Mt. Poopsalot, Brown Valley, & Diariver - New Project

Spring in Wasilla meant the snow was gone. Which was good.

It also meant you could see the yard again. Which was… not so good.

Bitty — Brandy stood at the fence line with Freckles the stuffed dog. She held her nose.

“Ewwwww,” she said. “Mom! Dad! Look!”

The back part of the yard, past the sled hill and near the woods, was a minefield. Little brown piles. Big brown piles. Not Rowdy piles. Rowdy’s were tiny and he always went by the firewood.

These were… not Rowdy’s.

Dassah ran up next to her. “What dat smell?”

“That,” Bitty said, pointing, “is Mt. Poopsalot. And we can’t play there.”

Mom — Brandy — came out on the porch. “I see it. We don’t know whose dog it is. Maybe from the neighborhood. Maybe from the woods.”

Dad sighed. “It’s not your job to pick it up, my little lovely ladies. We’ll figure it out. For now, stay on this side of the yard.”

Nation looked up from his book. “That’s a biohazard.”
Ocean took notes. “Fascinating. And gross.”
Harbor gagged. “I’m not cleaning that. Not even for allowance.”

Grandpa Malcuit opened the motorhome door. “Back in my day, we called that ‘free fertilizer.’ But even I have limits.”

Bitty crossed her arms. “It’s not fair. That’s the best hill for rolling down. Now it’s the Stink Zone.”

Dassah tugged her hand. “We play castle here?”

Bitty nodded. “Yeah. Lovely Law #1: keep each other safe. And not smelly.”

That night, Bitty couldn’t stop thinking about it. Who let their dog do that? Why didn’t they pick it up? She fell asleep hugging Freckles, still mad.

And she dreamed.

She was standing up high. Too high. Windy. Her boots slipped.

Dassah was next to her, holding her hand, colander helmet on. “Bitty! Where we are?”

Bitty looked around. The ground was brown and lumpy and it went down, down, down. A sign stuck in the top said:

“Whew!” Bitty coughed. “It’s hard to breathe! The stench!”

She didn’t remember climbing it. But here they were, two little lovelies, stuck at the top.

Bitty looked out. Below them ran a river. Wide. Slow. Brown. A sign on the bank said: DIARIVER. It cut right through BROWN VALLEY and went on as far as she could see.

“Ew ew ew,” Dassah said. “I no like this adventure.”

Bitty hugged her. “Me neither. Lovely Law #1. I keep you safe.”

She looked down the slope. It was steep. Glossy. Chunky.

“Can we ski down?” Bitty wondered out loud. “If we had skis?”

She looked at her feet. No skis. Just boots. Boots she didn’t want to ruin.

The wind shifted. The stench got worse. Dassah started to cry.

Bitty held Freckles up like a flag. “Help! Anybody! We’re stuck on Mt. Poopsalot!”

Then she heard it. Whup-whup-whup-whup.

A helicopter.

It came over the ridge, and Dad was flying it. Dad! With his sunglasses and his rescue face.

He hovered close. He dropped a ladder. “Grab on, my little lovelies!”

Nation was in the helicopter. “I got Dassah!”
Ocean was there. “I got Freckles!”
Harbor leaned out. “I got Bitty!”

Mom’s voice came over a loudspeaker: “You’re safe! You’re safe!”

Grandpa Malcuit was in the co-pilot seat. “Told you Malcuits don’t freeze. We don’t sink in poop either!”

Dad lifted them all in. The helicopter pulled away from Mt. Poopsalot, away from Diariver, away from Brown Valley.

Everyone in the helicopter shouted together: “1, 2, 3 Thank you, Lord Jesus!”

Waking Up

“1, 2, 3 Thank you Lord Jesus! 1, 2, 3 Thank you Lord Jesus!”

Bitty sat straight up in bed. She was saying it. Out loud. In her room.

She stopped. She looked around. Freckles. Her blankets. No stench. No helicopter. Just her window and the Wasilla night.

It was a dream.

A stinky, scary dream.

She breathed deep. Safe. Clean air.

She heard Dad in the hallway. “Bitty? You okay? Heard you yelling.”

She ran out and hugged him. “Dad! You saved me! From Mt. Poopsalot!”

Dad picked her up. “Mt. Poopsalot, huh? Sounds like the backyard.”

“Was it real?” Dassah asked sleepy from her doorway.

“No,” Bitty said. “But the poop is. And we still can’t play there.”

Mom came out in her robe. “We’ll call the neighbors tomorrow, little lovely ladies. See if anyone knows anything. Until then, we pray and we stay clear.”

Grandpa’s voice came from the kitchen. “And we thank the Lord Jesus we don’t live on that mountain!”

Bitty giggled. Then she got serious. “But Dad… who pooped it? Whose dog?”

Dad shook his head. “We don’t know. And maybe we won’t. Some mysteries stay mysteries.”

Bitty yawned. “I don’t want to dream that again.”

“You won’t,” Mom said. “But if you do, remember who flies the helicopter.”

Bitty smiled. “You, Dad. And 1, 2, 3 Thank you, Lord Jesus.”

She went back to bed. The yard was still a mystery in the morning. Still off limits. Still stinky.

But Bitty was safe. Dassah was safe. And the Lovely Law held: love others as yourself… even when you don’t know who let their dog out.