Adirondack Audacity Page 4

  “I can’t imagine how much it costs to send a kid to this camp,” Emi Jo whispers. “This doesn’t look like the dump I went to as a kid. I’ve never seen a camp this nice. Most of them are pretty crummy.”

  “You’re right.” Tee says, also whispering, “The camp my parents sent me to three years ago was not cheap by any means but it sure was nothing like this one.”

  I’ve never been to camp, so I have nothing to use as a reference. But even I knew this is pretty ritzy for a kid’s camp. It makes me wonder what kind of snotty nosed little brats come here.

  As we walk up the porch steps Mr. Erhart rings a huge bell used to call campers to meals. The smell of coffee assails our senses as we enter the dining room through a set of double screen doors. The inside of the dining hall is a wash of sunlight streaming through multipaned windows, reflecting off the wood panel walls. There are no curtains on the windows to obstruct the view of the lake and a crisscross of exposed wooden beams hold up the roof rafters.

  Suspended from the center beam is an Adirondack guide boat, a cross between a rowboat and a canoe, it moves across the water using two oars instead of a single paddle like a canoe. The focal point of the room, the boat looks more suited to an art gallery than navigating lakes and rivers.

  Mr. Erhart gives us a brief description of the dining room procedures. The door to the kitchen swings open and Mrs. Erhart comes bustling through, setting down a huge platter of eggs, home fries, and bacon on a large table that acts as a buffet serving station. Stopping to wipe her hands on her apron, she commands, “Everyone dig in, we have a lot of work to do, so we need a good breakfast to keep up our strength. Right, Sweetie?” She says tickling Mr. Erhart under the chin....psycho woman.

  I head to the coffeepot, noticing Vic right behind me. I hand him one of the heavy enamel coffee mugs commonly used in restaurants. There is something about picking up a nice heavy mug, the aromatic steam of coffee wafting up, filling your senses. Add a little sugar and cream, take that first sip, it’s a little bit of morning heaven. As I take my first sip and sigh, I see Vic looking at me.

  “What?!”

  “That’s a lot of cream and sugar.” He says, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. “Hate to see you get fat.”

  Jerk. “Well, black coffee is too strong for me.” I say with a faint shudder, tipping my mug in the direction of his cup. “Ladies don’t drink black coffee.”

  “What does drinking black coffee have to do with being a lady?” He leans against the table crossing his arms over his chest, cocking his head to one side, an amused look on his face. Wearing jeans, hiking boots and a flannel shirt, he looks more like a logger than the tough punk kid of last night.

  “I don’t know; black coffee seems harsh and bitter.” I lift my mug in a mock toast to him, laughing. “Something a lumberjack would drink on a cold mountain morning.”

  “What? You don’t like my clothes?” He makes a grimace. “My mother picked them out. I knew I should have checked my duffle bag before leaving home.”

  He seems so tough and independent; I wouldn’t think he even had a mother, let alone one who picks out his clothes. I try slipping away from him but Ben blocks my exit. “Hey, how’s the coffee?” he asks, rubbing his hands together, chasing away the morning chill.

  Vic reaches into the pyramid of mugs, hands one to Ben. “Here, try some.” Ben hesitates, his face momentary registers surprise at the friendly overture from Vic.

  Ben fills his mug from a large urn, adds a healthy dose of cream, takes a sip and proclaims. “Not bad.”

  Vic leans back against the counter top, his dark eyes glinting gold in the morning sun as he surveys my body... up… and… then down, leisurely taking his time, as if I’m not aware of what he is doing. Excuse me.

  His voice dripping like dark melted chocolate says, “Oh, the coffee is very good.” The corner of his mouth turns up; as he stares appraisingly at me.

  I find myself blushing, the temperature of the room rises or maybe it’s just me. I’ve had enough of his once over. In turn, my eyes run up and down the length of him with a look of total disdain, I say in a scathing voice, “The coffee is…..quite ordinary. Nothing special.” And with that pronouncement, I set down my mug, turn on my heel and walk away. I can hear Ben and Vic giggle like twelve-year old school boys and clink their mugs together in camaraderie. Ugh….. Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me?

