Let Loose (4 page)

After tapping the microphone with his finger
to regain our attention, Red swept the room with a smile and jerked
the blanket off the board. “The route,” he announced, gesturing
like a TV game show host toward the easel, “...starts at Moose
Creek campground.”

I beamed. I knew I’d had nothing to do with
the site selection, but still...

Red went on, talking about the other 350 or
so miles of the race course, the prize purse and miscellaneous
other information that obviously was nowhere near as important as
the new, much-improved location.

I glanced around, expecting everyone else to
be chomping at the bit for more details on what Moose Creek and my
road had to offer. But people seemed actually interested in
whatever it was Red was saying. I sighed and glanced at my phone.
The event was scheduled to continue for another two hours. I
checked out the beer tables, but they appeared to be closed until
Red finished his talk. I sighed and tried to look interested.

A hand went up.

“Isn’t that second leg over Reservoir
Ridge?”

Red glanced at the board as if he had no idea
what the questioner, a man wearing a Montana sweatshirt and a ball
cap, was referring to. “That’s one of the reasons we went with this
route. Reservoir Ridge is in excellent condition. Makes up for
other parts that will require a little work.”

“Cleaned up by the Skyers!” the man
shouted.

There was shifting in the crowd, people
sensing drama and looking for an exit.

I glanced at my source for all things
drama-related - Rhonda - but her face was as blank as mine. Betty,
however, was better informed.

“Snowmobile club,” she murmured. “They used
to keep up a lot of the trails, but last I heard their membership
was dwindling.”

Still feeling less-than-informed, I nodded
and tried to look knowledgeable.

The Skyers representative shook his head.
“You’re going to have to change your route. We aren’t giving up our
trail.”

Red placed his hand over the microphone and
stepped to the side. It was easy to see this wasn’t a conversation
he wanted to have in front of dog and everybody. “We can talk about
this later, Frank.”

“No need to talk.” Frank crossed his arms
over his chest. A small blonde woman with him tugged at his elbow,
but he ignored her, keeping his gaze on Red.

Someone else in the crowd called out, “The
State gave us permission, right, Red? Nobody who isn’t part of the
race is going to be using that trail for a week. Noisy snowmobilers
can go somewhere else.”

A new rumble made its way through the group.
I glanced around, weighing the promise of free beer against the
possibility of getting caught in the middle of some kind of
snowmobile/sled dog rumble.

“It’s the middle of the season.”

“Who said that about snowmobiles? Doesn’t he
know half the club owns them?”

“Red’s pulled something. No doubt about
that.”

The grumbling continued until I was 90
percent on ditching the free beer and heading for the door.

Martin, however, stepped forward and took the
mic from Red, quieting things down. “Red’s right. We don’t want to
talk about all of this here. We’re here to raise money, drink beer
and stay warm, but mostly, we’re here for the dogs!” He raised his
hand and pointed at his three huskies.

On cue, they started to howl.

There was a moment of silence as the group
decided how to react, then slowly a collective chuckle started in
the back corners and flowed through the space until everyone, with
the possible exception of the snowmobiler Frank, was laughing.

Tension broken, Red took the mic back and
waved for the crowd to head for the beer.

The man was singing my song.

I gave Betty a quick extra congratulatory hug
and headed to the closest beer line.

Frank, the Skyer who had objected so publicly
to Red’s announcement, stepped in front of me. I stopped short to
avoid a collision and watched, more than slightly annoyed as he
continued on his unapologetic way to intercept Red as he stepped
off the stage.

Still miffed, I got my sample-sized beer and
positioned myself where I could listen covertly to their
conversation. It wasn’t just that I was nosy. I had a true interest
in what happened. I’d already been thinking of ways to capitalize
off of the race. My garage was right on the road. It would be the
perfect place to play hostess to race goers with free coffee and,
of course, a fine selection of Western antiques and collectibles
for sale.

Rhonda, soul sister that she was, sidled up
beside me and took a sip of her beer.

