We’re on a Mission From Dog in Our Mercedes-Benz Sprinter
We take our yearlong test Sprinter van on a heart-wrenching journey to save some beagles.
“Let me get this straight,” said my boss, MT executive editor Mac Morrison. “You want two weeks out of the office to drive a bunch of dogs halfway across the country? Why the heck would I say yes to that?” (He didn’t say heck, but rather a word that rhymes with “truck.”)
“It’s only ten days,” I said. “And you should say yes because it’s a funny story. I’ll be crossing the Continental Divide in the dead of winter with a van full of beagles. Ever drive with a beagle, Mac? They howl nonstop. It’s going to be miserable. I could slide off the road into a snowdrift and have to feed my own arm to the dogs. It’ll be hilarious.”
“Ten days,” he said. “Even at the speed you write, you could do five stories that’ll get five million times as many pageviews.”
“Yeah, but none of them would include my long-term Mercedes Sprinter van,” I said. “Come on, Mac. You know I’m going to keep asking until you either say yes or fire me. And you can’t fire me this week, because Seabaugh and Evans are on vacation.”
“I’m not gonna—oh, you know what, just hecking go.” (Hecking wasn’t … well, you know.)
Let’s Go Save Some Dogs!
And so it was that I found myself in the Sprinter together with friend and fellow car writer Jeff Zurschmeide, zipping 1,670 miles from Los Angeles to Omaha, or at least as close to zipping as we could get. The van was freshly shod with Blizzak winter tires, a generous gift from friends at Bridgestone eager to see the beagles safe, and their squidgy newness was magnified by the brisk winds against the Sprinter’s tall sides. Still, Zursch and I were all smiles as we took turns sawing away at the wheel: two good friends, a cache of junk food with caloric value sufficient to heat a small Vermont town, and the prospect of adventure ahead of us. All I had to do was make it funny.
You can read a full explanation of Operation Frodo here, so I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version: There’s a glut of beagles in the Great Plains, where they are bred for hunting, and excess dogs are heartlessly dumped or even killed by owners and puppy-mill breeders alike. The local rescues struggle to keep up, and yet there’s a waiting list for these dogs in the Pacific Northwest. My friend Nik Miles—car journalist, beagle enthusiast, Portlandian—got the idea to move unwanted dogs from Omaha, Nebraska, to Oregon with volunteer car writers driving and cars and funding provided by the automakers. The resulting stories, he hoped, would raise awareness of (and money for) the dogs’ plight.
The first Operation Frodo in 2022 relocated three beagles (one called Frodo, hence the name) and was nearly derailed by a blizzard in Wyoming. This year there were 23 dogs with homes waiting in Utah, Oregon, and Washington, which is why I figured a man with a van might be of some use.
The Dandy Van(dy) Comes in Handy
The Blizzaks were nicely worn in by the time Zursch and I met up with the other Operation Frodo volunteers in Omaha. We headed for a local PetSmart to pick up dogs and accoutrement, the Sprinter towering above SUVs provided by sponsors Ford, Hyundai, Genesis, Kia, and Subaru, all fueled with gas paid for by Nissan.
As the Sprinter quickly filled with luggage, donated toys, and supplies, I started to fret about running short on space for, y’know, dogs. I had five canines to carry in the Sprinter, two adults named Henry and Buddy and three puppies, Mercedes, Nexo, and Elantra. The pups were part of a group of eight adorable four-month-olds, all named in honor of our sponsors, that were dumped on Basset and Beagle Rescue of the Heartland by a breeder as unsold inventory. I strapped the big puppy kennel behind the Sprinter’s rear crew bench, tied Buddy’s crate onto the seat itself, and found just enough space for Henry’s kennel between the puppies and the luggage. Perfect.
It was a chaotic scene as the foster families said goodbye. A 13-year-old girl had been cuddling Mercedes most of the day; this was her first foster, and she was crying as she put the puppy into the kennel. Her parents started crying, and then I started crying, too. Keep it light, I told myself. You promised Mac a funny story.
The Weather Turns Against Us—And It Isn’t Snow
Jeff abandoned me for one of the SUVs, and I was joined by Jim Trainor, a recently retired public relations exec. We hadn’t talked in ages, and it seemed we weren’t about to start, because Henry was registering his discontent at being kenneled by howling like a foghorn. At our first rest stop, Henry was happy to be out of the van (as was Jim, I suspect), but then Elantra, smallest and most timid of the puppies, slipped her new harness.