  Heading out to join the girls on the porch, I yank the screen door open and run smack dab into a wall of muscle, clad in a cotton shirt smelling faintly of starch and a summer clothes line. Small pearl headed buttons lead my vision higher and higher to the heavens, where haloed in the morning sun I meet the most stunning blue eyes I have ever seen. A square jaw stretches into a slow smile of even white teeth, in stark contrast to ruddy bronze skin. Small crow’s feet crinkle in laughter as his eyes look down on me. He must be in his early twenties; sun bleached curly blonde hair peeks below a cowboy hat, long enough to graze his shirt collar. It’s true, angels do exist.

  “Hold up there, little lady, you’re running out here like a buffalo stampede on a Saturday night.” The blonde god says to me.

  I’m struck mute…. cat got my tongue…can’t find an intelligent word in my head…and I believe the technical term is…. gob-struck. He is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. I feel dizzy and faint. I reach out a hand to steady myself against his chest, and just stand there… staring at him……..not uttering a single word.

  “Well, you must be one of the new gals on the ranch. Welcome,” he chuckles. “I’m Scott Branson. I take care of the horses around here. Hope to see you down by the barns.” He pats me on the shoulder as I stand blocking the doorway, causing him to walk around me. I turn and watch his broad shoulders saunter away in butt perfect Wrangler jeans, a body made taller and leaner by the two inch heels of his cowboy boots. Oh, My God, I’m in love…. come down to the barn, I’ll move into the barn. And with that the screen door slams, hitting me in the

  face…Ouch!....... I think I just brush burned my nose………and my ears ring with the chorus of teenage boys snickering across the room.

  Chapter 5 Misplaced Affection We were hired as junior staff counselors, the terms of our employment included arriving at camp a week before opening to help “spruce things up”. Being a naïve, trusting soul, I assumed an extra week of camp without the encumbrance of parents, young campers and older peers, a teenage dream. That dream turned into a mininightmare of slave labor. Mornings started with Morris waking us to the sound of Scottish bagpipes wailing over the loud speaker, and the little camp “spruce up” proved to be five days of grueling work. While the girls cleaned the inside of the cabins, the guys tackled the outside work, painting, nailing down loose boards and repairing the mortar around cracked chimneys.

  At the end of the day we dragged our weary bodies to dinner, too tired to move. The evenings spent sprawled on faded couches in the recreation building. The rec building holds every indoor activity created to wile away a rainy afternoon with the exception of ……a television. One of the first revelations discovered upon our arrival was the lack of television. It dawned on us, ten weeks of semi-forced confinement in the wilds of the Adirondack Mountains, with no television and a radio station that plays only classical favorites from the 50’s. Music from our grandparent’s era… translates into we’re forced to rely upon our own devices for entertainment. And that spells trouble with Kat and Mac in the lead.

  Even though exhausted, there is still energy to fuel raging teenage hormones. The relationship game begins, who will score and who won’t. Or is it whom will score? The pairing off begins, Emi Jo and Ben commandeer the couch, discussions over the evening newspaper turn into debates, the debates become a wrestling match or better described as a grope and fondle. Mac and Kat sit cross-legged on the clean but faded rug, playing poker. Instead of poker chips, they use peanuts; the peanuts will turn into dollars after their first paycheck.

  Tee, Vic
and I play Scrabble, or as we call it, Battleship Scrabble, most nights ending in an argument over a Spanish word Vic insists he can use. Tee’s mother is sending us a Spanish dictionary.

  Vic remains a mystery. At first, quiet and aloof, he preferred staying apart from the group, too cool to join in, but slowly the loneliness and isolation of the woods, combined with the necessity for socialization made him realize, he was stuck with us. We are his only options for age appropriate human contact this summer. And to our surprise, a mischievous devil lives inside of him. Even though he’s hired as the lifeguard, he’s hell bent on drowning us. Especially the girls…and more specifically me. And I’m running out of clothes. The daily dose dunking, dousing, spraying and splashing have taken a toll on my meager wardrobe. Did anyone say wet t-shirt contest. I refuse to wear white anymore. Tee says don’t worry she has enough clothing to last the two of us the entire summer and into early fall. The thought of wearing pink, preppy shorts with a matching shirt and

  headband…makes me want to puke.

