothing we can do to help them,” Dad continues, speaking to Mom. “She needs to finish.”

  I turn to him. “I’m not pretending anymore. It is harder for me now. It doesn’t do any good to ignore that I have a vision impairment. Em and I both. And it’s not going to go away. We have to learn to live with it. We all have to learn. I think we need to go back to the counselor from the Blind Institute. We need help accepting this and learning how to live with it. Like in Em’s case, if she needs to use a cane, then she should learn how.”

  “I just don’t think it’s safe for you,” Mom says. “You have to face that there are things you can’t do.”

  “No,” I say. “And I’m going to prove it.”

  I put a hand on Emma’s shoulder so she knows I’m talking directly to her. “Yes, we’ve got low vision. And that’s okay. We can still do what everyone else does. We just do it differently.”

  Emma nods fiercely. “Go deliver my letter—”

  She’s interrupted by the sound of a team coming. The musher arrives at the checkpoint, and the timers race over to sign him in. When I hear his voice, my heart sinks. It’s Bondar. He isn’t that far behind after all.

  January 28, 1897

  Dearest Anna,

  I have been too busy to write since arriving in White River. I wanted to tell you about traveling here from Michipicoten. The beauty of the mountains, narrow gorges, and flat frozen bogs struck us. The dogs, being five and seventy pounds to ninety pounds each, together can pull more than Charlie! Now I will stay here until next summer . . .

  Regarding your wish to be an adventurer; I heard of a lady, Anna Jameson, who traveled with the voyageurs in the canoes! So I believe you can grow up to be whoever you want to be, regardless of your fair gender.

  Love, Uncle William

  Chapter 31

  As soon as our mandatory six hours of rest was over, both Guy and I set out from the Pukaskwa checkpoint together on the final run.

  That meant we started at two A.M., so it’s been several hours in the dark. But now the creeping morning light is illuminating the sky and brightening the trail. This weird warm weather has made the going hard. The dogs are cranky. I’d taken off their booties to keep them cooler, using wax instead to protect their feet. But they’re still hot.

  Everything is soggy and slushy, and the trail is punchy and soft. After all the crazy wind, the air is finally still. The wind must’ve blown in this warm front. But the biggest problem, according to Guy, is the blanket of fog.

  “I can’t see a thing in this soup,” he complains once we’ve pulled over to give the dogs a chance to cool off. “I can barely see past my leaders.”

  We’re in a stand of jack pine, judging from the smell in the air. They give off a distinct pine-pitchy odor. “I can barely see past my leaders every day. This is normal for me.” I notice that there’s fog in my peripheral vision, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it does him.

  A thought hits me. I give him a smug grin. “Don’t worry, Guy. I can be your guide team. You need an aid to get through this fog.”

  He gives me a slow smile.

  “If I can’t see what’s up ahead, I can’t warn Zesty,” he says. “But your leaders can see for themselves. I think it’s a good idea. Just till we get through this fog. After that, it’s back to racing, right?”

  I call up the dogs. “Agreed. Let’s go, Mustard. On by.”

  The dogs on both teams give one another good sniffs as they slowly pass on the narrow trail. They obviously remember the brawl, but that doesn’t seem to faze them in the slightest. All is forgiven.

  My mind reaches ahead to the problem of the day. The Cascades are up there somewhere. It’s become this larger-than-life thing, with the anticipation building these last four days. A shadow waiting in a corner of my thoughts. And now it’s finally here, about to be unveiled. I can at last see what I’m dealing with.

  We plod around a bend and trek our way over some rolling hills. The dogs cont
inually punch through the top crust of the trail. Our speed is reduced to a crawl. I struggle in the soupy mess just like them, trying to jog next to the sled. I keep tripping, sliding, falling, grabbing hold of the handlebar to pull myself up again. It’s like running in a bowl of oatmeal. Steam rises off my head when I take my hat off. Sweat runs into my eyes. I shed my anorak, and steam billows off my fleece jacket.

  Damp, sodden, listless weather. The trees appear soaked, black and wet. All around us in the woods, I hear the dripping of snow melting off branches. The runners make a wet hiss over the trail. Each time I lift a foot, my boot is heavy with sticky snow.

  We slip down one last little hill and then we begin to climb. On our left is a jagged rock wall decorated with glistening wet icicles and clinging green moss. The trail follows it upward.