“Loose dog!” I yelled. A four-month-old puppy should be easy to catch; just spread your arms and look happy to see them. But Elantra was scared witless, cowering and running. What the hell happened to these puppies? I wondered. We finally corralled Elantra in one of the puppy pens, and once all the bipeds and quadrupeds had a chance to relieve themselves, we saddled back up.
Instead of trying to shout over Henry, Jim and I brought the pup up front with us, and he proved an excellent co-co-pilot. I should have been noting every detail and savoring every nuance, because that’s how one turns a boring highway drive into a compelling article. But Jim and I were no longer divided by his obligation to keep corporate secrets and mine to ferret them out, and the hours passed in easy conversation, two old friends catching up on lost years.
I was so engrossed that I barely noticed the wind picking up until the Sprinter got belted by a gust strong enough to trigger the Mercedes’ Crosswind Assist. Rattled, we passed an 18-wheeler that had been blown clear off the highway, and then another. We texted the rest of the group: The Sprinter can’t keep the same pace as the SUVs in this wind. This was potentially problematic, since all the rest-stop paraphernalia—pens, bowls, water—were in the van. But as the sun descended, the wind died down, Henry curled up in Jim’s lap, and we made it to Denver just minutes behind the rest of the convoy.
Have Puppy Kindergarten, Will Travel
Arrival at the hotel was chaos: Half the room keys didn't work, and a team of snowboarding brats had made off with the luggage carts. Having heard how Henry howled, I elected to take the trio of puppies for the night. They cowered as I fished them out of their kennel, but as I set up the puppy pen, they turned my room into a playground, jumping up on the couch and using the nightstand as a bridge to the bed. I tossed dog toys around the room, and my trio of pups started to see me, if not as an ally, at least as less of a threat.
Elantra eventually curled up on a pillow a few wary feet from me, but Mercedes and Nexo were ready to party into the night. I hadn’t brought their kennel to the room, so I lowered them into the pen while Elantra and I snoozed. Next thing I knew, Nexo was standing over me, tail wagging, proud as can be of his escape. I hoisted Mercedes onto a pillow, and she conked right out, snoring softly. Nexo plopped on top of her and put his head on my shoulder, making me part of the puppy pile.
I woke just before my alarm to find myself nose-to-nose with Mercedes and holding one of Elantra’s dainty front paws in my hand. Charles Schulz was right: Happiness really is a warm puppy. I had three dogs at home and no desire to add a fourth, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get attached. Already I was failing miserably.
Paul Gets a Dog
After a breakfast and a vigorous morning poo—on the part of the puppies, that is—Buddy went off to another car while Henry, the puppies, and I were joined by journalist Paul Eisenstein and an easygoing beagle-basset mix named Melvyn, with whom Paul had fallen hopelessly in love. Paul was ready to adopt Melvyn, but that morning brought news that he’d already been promised to a family in Portland (er, Melvyn, that is, not Paul). Paul was heartbroken, as was I. Though infamous among his colleagues for his gruff manner and seven-part questions at press conferences, friends know him as a soft-hearted animal lover who lavishes the finest care on his pets. I pled passionately to Nik on Paul’s behalf. “I’ll talk to the rescues,” Nik said, “but don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”
As we headed for Salt Lake City, I braced for snow, secretly hoping for a mild blizzard that would give the all-wheel-drive Sprinter and its Blizzaks the shot at glory I wanted for my story. There was plenty of snow, but it had all been blown clear off the road. Signs warned of 55-mph crosswind gusts and advised high-clearance vehicles under 40,000 pounds to stay put. Unsure whether or not that applied to the Sprinter, we proceeded slowly and cautiously. I counted four stability control interventions, two from the bow-waves of the even-slower-moving trucks we passed and two from broadside gusts. This was going to be a long day.
At lunch, word came from Nik: There’s news for Paul. Melvyn, it turns out, had a brother named Fred, also at the Omaha rescue, who was the family’s first choice but wasn’t ready to travel in time for Operation Frodo. Nik had struck a deal: If Paul could get Fred to Portland by Christmas, Melvyn was his. This was the first time in our years-long friendship that I’d seen Paul at a loss for words.
“I’ll do it,” Paul stammered, his eyes filling up with tears. “I’ll do anything.” And wouldn’t you know it, I started crying, too. In fact—and never thought I’d ever have cause to string the following words together—there wasn’t a dry eye in the truck stop. I was happy for Paul but ecstatic for Melvyn, who had just won the lottery: a lifetime of love and top-notch care. Without Operation Frodo, what would his future have been? Probably nonexistent.