  Vic’s methods of dunking and drowning vary, depending on his mood, either a bucket suspended over a door jam, one tossed from behind a corner or a casual push off the dock.

  This afternoon I made the mistake of walking out to the end of the dock, crouching down to study a patch of water lilies when suddenly from behind, I found myself propelled head first into the lake.

  “Vic ente Rienz,” I sputter, my head braking through the surface of the water. “You stupid, immature idiot! What if I can’t swim!”

  He cups his hands in front of his mouth, mimicking a megaphone, calling out to me. “You have those beautiful long arms and legs, of course, you can swim.”

  “What!” He can’t possibly be serious, my arms and legs make me look like a stretched out Gumby with boobs, he’s insane. “You suck as a lifeguard.” I call back to him. “I’m drowning! Look, I can’t touch bottom.” I scream, flaying my arms in a parody of a drowning victim, bobbing my head under water for extra effect. Except maybe this is not a joke…. and I am drowning, the water is cold and deep. I can’t feel my toes, I’m freezing to death. That obnoxious shithead from the Bronx or God knows what ever portal of hell Morris and his wife dug him out of …..is trying to kill me. I fume even more as I watch him stretch out on the dock, his head resting on his elbow, his expression soft and amused.……….watching me thrash and flail away, giving an award winning imitation of a drowning victim. His baseball hat cocked jauntily to the side, a smug smile on his face. He reaches one long arm to me saying in a sickeningly sweet voice, “Ellen, darling, just grab my hand.” He wiggles his fingers enticingly over the edge of the dock. “I‘ll pull you in, just surrender to my masculine superiority.”

  So help me, if I grab his hand, my righteous anger will haul his sorry ass under and drown him. “Over my dead body will I give you my hand, I’ll drown first! “Well,” he says, watching my pathetic attempts. “I guess I’ll just have to assume my duties as lifeguard and save you.” In one swift motion, he bounces to his feet, pulls his shirt over his head and starts to unbutton the top of his cut-off jeans… his hand reaches for the… zipper.

  Oh my God … I realize with horror……he is going to strip down in front of me. And if the growing patch of white skin above his cut-offs is any indication, as he slowly and tantalizingly eases his zipper downward, he’s not wearing underwear. My options dwindle to watching him perform a strip tease on the dock, being saved by this junior water terrorist or hauling my butt out of the water on my own. No way in hell is that Spanish Casanova gringo chasing me through the water.

  “What are you doing?” I holler in disgust. “Stop it, stop it, right now. Leave your pants on for God’s sake.” At this point he has slid the zipper all the way down and begins wiggling his hips to help accelerate the decent of his tight shorts. The shocking display of white skin just below his waist band is getting larger. Ben is rolling on the grass, howling with laughter. Kat and Mac shout out burlesque taunts to encourage him. I hear them yelling, “Lower, lower, save her, Vic.” Emi Jo is torn between her bond of friendship and giving into hysterical laughter. Tee, the only loyal one of the entire group, has come running down the dock with the buoy ring in her hand. God bless her heart, she really thinks I’m drowning.

  “Vic! Stop taking off your clothes and go save her!” She screams flinging the life ring in totally the wrong direction, trips over the rope and proceeds to fall onto the dock in a tangled pink heap. “What is wrong with all of you, can’t you see she’s in trouble!”

  At this point I realize my performance will not win any Oscar nominations so I kick off to shore, each stroke fueled by every curse word I’ve ever known, hurtled at Vicente Rienz’s head… shouting at top of my lungs….so everyone hears. And who is there to greet me at the shore but ………Morris with a stern look on his face and Mrs. Erhart. “What’s going on here?” They’re standing at the edge of the lake, Morris has his hands on his hips, and his wife looks really pissed. Oh, my God, damn it.

  “ Maybe we need to assign more work to keep this group out of trouble.” Mrs. Erhart says, riveting her cool blue gaze on me. “I’m shocked at you, Ellen.”

  Morris continues, “Ellen, I’m surprised. That kind of language is not acceptable, you should know better. Your reference letter was from a priest. What would Fr. Oligano say if he heard you?” Ohhhhh boy, plenty I’m sure. My mind groans.

