Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 9 ≈

If there was anything more boring than a Forest Circus training session, she couldn't imagine it. Her boss, Hoot Sexton sat at the back of the room and every time she turned his eyes were on her. Slim definitely should come down, she thought. Not sure if he's my boyfriend or my fiancé. I should get a cheap engagement ring to ward off the barbarian hordes.

Neither Deirdre nor her husband showed up. Maybe volunteers were exempt. The other wilderness guard was there, Susan, a big bronzed blonde who sounded Australian. She invited Mary to lunch and Mary asked Jet and Harv to come. Susan—Sooz— had a table, with a timber beast she seemed to know, Jacko. Mary had seen him skiing on the Pass. They ordered a pitcher of beer and she asked for a diet coke. They settled on two giant pizzas and put the order in, then chattered about skiing and climbing. Harv just sat and rolled his eyes. "I don't do that hippie stuff," he muttered in Mary's direction. "Like Ol' Jethro." He pronounced it Jeth-Roo.

"So Jet is really Jethro?" she asked.

Harv hushed her as Jet glared at him. "He hates it."

"I've got a seriously strange name," Mary said. "Consolata. Consolata Mary Browne."

"You're kidding," Sooz said, and laughed.

"Nope. Moms was super-Catholic before she got on the bottle. Oops! Telling too much, I guess." They all glanced at her diet coke in a knowing way that pissed her off. "So who are you?"

"Sooz Swann. From Sydney. Came to Jackson for the skiing. Not much of that in dear old Oz. Surf is bonzer, though."

"Jet Black. Yeah, I know. Salt Lake City. I'm the Cross Lake range rider."

"Harvey Hogan. Range rider. Not a hippie like Jethroo."

"Jacko Mionczynski. Ski nazi and skid-boy."

"Say that again?"

"My On Zin Ski. In Poland it's Me-On-Chin-Ski. I rent a dirtbag cabin on Mosquito Creek in Wilson with a bunch of skid kids. Bomb the Pass all winter."

"I've seen you there," Mary said, recalling that he was a terrific skier.

"Yeah," he said. "You're in that chick band with Mel Rozier. Feral. . ."

"Chick band? Them's fightin' words."

Thank heaven the pizzas arrived.

The afternoon session was a bit better. They got some local history from the librarian, a pretty-plump woman named Daphne, and took a quiz on survival skills, which Mary aced. They all trooped to the warehouse, a few blocks west, and learned where the rescue gear and fire equipment was kept. A guy named Eugene Something, the General District Assistant, harped at them about not using any tools unless they signed the sheet in the office, etc. etc. She noticed several sets of eyes rolling and heard deep sighs. Then he went through a similar harangue about horses, raising sighs from Jet and Harv and the trail crew folks. She recognized the sort of petty power trip that seemed to be part of Forest Circus existence.

Last, they were assigned housing in town for the night, with a few favored souls drawing the nice cabin by the Warehouse and most being shunted to the Upper Yard, where there was a big, ratty double-wide trailer and some flat spots for tents. Mary, hoping to keep Gris unseen, drove up to Frémont Lake and slept in an empty campsite.

Dawn over the black mirror of the lake was glorious. This was country she could learn to love.