Adirondack Audacity (11 page)

My lust addled brain fumbles,
Sorry?…sorry…for what!
My body feels bereft without his touch.
“We can’t, we just can’t. I have to stop.” Sitting up,
he holds his head on arms propped against his knees, his
breath coming in ragged gasps. “It’s too soon, I shouldn’t
have done that. I’m sorry,” he caresses my cheek. “I don’t
want to hurt you.”
Trust me, I wasn’t feeling any pain, exquisite
torture, maybe.
I’m alone, skin bare to the gentle breeze blowing over
the island and the gaze of a dragonfly humming
overhead. Shivering without his warmth and the sun
sinking into the horizon, I wrap myself in a towel to
cover my nakedness. Leaning into him, I stroke his hair
seeing the torment deep in his eyes. “I trust you,” I say.
“I know you would never hurt me. And just for the
record,
oh my,
I wanted it to go on forever.”
“We can’t, it’s far too risky.” He brings a knuckled
fist up to his mouth, rocking slightly back and forth on
his haunches.
“How do you know so much about, you know,
making love?” I ask.
He glances over at me, sighs; and looks away, shaking
his head. “You grow up early in Mexico, especially with
my father.”
“How so?”
“At fifteen he expects us to be men, run cattle, hunt,
shoot and…..” At this he looks at me, shakes his head,
his jaw clenches, “and whatever.”
“What do you mean…whatever?” I ask, not sure I
want to know, but plunge ahead anyway. “Have you had
sex, Vic? I mean like real sex with a woman?”
“As I said, you grow up quickly in Mexico.” Not
looking at me, he takes my hand, tracing the inside of my
palm with his finger, stopping to place a kiss on the
tender hollow. He looks deep into my eyes, “It was
different, not like with you. She was just my
father’s………she wasn’t you,” he finishes with
vehemence, running a hand through his hair. “Please
don’t ask me anymore. Just trust my feelings for you are
real. I don’t want to hurt you. Tell me no, you have to tell
me no.”
In truth, I don’t want to know more, the thought of
him with some strange woman is like a stake in my heart.
I pull the edge of the towel closer, resting against the heat
of his body as a shiver of apprehension runs up my spine.
The sun sinking slowly toward the mountain ridge paints
the sky with slashes of pink, purple and lavender gray.
And I realize the folly of what he asked of me. No, such a
simple little word, how can I say no, when every fiber in
my being wants to say…..
yes.
…
Later that night back in my bunk, all is black as pitch.
The light of the moon imparts a dusky glow. The cabin
makes queer nocturnal noises, the rustling of mice and
batting of insect wings against the window screens.
Tossing and turning, I yawn and pound my pillow for the
hundredth time. My mind is a jumble of thoughts;
precluding sleep. Lacing my hands behind my head, I
stare out the window. When I came to camp this
summer, I envisioned new friends, adventure, and maybe
a little romance. But love? There was a moment, I
suppose, when I may have entertained the idea but
scoffed it away as being too ridiculous for me……..I’ve
never had a real boyfriend. I’ve never really liked anyone,
never felt that surge of feeling or the fall from loves
grace. I’ve only watched others weather it from afar. How
could I be in love? I just turned seventeen.
But I don’t care about how tall I am, or how gawky,
or how I klutz up everything. All that matters is to have
his arms around me, the soft tender feel of his kiss, how I
feel when I am with him. The truth is undeniable….I’m
in love with Vicente Rienz. How could this happen? One
day I hate him and, now…..ridiculous. He is dark and
mysterious, far too dangerous for a girl like me. But with
him, I’m someone else, someone bold…….my only
thought is putting distance between me and my old self
and what I left behind, because the truth remains…….I
love him. This summer, Vic Rienz is just what I need.

Last night Burt invited our group to a dinner party.
The rumor is true. He lives in a house high up in the
boughs of a large maple tree. A tree house, he calls it his
den. I swear the man is part bear with a little elfin magic
thrown in for good measure. It’s amazing the comforts
that can be found in a ten by twelve dwelling. The
cooking area consists of a propane stove, a cooler which
he stocks with ice from the camp freezer, shelves
fashioned from rough hewn planks of wood, the bark still
showing on the outer edge. A set of fiesta wear dinner
plates brightens the room in a blaze of orange, yellow,
deep blue and green, sunshine even on a rainy day. A
scattering of pillows cover the floor in a kaleidoscope of
color. A sky blue rug causes the room to appear upside
down, the sky at your feet, and the ceiling painted black,
stenciled with shimmering stars. A small circular staircase
leads up to a sleeping loft above. Two walls of the tree
house are taken up with windows overlooking the forest
floor below;; it’s like living in an eagles’ aerie.

