Page 28 of Wind Valley

“I think I want to pay the Chilkoots a visit.” Gil took pictures of Lachlan’s screen, then handed his phone back. “Ani, aren’t you headed out there to check on one of the kids? I’ll come with you and see what I can find out about this.”

Lachlan didn’t like the idea of Gil and Ani going out there alone. On the other hand, that note had warned him to stay away, but it hadn’t mentioned anything about Gil. “Be careful. Something’s going on out there.”

“Something’s always going on somewhere around here. For such a small number of residents, people in this town sure get into a lot of trouble. See you back at the house?”

“I’m making him meatballs,” Maura called across him. “I’d invite you guys, but Pinky literally only has two forks. And one of them is carved from driftwood he found in Snow River.”

“I claim that one,” Lachlan said quickly.

Another car drove up behind Gil and rolled down their window. “Ahoy, strangers in the night.” Lachlan recognized Frank Stetson, who acted as the de facto town manager, although Firelight Ridge wasn’t technically a town and took pride in being utterly unmanageable. “What’d I miss?”

“I’m making meatballs,” Maura called, getting into the spirit of the mid-road convo.

“And Pinky only has two forks,” Gil added with a grin.

“Did he get another one? Big news.” Frank boomed out a laugh, his Carhartt-clad belly pushing against his steering wheel. “I’ll have to put that in the newsletter.”

“We have a newsletter?” Lachlan asked. “What’s the point of that, when no one has internet to download it?”

“I just came from printing it on my new printer. On sale at Costco.” Everyone in Firelight Ridge was obsessed with Costco, Lachlan had learned. “Got copies for anyone who wants them. And even if you don’t.” He laughed again, the kind of relaxed guffaw that made Lachlan think he might have toked up before he did his printing. “It’s so good it oughta be mandatory.”

“I’ve got to see this,” murmured Maura. She jumped out of the truck and skirted around it to approach Frank’s big Ford F-250. “I’ll take extras for my students,” she told him. “We can do a module on local news-gathering.”

“You just give me the word and I’ll come speak to the class,” he boomed. Then he lowered his voice. “Might want to check for, you know, appropriability before you let the kids read it.”

“Not a real word, but I’ll do that. Spell check, too, I’m thinking,” she added as she gave it a quick scan with her headlamp.

“Man, should have checked with you before I printed these out. Live and learn.”

Back in the truck, the gathering of vehicles having dispersed with waves and “watch the icy patches,” Maura read the newsletter more closely.

“This is really, really strange,” she told Lachlan.

“People get bored here in the winter. They get up to all kinds of unexpected things. Have you heard about the tripod someone set up on Snow River? People are making bets on exactly when the ice is going to break up and it falls in. Then there’s the outhouse competition. Paulina Volk offered to hand-carve a custom design for the overall winner, but there are multiple categories, including the stinkiest.”

“Yes, yes, all that is here in the newsletter, and it’s hilarious, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Listen to this. ‘Has someone been feeding psychedelic mushrooms to our local moose population? That’s one of the theories making the rounds after multiple reports of unusual moose behavior have circulated. If you or someone you know has a bizarre moose encounter to report, please contact the Forest Service. In other words, keep it to yourself because we all know the Forest Service would love to bust up a few things going on out here, mostly of the cannabis variety.”

She glanced up at Lachlan. “I’m thinking he was stoned when he wrote all of this. Should I keep these to myself until he looks at them after a good night’s sleep?”

“Not a bad idea. But he might be passing them out at The Fang by now.” He took the turn towards Pinky’s place. “We’ll see if Pinky comes back with one.”

A shadow danced across the road up ahead. He slowed way down and switched on his brights. “Look,” he said softly.

Maura looked up from the newsletter and caught her breath. “Moose?”

“Right on cue.”

They watched it sway and stumble across the road. The piercing headlights seemed to confuse the moose even further, so Lachlan switched back to the standard lights, then turned them off altogether. The moon had risen, and the clouds had thinned enough for some light to filter through, enough to see the moose—a bull, with nubs where his antlers would grow in the spring—drift around in an aimless circle.

“Do you think it is psychedelic mushrooms?” whispered Maura.

“It would take a lot of mushrooms to affect a moose. Their body mass is enormous. Most of them weigh over a thousand pounds. Besides, all the fungal life is buried under feet of snow this time of year. I don’t know where they would have…” He trailed off. “Unless someone is growing them and the moose got into them.”

“Do you know of anyone growing stuff like that?”

“No. Cannabis, sure. It’s always been a good place for that, and now it’s actually legal. But that’s all I know about. We could ask Bear, he hears a lot at The Fang.”

“So does Pinky, for that matter.”

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