Adirondack Audacity Read online

  “Hi, I’m Ben,” he stands to shake hands. Flecks of paint stain his t-shirt, obviously an occupational hazard of one blessed with artistic talent.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Ellen McCauley.” I return his handshake, thinking he has that cute, nice guy look about him.

  A tall girl with straight, ash colored hair is Theresa Donaldson; she is perfectly groomed in carefully pressed pink shorts and coordinating button down shirt.

  “Hi, call me Tee,” she says, a welcoming smile on her face. “I’ll be the tennis instructor this summer.”

  She swishes an imaginary tennis racket through the air followed by a rueful laugh. My first reaction to her appearance......how is she so neat and clean? A glance down at my rumpled jeans, wrinkled shirt and scuffed boots confirms the bus company did not provide valet service to whisk away the grime of travel. I tug my shirt down in a vain attempt to smooth out the wrinkles and try hiding my hiking boots behind a suitcase. Maybe after a shower and clean clothes I can forgive her fastidious appearance.

  “Now this here little gal is…Katherine Hunt. This is her second year. Katherine, oh yeah, I forgot you wanted to be called Kat,” Morris shakes his head with a dubious look at Kat. “Anyway, umm…Kat is working in the theater program; she’ll be working with Ben.”

  Kat flashes me the peace sign. “Just call me, Kat.” This was uttered as a declaration, not a request. Her voice is sensuous bordering on sultry. Tall and slender, gypsy red curls tumble down her shoulders and her skin is the color of café au latte. Dark brown eyes, almost black are heavily rimmed with mascara and blue eye shadow. The denim shirt knotted at her waist has several buttons undone revealing ample cleavage. She looks older and exotic. Her appearance bodes a red flag of warning, a foretelling of wild bohemian ways, a beacon of

  impending trouble...I return her peace sign with the delicious anticipation of adventures yet to come.

  “Here, you look like you could use one of these.” A girl with long brown frizzy hair hands me an ice cold soda from the cooler at her feet. I’d forgotten how hot and thirsty I was until my hand touches the frosty glass bottle. I smile at her with gratitude. “I’m envious,” she says. “You have such beautiful hair.”

  Really? Someone thinks I have beautiful hair. Wow. But a closer look at her hair in the fading evening light reveals the reason behind her envy. If her hair were straight, it would fall to the middle of her back; unfortunately, it’s a mass of tight curls coming to rest at her shoulders. Sigh…understated hair envy, so much for the complement. “Thanks, I’m dying of thirst.” I answer politely to both the complement and the Coke.

  “You’re welcome, I’m Emi Jo Rodney.” She says, laughing blue eyes peer out of glasses too large for her face. “I’ll be doing arts and craft projects with the kids. There ain’t nothing I can’t do with a piece of

  boondoggle.” To illustrate her point she wiggles a long cord of brightly colored strings fashioned into a keychain. Emi Jo’s figure is lush bordering on plump. With a matching gingham bow in her hair, she is the

  personification of an arts and crafts counselor.

  “And over here…” Morris gestures to a teenager lounging in the background, too cool and disinterested to join into the group introductions.

  “This is Vic Rienz, our youngest counselor this year, he came highly recommended…. by me. Vic made it to the New York State Swimming Championship this year.” Morris says to us. “Our families have known each other for years and we’re thrilled to have him lifeguard for us this summer. No drowning campers this year?” Morris chuckles and ventures a lame attempt to engage Vic in conversation. “Right Vic?” I’m close enough to hear Vic mutter under his breath, “Yeah, if I don’t fucking drown myself first at this joke of a camp.”

  Youngest? I can’t help think; you’ve got to be kidding me. Apart from the group, Vic props himself against the hood of the van, tall, lean with the air of a brooding panther locked in a cage against its’ will. He looks better suited to counseling gang members on the streets of New York then coaching privileged upper class children. He reeks street savvy, not camp counselor. Hands slouched into his pockets, black hair loose around his shoulders, one errant lock tucked behind his ear. In a tough guy kind of way, he’s handsome, cool, dark and private. Even in the dim light he has the most arresting eyes I’ve ever seen, dark brown with luminous shots of molten gold. They’re gorgeous.

