I’M A REAL MUSHER

The morning after my wild ride behind King on the toboggan, I made a bold announcement at breakfast.

“I’ve decided I want to be a real musher,” I declared. “King and I are going to take over for Sergeant Preston and Yukon King when they retire. We’ll protect towns, chase down poachers, and stop the bad guys, just like on the radio show.”

Dad set down his coffee and gave me a look halfway between amusement and alarm.

“Get that out of your head, son,” he said gently. “You’re smart. You should go to college. Study accounting. That’s a solid job, every company needs a financial manager.”

“Accounting?” I frowned. “What’s that?”

He explained his job at the creamery, balancing the books, paying bills, making deposits, keeping track of profits and losses.

It sounded about as thrilling as counting snowflakes. In my mind, I was already racing across the Yukon, flying through the wind, King charging ahead, saving people, doing good, a hero in a fur-lined parka.

“Well,” I said with a shrug, “let’s see what happens. I’m too young to figure life out right now.”

That seemed to end the discussion, until I heard Dad mutter to Mom, just loud enough for me to hear:

“He’s been brainwashed by those comics and that Yukon King radio show. I think he really believes he’s going to be a superhero.”

Mom smiled softly. “Let him believe it,” she said. “Every kid should grow up thinking they can rise to any height imaginable. And when the time comes, they’ll choose the path that makes them happiest.”

I caught the drift. It felt good knowing she was on my side. She didn’t need to say it to me directly, I could hear her encouragement loud and clear. Take life one day at a time. I think it was Nanna who said that first, but Mom lived it.

Later that morning, I had an idea.

“Can I hitch King to the toboggan and ride to the store?” I asked. “I could pick up groceries, check the mail at the post office, and come right back.”

What I didn’t say was that this could be my first step toward becoming a real musher.

Dad raised his eyebrows. “Son, for heaven’s sake, you’re only three years old. That’s over two miles. You can’t go to the store alone.”

“But King and I already hiked there by ourselves, before the snow came. He knows the way.”

Mom thought for a moment, then offered a compromise. “Let’s do a test run. We’ll hook King up, and you can start the trip. We’ll follow in the Plymouth and see how it goes.”

Dad sighed. “This is nuts, Kay.” But she gave him that look, the one that could melt glaciers, and he caved.

“Okay,” he said. “One trial run.”

Mom smiled. She had a way of getting her way without raising her voice. I wanted to learn that skill, it felt like a superpower all its own.

I rigged King’s harness to the toboggan, heart pounding with excitement. Before climbing aboard, I bent down, hugged his neck, and whispered, “Take us to the store, Big Dog.”

He gave a sharp yip, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this command.

I thought of the song Mom had taught us when we first moved to Cotton Lake, the one about going over the river and through the woods. I changed the words as I whispered to King:

King knows the way, to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifted snow…

And off we went.

King surged forward, powerful and sure, snow flying in bright sprays behind him. The road was straight and well-packed, and behind us, the Plymouth trailed slowly, Mom, Dad, and Cathie watching every stride, every glide, every heartbeat of the journey.

But I wasn’t worried. King knew the way.

There was no chance of getting lost, not that day.

Every great adventure begins with someone telling you you’re too young, too small, or too foolish to try, and that’s how you know you’re on the right trail. That day on Cotton Lake, with King breaking a path through the snow and my parents following close behind, I learned something lasting: belief is the first step toward becoming. You don’t wait for the world to tell you you’re ready, you hitch up your courage, give the command, and mush into the unknown.