KAREN LAND

Recently, my mom and I were given an astonishing and generous gift - three thick, stale-smelling binders bulging with yellowed paper, torn newspaper clippings, and old photographs.

“You can take them home and read them and copy whatever you want,” Rita Maxfield, my newly discovered, distant relative offered. “Nobody else in my family is interested in this stuff.”

Two summers ago, I wrote a column about visiting the Wounded Knee massacre site and burial ground in South Dakota. I made a pilgrimage there, hoping to learn more about my great, great grandfather, Colonel Hugh Daniel Gallagher.

Col. Gallagher was the Pine Ridge Indian agent, appointed by President Cleveland, from Sept. 29, 1886 to the fall of 1890.

This branch of my family tree has always intrigued me. Col. Gallagher and his wife, Mary Ellen, moved their five children westward in search of adventure. During his service on the reservation, Col. Gallagher became friends with Chief Red Cloud and many Oglala Sioux.

According to the Red Cloud Indian School website, “The local Indian agent, a well-loved man named Colonel Gallagher, permitted children of the government schools in the area to attend the Mission school instead if they chose.”

All of Gallagher’s children - Charles, Bernard, Adele, Albert, and Anna Agnes - went to the Red Cloud School with the Lakota.

The first night I tried to fall asleep with a plantar fasciitis night splint strapped around my left foot and calf, I felt like I was wearing a downhill ski boot to bed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I thought as I reclined flat on my back and looked down at my painted pink toenails jutting out from their plastic prison.

Plantar fasciitis is pain and inflammation of the plantar fascia, a thick band of tissue which runs across the bottom of your foot and connects your heel bone to your toes.

My mom suffered for years from plantar fasciitis; she stopped taking walks because of it. I have friends that can’t play tennis, backpack, and hunt because of unbearable heel pain. When I went to purchase my night splint at the local pharmacy, I met a construction worker who said he had to crawl to the bathroom in the morning because his heel “hurt like hell.”

Every time I drive by a Walmart, I glance towards the back of the lot to see who might be parked there. Like many other giant box stores, truck stops, and restaurants, Walmart - loved by some and despised by others - allows weary travelers to use their extra blacktop as a place to camp overnight.

Usually I see at least a few massive, half million-dollar RV’s, towing cars and boats and motorcycles, taking up at least a dozen of the seldom-used spots along the far edge of the lot.

Other times I’m delighted to catch a hippie bus or VW van tucked away under one of the few small trees that dot the expansive pavement with a lick of cool shade.

Traveling alone like I do, I realize car camping can be dangerous. A single woman sleeping in a tent or vehicle along a public road can be a target for troublemakers. If I don’t plan to hike into the backcountry so far out of reach that lazy thugs lose their ambition to mess with me, I chose to camp in designated or pay campgrounds with other (fairly normal-looking) people nearby. My dogs, a honking can of bear spray, and a firearm (where legal) never hurt either.

Everyone kept asking me, “Do you think Goat will recognize you?”

As I was walking through the Bozeman airport with a dog leash in hand, I couldn’t help but imagine our soon-to-be reunion unfolding like a dramatic scene from a “Lassie Come Home” movie.

In 2004, I gave Goat, one of my retired sled dogs, to what I thought was a good, life-long home. Three weeks ago a friend stumbled across his picture on a Portland, Oregon dog pound website.

Unfortunately, since we parted ways, Goat has lived with many “masters.” I had no idea if he’d remember me or not, but I hoped he would.

I knew Goat to be a dog with a huge personality. He was a talker, always cocking his head to the side, puckering his lips together, and talking straight at me with a low “woo, woo, wooing.” His speech seemed just one bizarre step away from real human language. After a rough few years, I hoped Goat would still be attempting to communicate with his people friends.

Last week when I found out that Goat, one of my retired sled dogs, was in the Portland, Oregon pound, many emotions flooded my mind. I was stunned and thankful that Vanessa, a friend, had stumbled across Goat’s photograph (with a different name) on an adoption website and actually recognized his goofy headshot.

I was heartbroken thinking of my boy in a big city kennel scared and all alone. I was terrified hoping the pound didn’t euthanize him before I could reach them on the phone. And, to put it bluntly, I was also fuming mad - this didn’t have to happen.I became a musher because I love dogs.

And, ironically, I got out of mushing because I love dogs.One of the most difficult and stressful parts of owning a kennel was facing the fact that not every dog makes the team. And then what do you do?

When the time came, I preferred to find good pet homes for all of my huskies - even some of the better athletes. I wanted to know my dogs were safe and happy for the rest of their lives.With each one I placed, I told the new owners, “If this doesn’t work for you and the dog, I want the dog back.”My request was direct and sincere.

The majority of my dogs scored the perfect setup; I receive fun, reassuring e-mails and photos from their owners often. Over the years, I have taken back a handful of dogs who needed different situations; I was thankful the owners were honest about their difficult life changes and called me. Goat’s story is one of happenstance.