Adirondack Audacity Page 5

  “Oh, I’ll be sure to put out the word; beware of the butterfly dragon queen wielding her net of death and destruction.” He chuckles. “So, Dragon Queen, I assume you must be Ellen?”

  His reddish blonde hair, thinning on top is tied back in a ponytail, forming a halo of loose ends framing his face. Pale green eyes wink out from small wire-rimmed glasses. His mouth turns up in a hint of a smile, as he studies me, taking in the details of my appearance. He seems amused.

  “Yes, I’m Ellen McCauley; it’s nice to meet you.” I return his inspection. He is lean like a wild animal, not a spare ounce of fat on his body, and he moves in graceful silence. The story around the campfire is he can stalk and touch a deer before they even knew he’s there. Based on my recent experience… this is no rumor. The companion freckles of a red head stand out in stark relief on his pale face.

  With a laugh he reaches out to shake my hand, “I’m Burt Burganey.” Dressed in a drab green shirt and rumpled khakis, he blends into the background of the cabin, except for his hiking boots, which are tied with neon green laces. “Hey, do you know how to make falafel?”

  “What?” I think this man is a little crazy. Is this some nature term I’m supposed to know? I’ve noticed he has the habit of emphasizing certain words in a sentence to stress his point. Strange.

  “You know, falafel, the fried chickpea balls you eat at a Lebanese restaurant. I had some last night and I want to try making them.”

  “Uhhhh, well,” I proceed cautiously. “I’ve never been to a Lebanese restaurant or tried…what did you call it?’

  “Falafel, I’ll get some and we’ll make it for lunch. Just thinking about them makes me hungry.”

  “Sounds great.” I respond with enthusiasm…not. Fried chick pea balls, it can’t possibly taste good.

  He stands with his hands on his hips surveying the disarray of the cabin. “This should be the year we get organized. I have no idea where any of our equipment is located. My assistant last year was a diaster. He just threw things in boxes without regard to labels or sorting. Why don’t you start pulling down the boxes from the shelves? Check to see if the contents inside match the label on the outside of the box.” He scratches his head, looking around the room. “ehhhh, first, I guess we should sweep and clean up a little bit in here…broom and dustpan are…ummm, somewhere around here. I’m sure you’ll find them. I, eh, have to check on…..um, something with Mr. Morris. It won’t take long. I’ll be right back to see how you are doing.” With those parting words he turns and walks out the back door to his car. The vehicle is so tightly packed it’s impossible to see out the rear view window. Gear spills out the open doors onto the dirt road looking like a yard sale gone bad. He pushes or pulls the extraneous gear into place, slams the doors, and disappears down the dirt road in a cloud of dust.

  “Okay, the we, just became me. I’m not sure the assistant was the messy one, Burt seems a little disorganized.” I mutter to myself looking around the dim interior of the cabin. The dark wood walls are bare. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling beams, and the windows are streaked with dirt. A set of raccoon tracks lead across the dusty floor to the chimney, its winter den. And it looks like the raccoon used the cabin as his personal latrine. Ugh… Equipment lays strewn about on the tables and benches as if the campers had walked out in the middle of a project. Morris said Burt liked to do things his own way, he wasn’t kidding. Whew, what a mess. Looks like Cinder-Ellen to the rescue.

  I sweep up small piles of dirt from the floor, and wash the wooden planks with oil soap until they gleam. Gagging, I clean mouse droppings and dried insect carcasses from the shelves before scrubbing them with pine disinfectant and hot water. Once started, I enjoy the task. Burt joined me half way through the job and we swept, scoured and polished in companionable silence, broken by a joke or a riddle he “insisted” on sharing with me.

  After several hours, and countless buckets of water and cleaning supplies, the cabin sparkled. “Wow,” Burt says, stepping back to survey our work. “I don’t think this place has ever looked so good. You’re a hard worker, Ellen. You did a great job.”

  Against my better judgment, I can’t help but feel a glowing sense of pride over my accomplishment and his praise. The cabin gleams with the radiance that only comes from a good scrubbing. The air hangs heavy with the scent of oil soap and pine. Now it feels more like home, a sanctuary for the summer. And Burt is beginning to grow on me…

  “That’s enough for today.” He says handing me a can of what appears to be some kind of hippie juice.

  “I agree. I don’t think I could face another cobweb.” I eye the can with suspicion, but I’m thirsty, and it’s cold. And to my surprise, it’s sweet and quite tasty.

  “I’m glad to see you aren’t afraid of spiders, it’s really stupid to have a nature counselor afraid of bugs.”

  “I’ve had a few counselors over the years afraid of snakes, spiders, and mice. I even had one in a panic over a moth. Afraid of a moth?! Give me a break.” He tilts his head back, and I watch his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. Wiping a hand over his mouth, he shakes his head, “It makes for a long summer and it just freaks the kids out when they see the nature counselor dancing on the table as a mouse scurries across the room.” He looks at me in question. “You aren’t afraid of mice, are you?”

  “No.” I giggle over the idea of me dancing on the table over a silly little mouse. “So where do you work when you are not at Camp?” I ask, tossing my soda can into the nearest garbage bin.

  “I’m a biology teacher at a high school in Ohio. I teach college level field ecology during Christmas and Easter breaks.” He pauses, chucking his can after mine, missing the trash bin completely; we watch it spin in circles on the floor, neither one of us moving to pick it up. “Last year I took a group to the rainforest in Costa Rica. It was the best week of my life.” He picks up the can from the floor and mimics a jump shot into the garbage. “What about you? How do you spend your time when you’re not in school?”