Their conversation was quiet, but heated.
Frank waved his hands in the air more than once, gesturing in the
general direction of, I guessed, the part of the trail in question.
Red shrugged and seemed unconcerned. Finally, he just walked off,
leaving the other man behind to sputter.

Betty disappeared for a moment before
returning with her original poster rolled up and tucked under her
arm. “Who’s ready to blow this dogsicle stand?”

I looked over the room, again weighing
staying against going. The one beer I’d tried had been good, but
not enough to go back for seconds, and the other lines were much
longer. Patience was not my biggest virtue.

“I have wine at my place,” Rhonda offered.
“And beer.”

I appreciated her offer, but I knew once I
got my rig warmed up, I wasn’t going to be getting out of it again
until it was tucked inside my garage.

“I’ll just head home,” I replied, feeling a
bit forlorn and let down. I had so looked forward to tonight, but
the episode with the Skyers had drained all the fun out of it. “Do
you think they’ll move the race?” I asked to no one in
particular.

Betty answered. “No. Red won’t let that
happen, and any other year Frank wouldn’t make such a fuss.”

Rhonda looked at her with question marks in
her eyes. I probably did too.

“The Skyers have had a rough year,” Betty
explained. “Twelve snowmobiles have been stolen since October.
Three from Frank last weekend. Losing that trail is just sour notes
on top of bad brass.”

I’d read about the snowmobile thefts, but not
paid much attention to them. It wasn’t like someone was out
stealing something that really mattered, like dogs.

“He can’t blame the Silver Sledders for
that,” I objected.

Rhonda tapped the side of her empty cup.
“Well, fewer snowmobiles does mean fewer snowmobilers on the
trails.”

“Are you suggesting...” I slid my gaze to Red
who stood a few feet away, laughing and drinking.

Rhonda lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know,
but I bet I’m not the only one to have thought of it, especially
with the Silver Sledders getting the Skyers banned from the
trail.”

Red and the two sled dog fans he’d been
talking to turned to face us. My face flushing, I set down my cup
and tried to look like Rhonda, Betty and I had not just been
discussing the possibility that he and his club might be thieving
sneaks.

We stood in awkward silence for another few
minutes until Gary Richards, the photographer from
The Helena
Daily News
, tapped Betty on the shoulder and asked her to pose
for a few more shots with her winning poster.

While Betty was posing, I noticed Martin
gathering up his dogs and heading out. He was making an early night
of it, but after his stay in the campground, my guess was he was
eager to get to somewhere with running water, heat, and, most
importantly, TV.

Normally I would have stuck around to pull
gossip from Gary on what was happening at my previous employer, but
the tension of the night combined with my still healing back were
getting to me. I pressed my fingers to my temples, murmured
something about a headache coming on, and then wound my way through
the beer lines toward the door.

On the way out, I passed the Skyer again. He
was talking on his cell phone and it was obvious he wasn’t
happy.

As I drove home, I stewed over the conflict a
bit. There had never been a war in Helena that I knew of, but as
I’d walked by Frank, I’d picked up bits of his conversation like
“underhanded” and “dishonest” and I knew one had to be brewing. In
general, I hated conflict. It was actually a bit of a weakness of
mine, but I hated this one even more because it took away some of
the joy I’d had at learning that the race was going to take place
on my road.

I was even weighing ways I might help patch
things up. I knew some snowmobilers, everyone did. Maybe I could
talk to some of them and they could talk to Frank, or maybe I could
use my newspaper connection. A nice write up on the Skyers might go
a long way to smoothing ruffled feathers.

As I approached the campground I was rolling
this around and obviously not paying as much attention to the road
as I should have been. As I came around the bend, I was startled by
a truck barreling down the road toward me. Realizing I’d drifted
into the center, directly into the truck’s path, I jerked my
steering wheel to the right and then just as quickly did another
correction to the left.

I didn’t want to hit the truck, but I didn’t
want to wind up in a snow bank on a night when temps were sure to
drop to the minus teen range.

