free hit counters
Chapter 12
Mark Gravengood got home early Tuesday evening. The lights were still on out in the shop, so it was pretty clear that Jackie was out there, working on a sign.
It proved to be the case. The computerized vinyl cutter was singing as he walked in the door. "What's the situation on supper?" he asked.
"At least an hour," his tall, brunette wife said. "Unless you want to make it yourself. Clark Plywood has been dinking around on this sign for their show booth for two months, and now they want it yesterday."
"Doesn't surprise me," Mark said. "Anything for me?"
"You want to call Frank Matson. He's getting some kind of goofy intercept when he boots up his 8086. Something to do with the CONFIG.SYS file."
"Probably nothing major," Mark said thoughtfully. "Home computer, or at the bank?"
"Home computer, he wants you to call him this evening," Jackie said.
"Well, nuts," Mark said. "If I go over to Point Drive and screw around for an hour, it'll be too dark to take a run. I'll call him after supper."
"I ought to go with you," Jackie commented, "But I've got to get this sign done and over to the Clark office, so they can take it to Camden."
"Well, all right," Mark said. "I'll see you in an hour or so." He went into the house, took off the phone company uniform, and pulled on his sweats. It was kind of muddy to be running up the trail, but it was muddy going up the road, too.
Mark was not a fanatic jogger, one that had to get his miles in, no matter what the weather. Neither was Jackie, for that matter; in fact, both disliked it, but saw it as a necessary evil, at best. Perhaps five years before, on a trail work trip, they had come to realize that
they weren't in the shape that they once were.
It hadn't taken much to see what the problem was. Mark's work was pretty sedentary, mostly with a test kit or a soldering iron. With the exception of backpacking and trail work, his avocations were pretty sedentary, too. He loved amateur astronomy; he'd been a pilot
for many years, but that was a sit down thing that only rarely brought the heart rate up, although when it did it was a corker. Since home computers had started to make their appearance in Spearfish Lake, he had been recognized as the local resident expert, even though he
saw his sales and service business mostly as a hobby, too. Jackie's sign business, along with flying and astronomy and a little bit of computers, too, didn't exactly qualify as a high-exercise lifestyle. It was obvious that they needed to make a conscious effort to keep in shape, and
jogging seemed to be the most time-efficient way of doing it, if not the most enjoyable.
Mark went out onto the porch of the old stone farmhouse he and Jackie had rebuilt, and did a little stretching before he lazily started down the airstrip in back of the barn, heading in the direction of the trail. There was one thing to be said for jogging slowly, mindlessly
through the woods: it gave him a chance to think.
The conversation about dog sled racing at the Spearfish Lake Cafe the week before had kept coming back to him. The thought of running a dog team appealed to him. Why it should be that, he wasn't sure, but one thing had been clear: it was time for something new,
and it certainly was a candidate.
He assessed the airstrip as he jogged down the length of it. It was firming up nicely, and given a couple of warm, windy days, it could be used again. They tried to avoid putting ruts in it during spring breakup, but that was pretty much over, now. He'd taken the skis
off Rocinante over the weekend, and put the wheels back on; it wouldn't be much longer, now.
At the far end of the airstrip, he turned onto the trail. There weren't even a lot of challenges left there, he thought.
Back when he and Jackie had been on their "honeymoon" -- it had lasted eight months and ended, rather than started, with their getting married -- they had spent a week doing trail maintenance on the Appalachian Trail. The crew leader had been an interesting old
guy from Michigan named Vince, and they'd had a good time. If Vince had seemed old to them back in 1971, then he'd seemed positively the ancient of days when he'd knocked on their door ten years later. It had been mutual surprise all around that they remembered each
other, and it opened the door for what Vince had really wanted: there was a new trail being constructed between New York and North Dakota, called the North Country Trail, and Mark and Jackie's farm occupied a critical half-mile separating two sections of state forest land.
Not only had Vince walked away with permission for the trail to cross Mark and Jackie's property, he'd gotten their agreement to maintain and build a seven-mile segment of it.
Mark had remembered Vince as a purist, that didn't even like to use chain saws if he didn't have to, so he'd waited until Vince's back was turned before he took the tractor and mower out to the trail. In fact, over the year, Mark and the tractor had built about 22 miles
of trail, but he let others do most of the maintenance. There'd been several bridges to build, but as a phone man, Mark not only had access to telephone poles but the equipment to handle them, so that hadn't proven to be a problem. Nowadays, about all he had to do with the
trail was run the tractor up it two or three times a summer.
And that was kind of symbolic of the whole problem, Mark thought as he jogged through the woods: he was the kind of person that needed to stay busy, and needed another new challenge every few years, or he began to get stale.
As he jogged along he sort of catalogued the last few years. There'd been rebuilding the house and barn from an abandoned wreck, then doing the mirror for the 16-inch telescope. Then there'd been the 1-26, another wreck rebuilding job. Then the trail, then the
new observatory. By the time that came along, he'd already done two mirrors, and didn't want to take on another, so he'd just bought the parts for the 14 1/2 inch Cassegrain. Then computers, and now, the fun of challenges there was wearing rather thin.
Running a dog team certainly would be a new challenge, Mark thought as he jogged down the trail, mentally cataloguing a rut that would need filling in. He remembered the guy out in Washington State they'd met with the dog team. He'd been very enthusiastic and
centered, but it was also clear that there was more to it than just riding a dog sled through the woods. It had been summer then, and the guy had been training the dogs on a grass trail, with some sort of buggy, and there had been a lot of pushing and running involved. Probably the
exercise would be just as good as jogging, and a lot more fun. Over the weekend, he'd taken out the only book the local library had on dog sledding, and his suspicion seemed to be confirmed.
Mark was so absorbed in thought that he never quite realized when he started to have company, but gradually, he became aware that he wasn't alone.
There was a dog running along with him. Not chasing him, just running alongside, seeming to enjoy the easy pace. "Well, hello, how are you today?" Mark said cheerfully.
The dog looked up at him, and edged in a little closer. Mark didn't think a lot about it, at first; a lot of dogs ran loose around this neck of the woods, going home when it was time for supper. This one didn't have a collar, though, and might be some sort of a stray. It
looked a little scraggly and underfed, so might well be.
Mark didn't particularly want to stop right then, and figured the dog would take off and do his own thing after a while. It was a medium sized dog, and obviously had some German Shepherd in him, but he also had a thicker coat than the typical shepherd. "I'll bet you've
got a little husky in you, don't you, boy?" Mark commented. "Get a little meat on your bones, and you'd be a good looking dog."
The dog looked at him, and sort of smiled, staying right alongside Mark. He was still there after a mile or so, when Mark reached the logging two-rut where he'd decided he'd turn around. He stopped for a moment to pant a couple of times, then headed back toward
the house. The dog raised it's leg against a nearby tree, then caught up with him, still running alongside at an easy pace. "Like to run, don't you, boy?" Mark commented.
As the two jogged down the trail, Mark began to get an unsettling feeling, and all of a sudden, the words of an old black preacher from many years before came to him. He looked down at the dog, then up at the darkening sky. "God, are you trying to tell me
something?" he called.
