Free Death Canyon by David Riley Bertsch

somehow managed to lock everything in the main house. I tore apart my camperto find another set with no luck. Walked out and slammed the door. That must have forced the lock closed from the inside.
    â€œI figured if we had that fake rock, man, we would never get locked out again.” He smiled knowingly. J.P. was not as dumb as he sometimes seemed.
    Jake marveled at J.P.’s logic and laughed because there was really no business credit card at all, there was only a debit card in J.P.’s name that drew from Jake’s personal account. It was in the kitchen of the main house for emergencies.
    In the past such emergencies included: J.P. needing to rent a snowmobile because a winter storm had dumped a ton of snow and J.P. was “so over” skiing at the crowded resort, and a night in a suite at the Four Seasons because J.P. had to convince a woman that he was a famous jazz musician traveling the country.
    â€œLet’s get inside, it’s getting chilly,” Jake suggested. They headed into the main house.
    While Jake started a fire in the fireplace, J.P. ran his hands under warm tap water. After a few moments of that, he dried them off on his shirt, walked to the fridge, and grabbed an ice-cold bottle of beer.
    He pulled his sweatshirt sleeve over his hand to insulate it from the cold bottle. Jake gave him a dubious look.
    â€œCould use a glass, you know.”
    â€œWhat? You want a brew, man?” he shouted into the den, where the fire was now blazing.
    â€œNo thanks,” Jake responded. The morgue had put him in no mood to consume anything.
    â€œDid you hear that Marcus Jane bit the dust?” he asked Jake.
    Before Jake could answer, his friend spoke again. “Crazy; he was a hell of a skier. Careful, too. Not one of those over-the-top, extreme guys; he just liked to go out and have a good time. Enjoynature, you know? I’ve skied with Marcus plenty of times when he walked away from a tasty-looking slope because things just didn’t feel right.
    â€œI guess all the preparation in the world can’t prevent every accident,” J.P. concluded.
    â€œI didn’t know him,” Jake said, stoking the fire.
    â€œNo offense, but Marcus wasn’t exactly part of your crowd.” Jake laughed. J.P. imagined himself much younger than Jake, while in reality the two were only three years apart.
    â€œWho’d he ski with? Who was he with yesterday?”
    â€œThat skinny Ricker kid who lives south of town. The idiot that nearly killed himself up on Jackalope Couloir two winters ago. Had to get airlifted out because he wanted to impress some girl. Don’t know his first name. Same one that was arrested in that wolf hunt protest. Remember that?”
    Jake remembered the name now. When there was still some question as to whether a wolf hunt would be allowed in Idaho, Ricker had protested and displayed some threatening signs outside public buildings. The one that made the local paper said, “Hey IFG, How would you like it if we shot you for feeding yourself !” ( IFG being Idaho Fish and Game.)
    When Ricker was arrested for not having a permit to demonstrate, he had threatened the police and spit on them. That makes the paper in Jackson.
    The sign reflected the boiling disagreement over a proper solution to livestock predation by wolves. Ranchers lobbied the Idaho government to open a hunting season on wolves to reduce the numbers. Many disagreed, Jake included. But he knew the ranchers had a valid argument too. Wolf numbers were increasing, and ranchers were losing thousands a year in dead stock.
    The dispute was resolved in favor of the ranchers. There would be a short hunting season for wolves. Jake didn’t mind the decision, really. Perhaps it wasn’t the business of Yankees and California hippie kids to decide the fate of those who made their living from this land.
    â€œAnd Ricker survived?” Jake asked.
    â€œSure did. One lucky bastard, man.