The truck and whoever was driving it barreled
on, not acknowledging my near crash in any way.

I stopped, hands gripped on the steering
wheel and glared in my rearview mirror at the retreating tail
lights.

Some people really needed lessons on living
in a society with rules... and manners. Actually, I’d have been
happy with just the manners.

Two days later, I awakened to find that some
kind of tropical heat wave had passed over Montana, raising our
temps to a full 5 degrees above zero.

I celebrated with a cheese Danish and Diet
Pepsi with milk before settling down on the couch to watch the
morning news. I’d been there barely long enough to wonder what made
the local anchor think pink ruffles ala bridesmaid nightmare was a
good look, when the world outside my walls erupted in howls.

I sprang to my feet and, much like a certain
gent in his cap, raced to the window to see from what arose such a
clatter.

The answer was simple. Dogs. Not just
dog/Kiska. And not dogs nicely contained by leads like Martin’s had
been a few days earlier.

No, these dogs were running free, bouncing
down the road, howling and in general making my still
fence-confined malamute miserable.

My first instinct was to curse whoever let
their dogs loose to torment mine. Then I caught a flash of red and
realized all four of the dogs that I could see from my window were
wearing sled dog harnesses.

I knew Martin wouldn’t let his dogs go like
this. No self-respecting husky owner would. And Martin was just
too... cute to not be responsible and self-respecting.

Which meant I was once again going to have to
venture out in the subarctic conditions still dressed in my
jammies.

Life was excessively unfair.

Five minutes later, I was swaddled in down
and trundling down the hill. This time, however, I’d also brought a
stash of hot dogs and the keys to my Jeep.

Kiska, with a nose that rivaled a
bloodhound’s when hot dogs were in play, quickly deserted his new
friends and charged toward me. I dodged his advance and slipped
into the garage unaccosted. Once inside, I took a moment to catch
my breath and laid my trap. Luckily, I kept the back seats of the
Jeep flat most of the time. So I only had to open the back hatch
and seed the flattened area with hot dogs. Then I hit the button to
my garage door and stepped into the road.

Eight dogs stopped mid-frolic and turned.
Faced with so many furry grins, I hesitated for a moment. Then I
thought of what would happen if I didn’t catch the runaway
team.

I was a dog person. Dog people don’t ignore
stray dogs. They save them. I really had no choice. It was dog
lover law.

Cautiously, I raised my arm and waved my sole
remaining hot dog. Then I tossed it into the back of my Jeep and
got the hell out of the way.

The dogs rushed toward me like eight
miniature freight trains. Freight trains with exemplary reflexes
that allowed them to switch course mid-air as they leapt from the
road into the back of my Jeep.

Sniffing, scrambling and snarling ensued.

I rushed forward, arms outstretched, and
slammed the rear gate closed. The snarling stopped for all of a
second as eight heads turned toward me. Then just as quickly
another hot dog was spotted and the ruckus resumed.

I watched through the window, assuring myself
the noises coming from inside were not as horrifying as they
sounded. After a few seconds, the snarling stopped again and the
dogs seemed to relax, at least some. They wandered around, sticking
their noses in every space and cranny, occasionally finding some
item of extreme interest like an empty fast food bag or tissue that
might or might not have been previously used.

Confident the worst was over, I opened the
driver’s side door, wedged my body into the driver’s seat and
slammed the door shut behind me as quickly as I could.

Huskies secure in my Jeep and Kiska howling
and complaining in my yard, I put my rig in reverse and went to
look for their surely distressed owner.

Driving with a team of unrestrained sled dogs
was a bit of an adventure. As I backed into the road with the
Jeep’s nose pointed toward town, one particularly feisty female
made her dominance known by snapping and baring her teeth at the
other passengers.

Two males seemed especially determined to
make their way into the front passenger seat, but she held them off
- easily.

At her snap, I and one of the males flinched.
The other, a youngster that had apparently not been completely
schooled in the rules of dogdom, charged forward anyway.