  The chore of climbing is made even harder by how slow we’re going. I constantly have to wrestle with the sled. Guy was right. The slower you run, the harder it is to make the sled go where you want. My brush bow keeps banging into trees. I have to haul it off the tree and then shove it back onto the trail.

  Sumo struggles through the heavy snow. He’s going to overheat for sure today. I’m so impressed he’s made it almost the entire race. I feel a sense of pride as I realize that all of my dogs are going to get to the finish line now, even if I have to carry them in the basket. I will have finished this race without dropping a single one of them. I can’t wait to point that out to Mom. I don’t think she’s ever accomplished a race like this without a dropped dog.

  On the trail, Lizard and Damage slip but right themselves again. Then Sumo and Haze go down. I brace for it. The sled skids sideways on a patch of ice that lies hidden under a thin layer of snow. Once we’re across, the sled gains traction on the solid trail again.

  “Watch out!” I yell back to Guy. “I think we’re coming to the start of the Cascades.”

  On my left, the rockface we’re running beside disappears up into the fog. On my right, the cliff drops off. I cannot see how far down it falls. We’re kissing the edge of it. I hear water running.

  Mustard slips. Claws. Gets back on the trail. I angle to the left and dig the heel of my boot off the runner for grip. It helps to steer the sled over.

  We slip and skate over the ice that’s formed across the trail. It slopes to the right and then drops away. There’s just a chasm of air beyond my right runner. How far does it drop?

  Don’t think about it. I focus on the trail and where we are right now.

  The trail narrows as it hugs the rim. We’re still climbing, struggling slowly up. The icy section ends, and once more we’re on solid snow. Are we through? Is that it? After all the buildup. After everyone talking about this deadly spot for the entire race, it feels almost anticlimactic that I didn’t crash.

  No sooner have I let myself believe I’ve done it than I feel the sled slip again. “Another patch here!” I call over my shoulder.

  I haul on the handlebar, pulling it to the left to steer the sled. When the sled starts to skid, I lean far out over the left runner to pull the right runner up in the air, like I’m popping a wheelie. The left ski bites into the ice like an ice skate. I balance the sled on its edge as if I’m leaning out on a small sailboat with my pontoon skimming the water. The trick to heeling on the fine edge is not to let yourself get too far over either side.

  We cross the ice. I let the sled down. We hit another patch. I tip it up. Each time, I yell a warning out to Guy.

  I can tell when another patch of ice is coming by the dogs’ reaction. Plus, I can sense it. I don’t know how; my body just instinctively reacts to how the sled feels, the slight change in pitch from the runners. It’s exhausting and exhilarating and consumes my whole world at this moment.

  We crest the mountain and then the trail begins to descend. The angle is steeper going down than it was coming up. It seems Harvey was right. It’s one long run down.

  We skitter and clatter, building speed. I jump on and off the runners, angling, tilting, manhandling the sled. My arms burn from the exertion and tension. I’m glad it requires my full concentration. I don’t have time to freak out.

  We hit another patch of ice. This one is different. It continues on. We skid for several car lengths across. And still it continues. All exposed ice. Panic crashes through my chest. This is bad.

  Has the trail crew even been through here to look at this? With the warm weather, the ice has become ridiculous. The melt from the mountain drips and then freezes again once the air cools. The freeze and thaw with the weather this season created that perfect ice cave that sheltered us. And it created more and more ice on this trail. It’s now a full-on hazard, a slanted luge of death. How do they expect us to run dogs across this? It wouldn’t be so bad if it were flat, but with the angle, it’s insane.

  We’re almost across. The dogs tiptoe, using their claws to stay on the slick trail. My arms shake. My blood throbs with the effort. I can’t quite maintain balance the whole way. We touch down. Immediately the sled begins to slide. Once it starts, we slide faster. I can’t stop. We barrel toward the edge. The sled’s going to pull all the dogs with it.

  Sumo takes the weight of my free fall first. He slams into his harness.

  “Up, up, Sumo!” I yell, desperate. “Come on, boy!”

  He digs in. Leaning into it, he pulls with all his heart. The weight of the sled and my weight combined should be tugging him sideways, should be pulling us all down into the gorge. But Sumo somehow keeps the sled on course. He strains. He puts his head down and steamrolls forward.