Burt made a delicious vegan enchilada dish and
served Mexican beer. And even though we’re underage,
Burt gave us a beer, one….no more, with the threat of
death if Morris found out. It was a magical evening.

…
And today feels like heaven, a humid day in
midsummer; the afternoon off, a backpack filled with

picnic supplies and a hot boyfriend…… whose butt
heading up the trail in front of me is…….rather…..
delicious. Add a blanket and a few stolen beers, all the
ingredients needed for a perfect day.

We plan to hike up the mountain crest that overlooks
the camp and lake below. There are no marked trails
leading to the summit only an eroded creek bed as a
guide. By summer the creek is reduced to a slow trickle.
Rocks worn smooth by the rushing water of spring are
skeletal remnants of the stream’s former glory. Water
striders break the still surface of small pools caught in the
eddy of the stream.

Bathed in golden shafts of light streaming through
the tree tops, the scent of the forest is like that of a
hothouse with its door just flung open. The light is
dreamy, the air soft carrying the piping calls of birds. As
we climb higher the world below vanishes, distant villages
and lakeside cottages disappear under the canopy of
forest as civilization gives way to wilderness. The whine
of tires on the highway and the drone of a passing plane
fade to the sound of hiking boots crunching over loose
dirt and rock, and the occasional grunt of pain as our feet
trip over exposed tree roots.

The journey up the mountain seems endless as I
struggle to keep pace with Vic’s long legs. Finally,
stopping to rest, I drop my pack to the ground and
stretch my aching back. As I pluck the clinging shirt away
from my sweaty body, I sigh in disgust. To think I
washed my hair and put on make-up this morning. I
probably look like a factory worker getting off the third
shift, the feminine allure lost two miles back down the
trail.

“
Hey, look at this. What the hell is this place?” Vic
slips the pack from his back onto the matted ground and
glances around with a confused look on his face. Tucked
into the trees on the edge of a meadow is a camp of some
sort. Not an ordinary camp, no tent, picnic table, neatly
stacked Coleman supplies or folding camp chairs placed
around a fire ring.

This camp consists of a lean-to made of pine logs and
a crudely constructed workbench covered with animal
pelts in various shapes and sizes. A beaver skin is
stretched across a drying rack. The heads and scales of
fish litter the ground underneath the bench. Rustic stools
made from stumps sit around a campfire ring of stones.
A dirty worn jacket hangs from a hook protruding from
the lean-to.

“It l
ooks like someone lives here,” I say. A sense of
foreboding makes the base of my spine tingle. Something
about this place doesn’t feel right. We’re intruders,
entering into someone’s private domain. There are no
posted signs warning against trespassing but the omen is
in the air. A passing cloud blocks the sun, casting the
meadow in shadows.

We
’ve walked into a scene from an 1890’s
Adirondack guidebook, a picture from one of the
reference books kept in the camp library depicting the
early days of the Great Camps. At any moment I expect
to see a group of wealthy guests on a hunting party come
striding out of the woods. Laughing, singing, carrying a
creel heavy with fresh fish caught from a nearby
mountain stream. A world from the past. Whoever
resides here has fallen from another place in time with no
desire to enter into the entrapments of modern day
civilization. Almost every article in camp is constructed of
natural materials.

