“Yeah,” he says, as sarcastic as possible for a Canadian.
“I’m here for the full experience,” she says. “Almost the full experience. I won’t drink the tap water, because I don’t need dysentery. You?”
“Huh?” the driver asks.
“We’re good,” I interject. “Thank you!”
“I aim to make love to that man,” Kathi whispers.
“No, you don’t,” I whisper back. “You’re busy.” I point out the window to the landscape.
Kathi turns to the sight of the snowy hills, smiling, beaming. She’s so wrapped in furs and down, I’m doubtful anyone will recognize her, and out here in brilliant sunshine, pure white snow all around us, fresh air and uncertainty ahead, I’m not even sure I recognize us. We’re in a strange and rare black hole of anonymity and raw living. There are no agendas here, no publicists trying to shuffle us around, no agents or attorneys telling us what to do, where to go. Even me—with my rigidity and reluctance—I’m at Kathi’s mercy, following her lead. And Kathi, a woman who has traveled the world already—more than once—who’s practically seen it all, is finally going to be able to say she’s indeed seen everything, the thing, in fact. That she’s finally seen the aurora borealis with her own eyes. She’s finally able to be a random citizen of planet earth and enjoy a simple pleasure, the not-so-little act of crossing a big goal off of her bucket list. She looks at her watch, seconds moving slower than ever in their march to dark skies and those beautiful lights.
“When we arrive,” Kathi says to the driver, “don’t stop. Just slow down and we’ll throw our bodies out of the car.”
I say, “No, sir. Please come to a complete stop.”
“I’m so excited!” Kathi yells. “Cockring, we must be present.”
“I can be present and also not dive out of a moving vehicle.”
“Where are your battle scars?” she asks.
“Where are yours?” I argue back.
“Mine are internal,” Kathi says, raising her eyebrows, challenging me to a duel.
“You win,” I say, gloved hands up.
She grabs my hand and we look ahead as we arrive at our destination.
As the SUV leaves, having properly deposited us at the unmarked gates to a dogsledding adventure land, we’re able to hear the dogs—barking, yelping, anxious. We can see them in their kennels, pacing, mirroring the disquietude inside Kathi Kannon, who’s itching to do anything to distract herself from the slow passage of time and the bane of her existence: waiting.
There’s a buzzer at the gate and Kathi pushes it once, twice, three times.
“Give ’em a second,” I say.
Kathi grips the vertical beams of the gate, holding them and thrashing back and forth. “HELLO!” she screams. “I WANT THE DOGS!”
“When has your screaming ever worked?” I ask.
And then, click, the gates start to swing open, Kathi marching inside, not even bothering to turn to me as she says, “Screaming works nearly every time, actually.”
A handsome man, tall and bearded, is approaching us, and even through his thick coat and gloves you can see he’s pure muscle.
“Hi and welcome,” he says. “I’m Matt.”
“I’m deeply in love with you and your body, Matt. I’m Kathi and this is my stepson, not my lover. I have no lover. I’m single. Available, some might say. Some might also say I’m deft, open, supple.”
Matt looks at us a moment, then raises his eyebrows and nods. “Alrighty, then. Let’s get you geared up.”
The dogs get a little quieter one by one as Matt walks past their kennels. It’s clear they know he’s the leader, each of them trained on him, waiting for him to give a command, to say something they’ll recognize, to call them out and signal that their time has come to run, run, run.
The dogs are gorgeous, mostly white fur, a few of them with dazzling blue eyes. They’re tall and muscular and focused.
“I have a dog named Roy,” Kathi says to Matt, motioning to his animals. “Roy is back at our hotel. He wouldn’t leave without a proper coat, which is impossible to find. Want to come back and meet him?”
“I’ve kinda got a full day,” Matt says politely.
“Roy is very similar to your dogs in terms of, sort of, having dog qualities.”
“You have an Alaskan husky?”
“Well,” Kathi says, “he’s definitely husky.” Kathi looks to me to help, but I shake my head no.
Ahead of us is a sled, the sled, our sled. It’s steel and shiny, unpainted, with clearly visible seams where it’s been welded together as if from scraps. It’s a simple frame, like a go-cart with no wheels. There’s no floor, only a spot for one person to sit and prop their legs up, and a spot on the back where someone stands and holds on to a little safety bar, or, in this case, what appears to be the suggestion of a safety bar.
“How did you find these people?” I ask.
“Concierge,” she says.
“What’s their Yelp rating?” I ask.
“What’s Yelp?” Kathi looks at the sled suspiciously and turns to Matt. “Do you offer a model with a seat warmer?”
“Or one with a steering wheel?” I add.
Matt laughs. “It’s easy to handle. These dogs know the path. Just let them lead you along. There are no reins to pull or jiggle to make them go faster or slower; these guys only know one speed: run. The only control you need is the brake.”
Matt stands on the back of the sled and pushes his foot down on a sliver of metal that looks like an afterthought, a leftover hunk of steel, something stuck on by mistake. His foot pushes it into the snow. “If there’s an emergency and you need to stop, just step down on this. Step hard, so it goes into the snowpack. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the dogs will stop.”
“Wait,” I say as Matt walks away. “You’re not riding with us?”
As Matt starts to explain, Kathi grabs my shoulders. “We don’t need him! We can do this! You can do this!” She releases me and turns to Matt. Pointing to me, she says, “This ride is part of a trust exercise his psychiatrist says will help make him more comfortable coming out of the closet. You know what I mean?”
Matt nods politely. “I’ll be right back. I’ll go get you some dogs,” he shouts as he walks away. I turn to Kathi.
Looking at the sled, still unsure how to board it, I ask, “Who’s driving?”
Kathi says, “I am.”
I playfully bow and extend my arm toward her chariot. Kathi climbs on back, gives the brake a little tap with her foot. “Get in, Cockring. Let’s risk our lives!”
With uncertainty, I squeeze onto the sled, my legs resting on a couple of wayward steel bars so they’re off the ground, my body snug in the seat. I’m forced to look straight ahead, at miles and miles of frozen white pasture, framed by tall and stately evergreen trees and powder-blue skies—even the heavens look frozen.
Waiting for Matt to bring the dogs, I realize that for the first time since we landed in Yellowknife, I’m sitting still. I feel the icy breeze on my face. And as I lay my hands in my lap and wait for this to get going, I feel the strangest sensation of being present, of being in the moment, not hours or days ahead with dreams of Reid or nightmares of tomorrow, not months or years in the past with regrets about my parents or my news career. I’m here. And I’m with my hero, her snow boots snug against my ass.