  “Ellen, this could be grounds for dismissal. Do you understand?” Mrs. Erhart continues with righteous indignation.

  I mutely nod my head, water dripping down my nose, mixing with tears of frustration.

  “Tomorrow the senior counselors arrive, followed by our campers.” He frowns, shaking his head at my pathetic appearance. “Ellen, get back to your cabin and change before you freeze to death.” Dismissing me, he turns his attention to the rest of the group. “I expected a little more maturity; we have a long summer and a great deal of responsibility ahead of us. So get back to work.” With a disgusted shake of his head he stalks off in the direction of the administration cabin with his wife leading the way.

  Vic comes running after me. “Ellen, wait, slow down, I’m really sorry.” He holds out his gray sweatshirt. “Elle, tossing you in the lake was a dumb idea. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. Take my sweatshirt before you freeze. Keep it,” his voice laden with remorse. “I don’t need it, please take it. I’m so sorry.”

  Over my dead body!” I hiss at him, turning on my heel, running down the trail in the direction of our cabin, dripping and shivering all the way. “I would rather freeze to death than take anything from you.” I hurl the words over my shoulder.

  My mind whirls with worry as I walk back to the cabin. I can’t go home to Helen. I’ll run away to the mountains, survive on nuts and berries. Anything is better than living with Helen. What will I do if the Erharts fire me? God, I hate Vic Rienz….

  Chapter 6 Burt The gossip at breakfast this morning centered on my boss, Burt, the chief naturalist at Camp High Point. Apparently he arrived late last night. I’m anxious to meet him, but the stories circulating around the breakfast table leave me filled with trepidation. Apparently the man is eccentric to a fault. Rumor has it; he owns property just outside of the camp boundaries and lives in a tree house, preferring to spend his time with the trees and animals, instead of people. Okay, I kind of get that….I’m trying to keep an open mind.

  I strike out on the trail to the nature cabin unsure of what will meet me, following the winding path through the woods along a small stream. My shoes damp with morning dew as the shaded trail journeys deeper into the woods, the path bordered with hobble bush growing under dappled shafts of sunlight. Patches of pink sorrel are scattered throughout the ferns and moss that make up the forest floor.

  The nature cabin sits isolated under a canopy of trees, about a quarter of a mile from the main camp, at the edge of a small lake. The rough-hewn building is constructed of hemlock logs with a pair of old-fashioned lead glass doors op
ening onto a small covered deck.

  Knocking softly on the door I peer inside the cabin. “Hello, anyone here?”

  “Helloooo,” I call out again, taking a deep breath I venture into the dim interior of the cabin. Instantly I’m assailed by the scents of wood smoke and mildew. I wrinkle my nose. “Hellooo! Anybody here!”

  “Hey,” booms a voice from the shrouded corner behind me, causing me to yelp in surprise. Instinctively I grab for the nearest object at hand, planning to ward off the unknown assailant. Glancing down I realize… the nearest object at hand was not my best choice…..

  “Sorry, did I scare you?” says the faceless voice.

  “Yes!” Unfortunately, I startle easily. “Come out where I can see you. Is that you, Burt?”

  “Who else would it be? The boogie man?” A small middle aged man walks out of the shadows carrying a crate. He sets the overflowing box down and reaches into his back pocket pulling out a red bandana to wipe off his hands. Leaning against the table he crosses his arms and observes me with keen green eyes. His eyes twinkle with good humor. Nodding his head in my direction he asks, “So Rambo, that’s your weapon of choice? You might take out an unsuspecting butterfly with that thing, but it’s no weapon of mass destruction.” He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. “Gee, I didn’t realize I was so scary. A whole butterfly net, am I that menacing?”

  Okay, in my haste, I grabbed a butterfly net off the table. Looking at the slender pole with the dainty lace netting attached, it’s doubtful I could fight off a mouse with this thing. I give the net a couple of quick swishes in mock display of my power.

  “Oh, yeah, you wouldn’t be so smug if you were a Monarch butterfly.” I challenge. Great, I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of my new boss. Yes, I’m afraid of the dark and things that goes bump in the night…but there’s no point admitting that to him… until absolutely necessary…preferably never…I’ve always had a soft spot for the Cowardly Lion, kindred spirits and all that.