The Ghost of a Husky

It's been awhile since I've been on my bike. So long, actually, that I've forgotten my bike's name. I know I named my bike at some point. I have a few very vivid memories about mountain biking from my naturalist days in the Santa Cruz mtns. One would be Wren telling me how great her new clip in pedals were. I still think of that, every time I am trying to climb single track and I choke going towards a log I know I can ride over, and I would have to clip out, if I had ever bought those awesome new clip pedals and shoes that I still, one day, probably will buy. For the power. And yeah, I'll probably fall down more once I do.

The second vivid biking memory is when Swamp told me the name of his bike. It was Nimbus, I do believe. I decided at that moment, in order to even have a chance at defeating Swamp in the bike portion of the triathalon, that I must also name my bike. Actually, it had nothing to do with beating him in the race, but everything to do with making me seem cooler in the eyes of, well, me. And yeah, I didn't beat him in that portion. As a matter of fact I think he won the whole damn thing. But hell, he was riding a high geared touring bike, and I only got second cause I was a better swimmer and had slicks and a higher geared crank set for my mountain bike.

I decided, yesterday, to get on board old what's-his-name, do some memorial day appreciation of the forest I live in, see how the old legs were holding out. Did some climbing, did some walking, did some dismounting for little tiny logs I should have easily conquered. Rode across a couple of bridges I have balked at before, did a couple of short tiny jumps just to see how it felt. Tried to ride down a set of wide, long stairs that were almost a hill anyway, and managed to scare myself into grabbing the brakes halfway down. Which only resulted in being awkward and uncomfortable, not painful, because I was already going slow out of fear. If there is one mantra I have while biking and trying to be tricky about it, it is "Speed is your friend". It's the same mantra I always forget until after I stop and yell at myself for being a wuss. Abbey always looks at me funny when I yell at myself. Here's a picture of Abbey looking at me funny.

So I ride my bike for a while. I remember the wonders of pedals and moving fast. The breeze blows in my eyes, the dust kicks up behind me, the trees blur into a green river. As I ride along the low road past Camp One a Great Blue Heron (GBH BFD) takes off in the beaver pond and flies towards the end of the pond, headed in the same direction I am. I smile, and pedal a bit faster, realizing I am keeping up with the beautiful bird. It perches on a downed tree for a moment, and I slow to check it out. It immediately takes off again and I feel a bit bad for disturbing it's late afternoon time. Probably it was doing some fishing, enjoying the peace and quiet, and I have to come zooming in like some vicious predator, out to eat it or at least ruin it's relaxation. Same with the kingfisher I saw today. Didn't appreciate me and the work truck driving by, had to fly around in a tizzy, looking for a perch to dissappear onto. I wish there was a way to tell the birds to chill, I just want to watch them for a bit. But then, I guess my dog would eat them.

After a bit of climbing, my lungs have had it on the hill, and I decide one good push was enough, time to head home, do it again in a day or two. I turn around and head down the same single track I just climbed. About halfway down I realize I feel great again and I am having a blast. I take a turn at the bottom of the trail, away from home, and do another small climb and some flat riding along the creek on the camp road. I stop at the dog hole and encourage Abbey to take a drink and fetch a few sticks in the deep pool. She does so, and I am just about sure, at this point, that she will sleep well tonight. Not only did she get a good 6 miles of running in just now, but she spent at least half the day down at the river swimming holes hanging out with random groups of people, who I am sure were introducing her to their own dogs and throwing sticks for her. It was Memorial Day, and it seems like everyone from the coast who had the day off drove out to Big River to welcome the summer and honor veterans of wars past and present by getting drunk or just soaking up sun at the river. A true tradition in the land of the free.

We head back towards home now. It's been a long work and play day for both of us, and I am looking forward to a beer, some dinner, and a good night's sleep as well. Coming up the final hill around the camp office, Abbey takes off for a minute. When I whistle, she shows up right away, but this time with another dog in tow. I stop, and they are checking each other out, real friendly like. The other dog is a beautiful young husky, trailing about 8 feet of green rope, torn at one end. When I notice the rope I figure immediately that this dog must have gotten away from it's owner down at the river, maybe even followed me and Abbey up here. But then something very strange happens. A white SUV with an official looking sticker on the door pulls into camp. The red emergency lights on top of the cab are on, but not flashing. They pull up to me and I recognize the man in the passenger seat. I introduce myself, telling them I work at the camp, asking if there is anything I can do to help them.