  He has the well-defined arms and back muscles of a swimmer, wide shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. His face is a study of angles, high carved cheekbones and a square jaw. He unfolds himself from the van and extends his hand, saying, "Hello mia, it is a pleasure to meet you, Ellen McCauley.” I feel a jolt run through me at his touch. He holds my hand a moment longer than necessary, and leans in close as if to capture the very air around me. I see the change in his eyes as our hands meet; and feel the sudden tension in his fingers. Smoldering dark eyes look deep into mine…and I feel my heart begin a slow insistent thudding against my ribs. His voice a drawl with a trace of Spanish accent, warns me to beware. I can’t believe he even heard my name let alone remembered it. His jeans are faded, worn through at one knee and he wears a hooded sweatshirt loosely knotted around his waist. Unlike the rest of us, clad in sneakers or hiking boots, he wears sandals. His presence unnerves me, yanking back my hand; I mumble a greeting, my voice husky with a slight tremor. Jeez, who is this kid?

  Chapter 3 Mountain Silence The van turns off Route 28 onto an unmarked dirt road. Almost instantly the left front tire hits a pothole with a jarring lurch. Outside, it’s total darkness except for the twin tunnels of light coming from the high beams.

  “Mr. Morris ?” asks Emi Jo, hands braced to prevent involuntary ejection from her seat. “What kind of road is this, I mean, is it even a road?”

  “Of course it’s a road , little lady.” Morris replies. His hands clutch the steering wheel as he swerves back and forth in a vain attempt to avoid the crater like potholes. “We’re just a few miles from camp.”

  “ Sir, exactly how many miles is a “few” miles?” Ben asks; not appearing too upset over the rough ride. Emi Jo now has a death grip on his arm and each jarring bounce crushes her ample breasts against him. The smile on his face confirms he’s enjoying the trip. And Emi Jo is clueless to the source of his happiness.

  “Well,” Morris chuckles a mused by our discomfort. “Last time I checked the mileage from Inlet to Camp High Point, it was about twenty-three miles on the main highway. I know y’all are in a hurry to get camp, being tired from your travels, so I took the short cut. This is one of the old corduroy roads, made from railroad ties years ago so travelers wouldn’t get bogged down in the spring mud. This route cuts ten miles off the trip.”

  And just when I think the lurching and bouncing can’t get any worse, a moan comes from the back of the van. Kat calls out in a panic stricken voice, “Hey, Up front! Morris, pull over, quick! I’m going to throw up!”

  There ’s nothing like a sick camper on board to shut Morris up. A quick twist of his wrist and the van comes to a screeching halt at the side of the road. Mac opens the door for Kat to make a quick exit. As she vanishes into the night, the rest of us step out to stretch our legs. As Vic climbs from the back of the van I hear him complain, “What the hell, nothing between my ass and a grizzly bear…” his voice fades away.

  I look back at him in astonishment. What in the world is he doing here? He obviously doesn’t want to be here, he acts like a condemned prisoner on death row. And he’s an idiot;; grizzlies don’t live in the Adirondacks, only black bears, the chances of a grizzly bear coming along and eating his sorry ass are far and few between. We should be so lucky….probably give the poor thing indigestion. Jerk

  Standing in the shadows of the high beams, Ben has a sad expression on his face for Emi Jo’s breasts are no longer imprinted on his arm. A collective gasp goes up from the group as Morris turns off the head lights.

  I don’t think anything has prepared me for night in
the North Country. Far removed from city lights, we’re wrapped in total darkness. The stars overhead are hidden by a canopy of trees and the new moon sheds a meager sliver of light. The air is soft and quiet; it is so quiet. Silence like a cloak of night velvet surrounds us. The stillness is deafening to ears grown accustomed to city noise.

  I ’m enchanted by the darkness and silence. As a child I hid under my blankets, afraid of the dark, sleeping only if the door was open or a nightlight left on. But this was different, so calm, so peaceful, so serene.

  And from out of the shadows comes an eerie tremulous howl wavering through the woods…what the hell?

  “ Oh, my God, what was that sound?” Kat hollers from the down the road. Apparently not everyone is enchanted by the darkness. “Where are you? Holy shit! It’s too dark, I can’t see anything! Where did everyone go?! Heeelp!”