  I’ve never been more glad about bringing a dog in my life. “Good boy, Sumo!” If not for him, the sled would be sliding off this mountain, dragging the smaller dogs with it.

  In my total focus, the end of the ice comes as a surprise. We glide to a stop on the solid snow of the trail. All the dogs immediately dive into the snow to take bites of it and cool their bellies.

  I sink to my knees beside them in relief and bury my face in Sumo’s ruff. “Good job! What a team!”

  I turn to see how Guy is doing. “It ends here!” I shout.

  That’s when I hear the yell. And then a horrible smashing noise.

  Chapter 32

  I can’t see anything behind me, just a wall of fog.

  With impatience, I tie my snub line to a tree and tell my team, “Wait here!”

  Frantically, I shuffle out over the ice patch and cup my hands around my mouth. “Guy? Where are you?”

  I hear the panting before I see them. Out of the fog, Guy’s dogs scramble toward me. I let out a breath in relief.

  But then the sled appears and there is no Guy.

  Zesty plows into me, adjusts her course, and continues past. I line up to catch the sled. Wheel dogs bearing down. Heartbeats count the seconds. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Lunge!

  I reach for the handlebar. It collapses under my weight. Both of the upright stanchions are busted and just hanging by the Velcro straps of the sled bag. I topple on top of it. Once the dogs hit the solid trail, they take off.

  I clutch the brake bar, bouncing on my stomach behind the broken sled. But all my time spent wiping out this season pays off. By now, I’m an expert at getting dragged. I reach out and sink the hook like I’ve done a million times. The team stops.

  I lie there, gasping for air. No time! I haul myself up.

  Quickly, I secure the sled and then race back toward the Cascades. My feet slip and slide in the mushy trail. My team is still happily lounging. Mustard has his feet crossed over each other as if he’s sunbathing on vacation.

  “Stay here,” I say with a wheeze as I run by. Still no sign of Guy.

  I creep over to the edge of the ice where it drops off the trail. “Guy? Guy! Where are you? I can’t see you, so you have to answer back!”

  “McKenna!” he yells from not too far below me. “My team!”

  Relief floods through me. “Yes, I caught them. Are you okay?”

  “You wouldn’t ha
ppen to have any eggs and turpentine would you?”

  Something between a laugh and a cry escapes me. Yup, he’s good. Still weird. “Can you get your sore muscles back up here?”

  “I might need a hand.”

  Slowly, guided by the sound of his voice, I find him. There’s nothing to grab hold of on the ice. I’m clinging to it by my fingernails. It’s like thick yellowish varnish over the whole trail, super-slick. How am I going to help Guy up?

  “Hang on,” I say, and I scrabble back to my sled. I find my ax and then, panting hard, skid back to the spot on the ice where Guy fell off. If I’m not careful, I’ll slip right off too, and then we’ll both be stuck. I whack the ax blade into the trail, then hang on to the handle with one hand and extend my other hand down.

  “Can you reach?” I ask. I feel his fingers touching the tips of mine.

  “Come closer,” he says.

  I slide my grip down the ax handle as far as I dare. It gets me another inch lower. Guy grasps my hand. He pulls. It’s as though I’m on a torture rack, both arms stretched wide.

  “Ungh!” Somehow, I hold on while my arm is practically pulled out of its socket.

  “Faster,” I say as my grip begins to slip down the handle. “Little faster, please!”

  Guy grunts and climbs until, at last, he appears beside me. We crawl off the ice and over to where my dogs wait. And then we collapse onto the snow. I roll over onto my back, blood thundering in my ears.

  “Good thing you’re blind or you’d have seen me pee my pants back there.”

  My arm flops over to smack him. “Good thing I’m strong, you mean. What do you weigh, like three hundred pounds?”

  “You’d make a good mail courier too. Stubborn like bull. Smart like fox.”

  We both sit up abruptly, as if remembering at the same time we’re in a race. Guy jogs over to check his team. I hear his dismay. “Oh no! My sled!”

  I join him. “We can repair it. The basket is still solid.”

  Guy glances past me down the trail we just came from. “There’s no time for that! We don’t know how much of a lead we have. But I can’t use it like this; there’s nothing to hold on to.”