"Well, there's a vehicle that rolled up on the road back there," they explain, referring to the entrance road into camp, a long 4 miles of newly gravelled (hence very slippery) two lane dirt track, "and we are looking for one of the passengers from that vehicle."

"Is everyone alright?" I ask.

"Yes, but apparently, a dog was thrown from the back of the vehicle when it rolled, and the owner went to look for the dog."

"Huh. What kind of dog was it?" I ask, with my dog and the mystery husky standing right next to me.

"He didn't say." They call on the radio back to the scene of the accident, and find out that the dog was...a husky!

"I haven't seen any guy, but I have the dog right here." I tell them. It's a very friendly dog, so we tie it's rope to the fence near the office and they go looking for the guy. I take a ride down to one of the swimming holes to do the same, but I don't have any luck finding him. When I get back, I go to my house and bring the dog a bowl of water. I notice he has a tag on. His name is Satarius and there is a local phone number. I go back home, call the number, and reach the roommate of the dog's owner, who takes down directions. He says he doesn't know where the owner is, but he suspects that yes, he was at the river today. He says he will come get the dog.

I am very relieved that the dog is okay and will get home no problem. I relax, have my beer, make my dinner, and I am sitting watching a movie when my friend Scat (see photo below)comes to the door. He lives 3 miles down the road, further in camp at the Gatehouse in Camp 2. He is one of the naturalists. Scat is not his real name. He tells me that he just got back from driving a random guy to the pavement. Hmmm...

While Scat and friends were sitting, drinking and bbqing in Camp 2, a good 3-4 miles down deeper into the camp from where the vehicle rolled, and was righted by the fire department, and was able to drive away with all passengers except the dog owner intact, a random guy walked into Camp 2. This never happens. Camp 2 is, as I mentioned, deep in camp. And even where I live is a good 4 miles from any pavement, and another 6 miles of pavement to town. Well, this guy walks into camp, and Scat says "Hi. Can I help you?" Which is what you say when someone shows up at your camp, which is often an outdoor school for 6th graders with overprotective parents, and you really don't know this person and are wondering just what the hell they are doing way out in the middle of nowhere, walking, without a car, not hiking or biking or anything.
"Hi. Can I help you?"

"No you can't help me, nobody can help me, damn it." The guy responds angrily, in so many words.

"Oh. Well, umm, are you lost? Cause you are a bit far from anything? Do you want a beer?"

Scat, in his worldly hospitable ways (this man is a commendable man when it comes to hospitality, this Scat) manages to calm the guy down, and gets his story out of him while giving him a ride out to the pavement, about 8 miles from Camp 2. Apparently, this is the guy with the lost dog (you hadn't figured that out yet, had you?). When the truck rolled (trucks tend to do crazy things on loose gravel, like going completely sideways, and rolling) the guy's dog was thrown from the back of the truck, and I guess knocked unconcious. This guy gets out after the accident and sees his dog lying on the ground, not moving. Not really sure of the details, but apparently the guy thought his dog was dead. So he got real pissed at his friends, especially the driver, and walked off to ditch his dead dog in the bushes. Yeah, I guess that's what people do here, they throw their dead dogs in the bushes at the side of the road. Without checking to see if the dogs are breathing. What the fuck? I mean, even if the dog was dead, who leaves their dog in the bushes in the middle of nowhere?

After leaving the dog in the bushes somewhere, I am guessing this guy was real pissed off and decided to walk home rather than go back to his friends. Or perhaps, when he decided to go back to his friends, they were already gone. Well, the guy ended up in Camp 2, and Scat ended up giving him a lift to the pavement. I would like to think the guy made his way home safely, and found his dog, perfectly alive and probably a bit hungry, waiting for him.

This isn't the first time, and I am sure it won't be the last. Ask me about the stranded mushroom picker sometime.

Maybe I will name my bike Satarius. Does anyone know where that name comes from? I guess I will go google it.