  “Over here .” Morris calls. The van lights come on illuminating the road, banishing the darkness.

  “Who turned off the lights?” Kat wails. “I thought you fricking left me in the woods. What’s howling out there? Is that a bear, a mountain lion?” Her shoes kick up little puffs of dust from the road as she runs back to join us. “What was I thinking coming back to this wilderness!”

  “That was a loon, a duck that hunts by diving for fish in the lakes.” Morris explains calmly. “You should remember them; they’re on the lake by camp. That’s a mating call. Listen, there it goes again.”

  And actually, after knowing it’s only a duck and not some Sasquatch stalking us through the woods, the sound is hauntingly lovely. I step to the side of the road to hear better, and notice Vic standing outside the circle of light, listening, he turns his head, and I can feel his eyes on me.

  Morris opens the van door and ushers everyone back inside. “And by the way, I have to caution you about your language. There is no cussing or swearing around the campers or my wife. She does not tolerate foul language and lewd behavior from our counselors.”

  And what does he mean by lewd behavior? The image of the staff chasing each other around the campfire, naked comes to mind…..I don’t think that’s going to be a problem….being a Christian based camp and all. And the only reason Helen let me come was her hope that a summer filled with Sunday church service and prayer would save my immortal soul. Like there’s ever a chance to tarnish my soul under her watch…..

  …

  The sign announcing the arrival to Camp High Point is fashioned out of woven tree branches, like a huge cobweb hanging in the glow of the headlights. The camp is deserted and shrouded in darkness. Is this what the camp brochure meant by pristine mountain experience? Or is pristine just another word for primitive…

  “Where are the lights, why is it so dark?” asks Mac peering into the night, trying to get a glimpse of the buildings.

  “Well…we had a little problem with the electrician.” Morris says looking back at us, a guilty expression on his face. “In the fall we turn off the electricity to save money over the winter and then switch it back on in the spring before the campers arrive. The electrician wasn’t able to come until tomorrow. So I’m afraid your first night at camp will be in the dark. And no electricity means no water. Sorry.”

  Terrific……no lights, no water, no food, and no evidence of people….what if Morris is a deranged serial killer with a particular appetite for teenagers…….oh boy…

  Chapter 4 Camp High Point at the Cascade Sunrise comes quickly in the North Woods. Golden rays of morning sun spill through the web of tree branches causing streams of light to play across the hardwood floor. Stretching in my sleeping bag, it takes a moment to remember where I am. Snuggling down in the warmth of my bed, I survey the room with interest. I wasn’t dreaming. It’s as charming in the daylight as it was under the flashlight beams last night. Morris might be nuts, but he’s not insane. After feeding us;; and providing flashlights he conducted a moonlit tour of camp, dropping us off at our respective cabins.

  The walls of the cabin are unstained wood coated with a single coat of varnish, mellowed to a soft yellow patina. The beds are placed between long narrow windows that swing in like a set of small French doors when opened. Each window is covered in screening to keep out the voracious black flies and mosquitos.

  Curtains and bedspreads are made of a faded green plaid material. Tattered braided rugs in tones of green, rust and burgundy are randomly scattered over the knotty pine floors. Four wooden dressers are lined up on the wall opposite the beds, the drawers chipped and worn with age. And best of all…..it’s clean. No dingy cabin with smoke-stained walls smelling of mildew, crawling with spiders, mouse droppings, and bats flying overhead at night. At least I didn’t see any bats last night; a cautious glance at the ceiling confirms the absence of bat life. Whew. Helen tried selling me on the idea that bats live in cabins and try to nest in your hair at night. Knowing a little bit about nature, I didn’t buy it. On one hand she wanted me to leave, on the other hand she hated losing her free slave labor…Cinder-Ellen. Viewing the cabin from my snug nest, I decide…this is way better than a summer with Helen. Through the panes of glass I can see a chickadee flitting from one branch to another, calling out, chick a dee, chick a dee, dee,dee.

  A strident knocking at the door breaks the morning silence, followed by a commanding voice. “Girls, rise and shine, the sun is up and we have work to do.” The apparition standing in our doorway begins shaking a cowbell, the clanging of the bell is deafening.