“I don’t think we should snoop around someone’s
camp.”
“We won’t touch anything,” he says walking along the
perimeter. “But this is really cool. I just want to check it
out and then we’ll leave.”
I glance to my left. A coffee pot and matching tin cup
along with a pile of mussel shells lay scattered outside the
fire pit……messy eater.
A deer hide stretches between two trees, drying in the
sun. I give a little shudder, animal carcasses everywhere.
An Adirondack pack basket filled with small sticks of
kindling wood hangs from a hemlock tree. Off to the side
strung on a rope between two small sapling trees I
recognize the roots of Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, cattail,
sassafras and wild calla. All these plants have edible or
medicinal properties, valuable for anyone living off the
land. Maybe we’ve stumbled on a real life Henry David
Thoreau. Burt will be so jealous.
A large red maple with a fork down the middle
dominates the clearing. Several sturdy branches are placed
in the V of the tree, spreading out like rungs of a wagon
wheel. Only the tips of the branches are visible from
under a huge mound of leaves. It looks to be some type
of crude shelter or burrow.
A sense of unease washes over me….. I want out of
here. Whoever lives in this camp cherishes their privacy.
We have no business being here.
“Vic, let’s go.”
“Just one more sec, I gotta crawl in here. How
awesome is this.” Unable to contain his curiosity, he
drops to his knees inspecting the entrance.
“Cool.” Wiggling in on his belly soon only his denim
legs are left exposed.
“What are you doing?” Squatting down, I tug at the
leg of his pants. “What if there is a bear or coyote in
there? Get out!”
“Rrrrrrrrrr,” a growl comes from inside the leaf
mound.
“You are so not funny. Get out of there before I
leave you for bear bait.”
“Trust me, no animal made this hut.” His voice is
muffled by thick layers of leaves. “You’re the naturalist,
you know that. Come in, this is really cool. There’s a bed
constructed of pine branches covered with a Hudson Bay
blanket, pillows made with deer hide, and a few pieces of
clothing.” He slides further into the gaping black hole, his
legs disappearing. “Come on.”
“No way. My mama raised no fool to go crawling
around in dark little holes in some wacko’s camp.”
I run my hands up and down my arms glancing back
into the forest expecting the owner to appear at any time.
“I know all about making shelters, my brothers and I
played in the woods behind our house. Every fall we
raked leaves and made huge leaf shelters.” I kneel down
next to the opening peering inside. “My mom and dad
allowed us to sleep in our fort as long as it wasn’t too
cold or raining. We quickly learned the more leaves the
better for keeping us warm on damp October nights.” I
smile at the memory.
“Sounds a little drafty for me, I like my down
comforter.”
“Burt talked about making shelters with the kids this
summer, using branches and leaf litter from the forest
floor. He had some crazy idea of them sleeping in the
shelter and earning a survival badge.”
“Uhuh, I’m coming out. Just the thought of sleeping
in here is making me cold.”
“Come on, City Boy, let’s get going before Big Foot
returns.”
As I stand up a darker, more menacing presence
approaches, I smell him before I see him; the rank smell
of an unwashed body assails my nose. Fear rises in my
throat as the claw of a hand bites down on my shoulder
yanking me to my feet.
I attempt to twist away from the vise-like grip. A
blood-curling scream rips from my throat. My fear
escalates into terror at the sight before my eyes. The man
is huge with hair black as a moonless night. A long beard
covers his entire chest. His dark hair is plaited in two
thick braids that reach to his waist. He stares down with
blood shot eyes. He says nothing, lifting me off the
ground with one hand; the other hand a raised fist,
deciding whether to punch me or toss my body off into
the woods.
“Put me down!” I scream, squirming in his grasp. His
lips curl back in a snarl.
“Ellllleee,” I hear Vic calling out to me.
“Viccccc!” I struggle to break free, causing his grasp
to tighten, pulling me closer to his filthy body.
“Ellen, what the hell is going on out there?” Vic yells
thrashing about in the hut, attempting to escape. In his
haste instead of crawling out the entrance hole, his head
bursts through the roof of the shelter. Without the
interwoven support, the structure tumbles down, pinning
him beneath the framework of branches and wet leaves.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Put me down, oh please, put me down, sir. I’m so
sorry we didn’t mean to intrude on your camp. We were
