KAREN LAND

There was something about southwest Texas that seemed strangely familiar.

As I drove from the tiny settlement of Fort Davis down to Marathon, another quaint Texan town, and even further south towards Big Bend National Park, I breathed a deep sigh of relief – a pure and direct response to the landscape unfolding in waves of endless color, texture, and elevation in every direction all around me.

Maybe it was the vast open space, maybe it was the immense blue sky, maybe it was the rocky and majestic mountains in the distance, or maybe it was the occasional truck passing me on the road with each and every driver always lifting a hand to wave – whatever it was, it reminded me of Montana. I felt at home.

So far, my downhill skiing career consists of a measly eight days on the slopes. I’m not in denial; I know my awkward technique reeks of ROOKIE. At first, I was a bit embarrassed by my lack of coordination, but I quickly realized that being a beginner isn’t just about looking like a clumsy clod on skis; it’s actually a great conversation piece.

It seems that most skiers and snowboarders enjoy taking a trip down memory lane, reflecting on the days when they too were green and klutzy. They recall with a chuckle their first time getting on and off the chair lift. They complain about the prehistoric skis and bindings and boots they used in the past, telling me, “You’re lucky... back when I was learning, you determined the length of your skis by standing with your arm held straight up above your head and measuring yourself from the floor all the way up to your wrist.” I look down at my kiddie skis and imagine they were 7 feet long - I’d be stuck in a constant, contorted tangle of gangly legs and poles and skis (even more than I am now).

For seven straight years, my life was devoted to the dogs. I spent all of my winter holidays, such as Christmas and New Year’s, training sled dogs in the Montana backcountry; I was a very lucky girl, I know.

But now, things are different. I no longer have a dog team. I live in a small apartment in the middle of town. I have three dogs as roommates. I’m trying to make a career of writing. So when the Holiday season rolled around again this year, I realized I was going to be a fairly normal person, doing fairly normal things. I wouldn’t be spending my Christmas day on the runners of a dog sled, or my New Year’s eve curled up with my huskies in the straw by a campfire.

Because I tend to write about canines in my column, readers send and tell me all kinds of great stories about their furry, devoted friends. I love hearing what people do with their dogs. Whether your pooch is a hunter or herder, puller or playmate, guard dog or bed-warmer, their jobs are important. Our dogs take us places we might never go alone.

Recently, I’ve received updates from two Great Falls residents whose dogs are leading them to unusual challenges, beautiful country, and new friends.

“Whatever happened to Ruby, the coonhound, or Grody, the canicross dog?” you might be asking. Well, I’ll tell ya.

I’m finally back home to Montana after five weeks on the road, driving over 8,000 miles with my three dogs stretched out across the passenger seats of my tiny Toyota Rav.

My sled dog, Borage, and trusty terrier, Jigs are very familiar with the road-trip routine. But many things still seem strange and foreign to Pig, my 10-year old, newly-retired, Iditarod lead dog.

After all, Pig just became an indoor, “pet” dog only a few months ago. Walking through doorways and up stairs, sleeping on a dog bed, driving in a car are all peculiar and exotic experiences for Pig. She investigates slippery linoleum floors, thick shag carpet, mirrors, toilet bowls, smelly trash cans, humming dishwashers, flashing televisions, and stuffed animals with intense curiosity - like she’s an alien who’s just stepped foot on a freaky, new planet.