  Four pairs of bleary eyes appear from the depths of flannel sleeping bags looking at this woman as if she were an escaped lunatic from a mental institution. I can hear Kat mutter under her breath, “What the F…?”

  “Ladies, I’m M rs. Sally Erhart, Mr. Erhart’s wife and Camp Director. You may call me Mrs. Erhart. I pretty much handle the day to day operations of the camp. You girls will report to me until your senior counselors arrive. All camp matters of discipline and finances are handled by me. Is that understood?”

  Heil Hitler, what happened to good morning and welcome to camp?

  “Yes, ma’am.” We chorus as dutiful schoolgirls, sitting at attention under the woman’s steely gaze. We thought Mr. Erhart was Camp Director. We were just told otherwise.

  While Mr. Erhart is jovial and generous, his wife, Mrs.Erhart, is all business and apparently…no nonsense and no fun.

  “I have breakfast started and I’ll need some help.

  Here is a jug of water to brush your teeth and wash your face.” She says setting down a jug on the dresser. “Take it with you to the latrine. I’m sure the electrician will be here soon and we will have water before noon.” I think the almighty has spoken, and no one dare question her authority.

  She has the athletic build of a tennis player, tall and slender, arms cut with well-toned muscles, blonde hair styled in a short bob. Her high cheekbones and thin nose suggest the essence of former beauty, now faded. Her blue eyes are cold and determined in a face devoid of makeup. I guess she is somewhere in her late forties. Mrs. Erhart reminds me of the women at a country club I once visited with a friend from school. She has the air of good breeding and wealth, but the look of her worn clothes and the fact she runs this camp suggests the family has fallen on hard times. And the firm set of her mouth shows she never forgave life for the injustice.

  Her blue eyes scan the room to ensure everything is in order. The gaze then turns to study each of us. Squirming under the inspection, we push sleep-flattened hair in place, smooth rumpled pajamas attempting to appear alert and awake. With an upward flick of her eyelids and a shake of her head, we are dismissed as lacking…but adequate. Her scrutiny put us in our place, we are the help…and she is the mistress of the manor.

  Turning to leave, she pauses at the door. “I’m going back to the kitchen. I expect to see everyone at breakfast in a half hour. Don’t be late.”

  “The witch is back!” Kat exclaims, untangling her legs from her sleeping bag as she peers out the window watching Mrs. Erhart retreating back. “Ugh, I ha
ve to pee!”

  “Oh, holy shit!” Kat exclaims as her feet hit the cabin floor. “It is fucking freezing in here.” She leaps back into bed, pulling the sleeping bag over her head.

  “How cold can it really be?” Tee asks, craning her neck to peer at the thermometer mounted outside the window. “Oh, goodness, you’re right. It’s only 43 degrees. This is the end of June, shouldn’t it be warmer than this?” Looking at Kat she wags her finger in disapproval. “And must you use that word. It’s vulgar.”

  “Yeah, get used to it.” Kat’s muffled voice comes from the depths of her sleeping bag.

  “Come on, let’s go, I’m starving.” I say. “We don’t want to keep Mrs. Erhart waiting. God knows what punishment she’ll exact on us, turn us into forest pumpkins or something.” I dig down and retrieve my socks, pulling them on before getting out of bed.

  “I’m ready.” Tee says twirling around, showing off her perfectly pressed jeans and sweatshirt. Her hair is brushed and pulled back with a matching ribbon. The sleeping bag on her bed, straightened; pillows fluffed and stuffed animals lined up in a row. How did she do that, I just turned my back for a minute? Wow, she’s good.

  “It’s too early, too cold and too far to walk to the bathroom. I’m going back to sleep.” Emi Jo whines, sliding back into her plaid cocoon, earning her a volley of pillows thrown at her head. Get up!

  …

  Within twenty minutes we’re standing on the porch of the dining hall, a large building constructed of cedar bark, majestically rising out of a clearing in the woods. A carpet of green lawn rolls down to the lake’s edge, anchoring the lodge between the forest and water. The porch wraps around the front of the building, curved and bent branches provide ornamentation and support for the steeply pitched roof. The porch rails are fashioned of cedar branches spelling out, “Camp High Point.” Traditional Adirondack chairs are scattered across the lawn facing the lake.