just curious.” I plead. “We didn’t hurt anything.”
The blood shot eyes glare at me, he lifts higher, the
toes of my boots fail to touch the ground, I’m held
pinned against his unwashed body.
“Who is out there?” Vic yells, pushing away the
branches obstructing his view. “
What the fuck!”
he
exclaims staring in disbelief at the sight before him. He
tries jumping over the entangling branches and only
succeeds in tripping and falling face first in the dirt.
Gasping for breath, he hollers, “Put her down! What
the hell is the matter with you!” With his free hand the
man whips a hatchet out of his belt pointing the blade at
Vic. I whimper, daring not to breath or move.
“Okay, mister, let’s…slow down here.” Vic stands up
slowly, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “We
were wrong to intrude on your privacy. Why don’t you
put down that hatchet and we’ll fix your house. I’m real
sorry, truly I am. Please don’t hurt her.”
To our shock and amazement the man starts rocking
back and forth on his heels with a loud booming laugh,
his entire body shakes, causing me to bob up and down
like a fish struggling at the end of a fishing line.
“Ahaa, got you.” He says, placing me on the ground,
releasing his grip. I dive behind Vic, clinging to his shirt,
peering around his back, staring at the apparition before
us. I don’t know if I have ever been so frightened in my
life.
“I wouldn’t hurt the little lady. I was just having a
little fun with you. I don’t receive many callers up on the
mountain. And certainly none as pretty as this damsel.”
His voice hoarse and raspy from disuse but his words
have a cultured, well pronounced clip to them.
He obviously has some education.
“Vic, get us out of here,” my voice squeaks as I
burrow my hands into the fabric of his shirt.
I feel his chest heave as he takes a deep breath,
attempting to communicate with the huge man. “Hi, my
name is Vic and this is Ellen. We work at the camp down
on Lake Cascade. I’m real sorry about the leaf hut, we will
fix it and be on our way. No harm done, right?”
Raising his arm, our “host” flings the hatch at a tree
behind us, the razor sharp head embedding in the tree
trunk. I feel Vic’s muscles tense under my hands, I bury
my head against his back praying….Hail
Mary……wacko…….full of grace…..nut case…..the
Lord is with thee…..lunatic, ………Blessed art thou
amongst women….. clinically insane……and blessed is
the fruit of your womb, Jesus……..Please Jesus, save
us……
“What if I say no?” He glowers down at us.
“If we don’t return to camp by dinner time, everyone
will wonder what happened to us. The camp director will
call the police and search parties will be sent out. You
don’t want anyone to find your camp, do you?”
“Do you have food in those packs?” His eyes wander
greedily over our backpacks.
“Yeah, sure,” Vic leans over scooping up the packs
handing them to the man. “You’re welcome to them. We
have sandwiches, apples, cookies and a couple cans of
soda. Even beer.”
“Coke?” he asks, unzipping the pack, eager to
examine the contents.
Pepsi, Vic shrugs his shoulders. “Almost the same.”
“Not really,” the man mutters in disappointment, and
then brightens as he holds up the beer cans. “The beer
makes up for not having Coke.”
“Here’s the deal,” the giant offers sitting down on a
rock placing the packs between his legs. “You share your
food with me, we fix my shelter and you go on your way.
I’m tired of eating deer meat and opossum. God, those
opossum are stupid creatures. Deal?” He extends his
filthy hand for us to shake, sealing the agreement.
Vic grasps the hand with a firm grip while I snake one
hand out and shake his finger, making as minimal contact
as possible. One would think with all the water and lakes
in the Adirondacks the man could find one to bathe in.
“Let’s eat first, my name is Jolib Freeport,” he hands
us our backpacks as a gesture of good will. “You find the
food.” We dig into our packs as Jolib licks his lips in
anticipation.
“Here,” I say, arranging the sandwiches and fruit in
front of him, seeing how desperate he is for the food. He
is tall and lean, and looks half starved. “You eat this, we
had a large breakfast and dinner will be waiting for us
when we return. Please enjoy this as our way of
apologizing for disrupting your camp.”
Under my breath I hiss at Vic, “I told you we had no
business snooping around here.” He lifts his eyebrows,
jerking his head in the direction of Jolib, warning me to
be quiet.
“Are you sure?” Jolib hesitates for only a moment
before grabbing a sandwich, eating half of it in one bite.
What’s the name of that camp you work at again?” His
mouth is crammed full of sandwich.
“Camp High Point at the Cascade,” Vic answers,