Don’t Get Attached Don’t Get Attached Don’t Get Attached
Our arrival in Salt Lake City was calmer, with Paul and Melvyn taking off in a rented car for Detroit to Melvyn’s new home and other journos flying in to join us. My puppies were letting their personalities show. Mercedes was playful and a little aggressive, happy to pick a fight over a toy. Nexo, cute enough to star in a puppy calendar, was a natural born napper. Elantra continued to do her own thing, but she was warming up to me. If I was going to take one of them home… no, no, I reminded myself, I can’t think like that.
Day 3, and we were bound for Boise, Idaho, in 40-degree temperatures with light rain. The posted speed limit fell to 80 mph, and I could finally keep pace with the SUVs. I’d love to brag about the Sprinter’s 21-mpg fuel economy, but high speeds and steep mountains were dropping the diesel down into the teens. Joining me and my dogs—damn, I had to stop thinking of them that way!—was yet another old friend, journalist Bev Braga. She was shepherding Seltos and Ascent, two happy and well-adjusted puppies who were eager to jump out of their crate and lick whatever face was granting them freedom. That same change was coming over my guys: When we stopped for breaks, they showed an increasing interest in exploring this big, new world.
It was an easy drive to Idaho, and I now had the hotel routine down pat, but when the alarm rang on the morning of our last day together, the puppies seemed as reluctant to get going as I was. Mercedes rested her chin on my arm and tried to wrap herself around my wrist like a bracelet. Nexo slumped against my leg while Elantra crawled over my shoulder and curled up with her nose touching mine. Were these the same dogs who cowered in the kennel just days ago? I knew they’d need lots of care and love, but I also knew they were going to be OK. I was proud of my small part in getting them to a good home, and heartbroken that I would likely never see them again. I barely noticed the tears until Elantra started licking them off my face.
But then there was a noise outside, and shy little Elantra, who I had not heard utter so much as a whimper, jumped up and started braying like an air-raid siren. I was stunned out of my sadness—how can so much noise come out of so little a dog?—and grateful for the reminder that these beagles would be fine in a home other than mine.
More Wind, More Tears
The drive to Portland was unexpectedly beautiful as we followed Lake Umatilla and the Columbia River toward the Rose City. I figured this for a quick, easy day, but then I saw a wind farm up ahead, blades spinning like egg beaters. Uh-oh. The gusts picked up, and I found myself wrestling both the van and my emotions. I knew from the start I’d have to separate from the puppies. Why did I let myself get attached?
We pulled into Beaverton Kia, which hosted our arrival and laid on quite the reception, and I tried to think of anything else as I took my puppies for one last potty-walk before lifting them into the massive play pen. This was the goodbye I had been dreading for days. Mercedes barely paid me any mind; she was off mixing with the dogs and new people, and I knew she’d be fine. Elantra pinned herself to my side, which elicited a pang but no surprise. But Nexo—Nexo, who was doing so well!—glued himself to my lap, frightened by the new people and the noise. He needs me. I should talk to the rescue folks, I should—
I should get out of here. I have to let go.
Home Is Where Your Dog Is
That evening I found myself back where I began, in the van with Jeff, running him home to Tillamook, Oregon, where I’d spend the night before driving home solo to Los Angeles. The junk food was gone, and so was our elation. I was tired, and I was changed in a way I still can’t quite put my finger on.
Jeff let me in on something Nik told him just that afternoon, something I’m glad we didn’t know when we started our journey. That batch of four-month-old puppies that included Elantra, Nexo, and Mercedes? If the Omaha rescue hadn’t taken them, the breeder was going to shoot them.
The day-and-a-half drive home to L.A. seemed to take minutes, and I parked the van, 4,635 miles after picking up Jeff at Burbank Airport. My own dogs were ecstatic to see me after ten days, but they’re equally ecstatic when I’ve been gone for ten minutes. That’s what makes dogs so wonderful, and thanks to Operation Frodo 2024, 23 more dogs will bring that joy into people’s lives. And there’s a lot more of that love out there, just waiting for a home.
I failed to deliver the funny story I promised Mac, but I know that when OpFrodo 2025 kicks off, I’ll be back to have my heart broken again.
For More on Our Long-Term 2024 Mercedes-Benz Sprinter:
- Our New Pickup Truck Is... A Van?
- Off-Roading in the Sprinter—There Is No Turning Back
- This Van Is a Pretty Great Pickup Truck
- Our AWD Sprinter is Kind of a Pain in the Ass
After a two-decade career as a freelance writer, Aaron Gold joined MotorTrend’s sister publication Automobile in 2018 before moving to the MT staff in 2021. Aaron is a native New Yorker who now lives in Los Angeles with his spouse, too many pets, and a cantankerous 1983 GMC Suburban.
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