sitting cross-legged on the ground a little too close to the
giant for comfort. His curiosity will be the death of us
yet.
“Ah, the fancy one, eh?”
“Yeah, some of the kids are pretty wealthy.”
“I went there as a kid.” A supercilious grin spreads
across his face.
“Get out!” I exclaim. The words rush out of my
mouth in shock over this announcement. I immediately
regret them as he turns glaring at me with those bloodshot eyes.
“Yes, my dear, I was not always a bum living off the
land.” He takes another bite of sandwich. “My family
built one of the finest Great Camps around here. My
grandfather was William George Freeport. Did you ever
hear of him?”
Of course we recognized the name, anyone who
knows anything about Adirondack history has heard of
William George Freeport. He was a lumber baron,
logging the Adirondacks in the late 1800’s. To this day his
name is a dirty word to environmentalists for his clear
cutting of the forest.
“Sure,” Vic and I answer. We nod our heads in
agreement, hungry for the rest of the story.
“Well,” Jolib says, his eyes getting a faraway look as
he warms to the subject. “My grandfather along with J.P.
Aster and Durant turned the Adirondacks into a
playground for the wealthy.” The can of soda opens with
a squirt; we watch his adam’s apple bob up and down as
he swallows. “Ahh,” he says wiping his mouth on a
ragged shirtsleeve. “I do miss some things about
civilization. Water and herbal tea just aren’t Coke.”
“Pepsi.”
“Whatever.”
Spellbound, we listen as the man continues his story.
Common sense tells us to get the hell out of here,
screaming our heads off all the way down the mountain
for special effect……but no, we just sit there
fascinated…..with a hatchet buried in a tree behind our
heads.
“If there is anything I’ve missed, it’s an ice cold Coke,
the downfall of growing up in the Pepsi generation,” he
chuckles. “Anyway, back to my story. My family had
money, great gobs of money until, well, until…..never
mind, something bad. I didn’t understand it before but I
sure as hell do now. Bad investments, alcoholism, suicide,
I was born wealthy but now I live as a hermit. I prefer my
own company. But after today it won’t matter anymore.”
He looks at us and throws back his head to laugh
uproariously at some private joke. “Here, I have a little
present for you.”
“No, no, it’s not necessary.” I protest, my mind
shuddering at the thought of some filth riddled object
coming from him.
“I insist,” he raises a hand to still my protests. “It’s
impolite to refuse a gift from your host.” He steps into
the lean-to and begins rummaging through a wooden box
hidden under a pile of pelts. “Here she is,” he holds a
small object up to the light, admiring the glittering display
of color in the sun. “She is so beautiful,” he says wistfully.
“I hate to part with her, but I must.” Vic and I glance at
each other, shrugging our shoulders in puzzlement. What
does he have in his hand? She?
We gasp in surprise as he turns to us holding a
dazzling diamond broach. The sun reflects off the
multicolored gems set in a circular starburst. The broach
looks like a miniature eruption of fireworks resting in his
hand, glittering in the afternoon sun.
“I want you to have it.” He holds the broach.
“Ohhhh,” I say in a whoosh of breath. “I..I…
couldn’t take that. It looks far too valuable.”
“Really, sir.” Vic interjects. “It’s not necessary. Thank
you, but Elle is right. You must keep it. It looks like an
antique.”
“It belonged to my grandmother. My grandfather had
it commissioned for her. It just makes me sad to look at
now. It reminds me of a life gone by. I don’t want it. The
minute I saw this beautiful young lady, I knew it belonged
with her.”
I look at Vic with desperation, I can’t accept this
broach. The man is crazy. I start to protest again, “Jolib,
this is very generous of you, but I wouldn’t feel
comfortable accepting such a g…” Before I can finish my
sentence, he roars, shoving the broach in my face. “You
will take it. Do you hear me?” Spittle comes flying out of
his massive beard as he leans in closer to me. “Take it and
leave now. Do as I say before I get angry.”
Good Lord.
I shrink away from him in fear. Before I
get angry?…this isn’t angry? I’d hate to see him on a bad
day.
“Yeah, sure, it’s okay. We’ll take it.” Vic reaches over
to take the broach. “Watch, I’ll wrap it up in this bandana
to keep it safe.” Vic places the broach in his bandana,
starts to opens his backpack with elaborate care when
Jolib roars again. “No! It’s not for you. She has to take it.
Put it in her pack.” He gestures wildly at my pack. I grab
the broach from Vic’s hand and tuck it between the folds
of my sweatshirt.