  “Costa Rica. Wow. I’ve never been out of New York State. Coming to camp is the farthest I’ve been from home.” I fumble for something interesting to say. “I go to school, hang out with my friends, hike in the woods, play basketball, the usual kid stuff.” In other words, just call me lame and boring.

  “Radical,” he says looking at his watch. “I’m starving. It’s time for dinner; did Hank and Marsha arrive yet?”

  “Oh yeah, the chef and his wife, they came in last night. I haven’t met them.” I answer over the rumbling of my stomach. “Are they good cooks?”

  “Yeah, if you’re into that kind of food.” He gets up, shutting the windows.

  “What do you mean that kind of food?” My hungry stomach grumbles in panic. My mind conjures up images of mushrooms, Brussel sprouts, liverwurst, cheap hot dogs and canned spaghetti. “What do they cook?”

  “Oh, normal stuff, meat, potatoes and vegetables.” He replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “And the problem with that is?”

  “Well, maybe fine for you, but I’m a vegan.” He answers as casually as if he said his favorite color was blue.

  Putting down the stack of identification cards I was organizing, I look at him with suspicion. What the hell is a vegan? I think to myself. Sounds like something voodoo. Okay, he’s weird……and I was just starting to like him. I close my eyes and sigh; what the hell did I get myself into, spending the summer working for some hippy nature nut who lives in a tree house. Great…...

  Chapter 7 Head Over Horse Tail

  The big day has arrived. Starting at one o’clock the gravel driveway leading into Camp High Point is packed bumper to bumper with cars and minivans bursting with campers eager to begin a summer filled with Adirondack adventures.

  Activity counselors such as myself; escort the new arrivals to their proper cabins while resident counselors, who bunk with their charges, assist incoming children unpack and organize their gear. Each cabin bears the name of an A
dirondack High Peak. Mt. Haystack is for the youngest group, followed by Santonini, Colden, Whiteface and so on until the highest peak in the Adirondacks, Mt. Marcy, is designated for the older campers.

  After the majority of the children have arrived, I notice a little boy standing apart from the others. His parents gone, he looks lost, tears streaming down his face. I start to make my way over, when Vic appears, kneeling down beside him. I see him comforting and joking with the little boy, trying to ease his fear over being at camp for the first time……..Gosh, I’m surprised he isn’t offering the kid a cigarette….I watch as the two of them walk away hand and hand toward Haystack cabin, the little boy looking up at Vic, laughing at some silly joke, adoration shining from his eyes. Hunh, go figure.

  … Camp settles into a routine. Morris wakes us in the morning blaring horrendous music over the loud speaker ranging from bagpipes to opera, symphony, and even Israeli folk songs. Breakfast follows a flag ceremony and morning meditation. Returning to their cabins, the campers ready themselves for the day ahead, and the activity counselors hurry off to their respective stations. Resident counselors heave a sigh of relief and fall back into their bunks for some much needed morning R & R.

  Days with Burt fall into an easy rhythm, morning hikes, paddles across mist shrouded lakes or up meandering streams. Afternoons devoted to nature related projects, collections, games and stories.

  The silver lining in the slave bound existence of a junior staff counselor lies in our one afternoon a week off…free from kids…free from bosses……free from kitchen duty……free…free…free! And did I say free from lunch with Burt. Due to the schedule of programs and hikes, lunch with Burt is part of my job. Let’s just say it’s been a learning experience. A vegan learning experience.

  Burt insists on bringing lunch from the tree house. It’s true; he lives in some wooden structure high up in the tree tops just outside of the camp boundaries. Our daily fare includes delicacies such as tofu, almond milk, bean casseroles, hot dogs or cold cuts made from tofu. Along with brown rice, carrot juice, wheat bread, fruits and vegetables, some I don’t even recognize. And God forbid no meat and no sugar. Apparently, a vegan is someone who consumes no animal protein. Reluctantly, I must admit some of the food is quite edible or my taste buds have gone into mountain mode. Along with the food is a dose of the Burt Burganey philosophy of life, stewardship of the earth, not getting hung up on material goods, working to make the world a better place. His moods change like quick silver, one minute he’s serious, the next, telling jokes and outlandish stories. For instance, he claims one day he was standing so still in a field, a skunk walked right over his feet. And he swears, scouts honor, that he’s touched a deer grazing in a meadow by using the slow stalking techniques of the Native Americans. He seems so sincere, I believe him. A little crazy, eccentric, moody, exasperating, messy and often late……I like him.

  As much as I enjoy Burt’s company, an afternoon off means…I can do what I want with no discussions to hurt my head; eat regular lunches of peanut butter sandwiches on white bread, chips, brownies, and a cold soda. Ahhhhhh, a little slice of heaven. And having an afternoon off means I can pursue that good looking object of my heart’s desire… Cowboy Scott. Scott Branson. His family owns a ranch in Texas near the Erhart’s. A professional rodeo rider, he broke his leg on a bucking bronco last winter. He’s taking the summer off to run the stable at camp and recuperate from his injuries. Being older than me only serves to enhance his desirability.

  What a hunk …..I’ve spent my afternoons off hanging around the stables, in hopes he will become infatuated with me, and we spend the summer holding hands looking into each other’s eyes.

  It’s amazing how far fantasy can be distorted from reality. My scheme backfired……big time. In the fantasy, Scott adores me. In reality…I’m simply one of the annoying gog-struck girls tagging behind him. The man’s shadow consists of a stream of worshipping little girls. I just happen to be the biggest one.

  Oh, he lets me muck out the stalls, saddle the horses, tag along on a trail ride but his eyes gaze right over me…like I’m dead space.

  So here I am on my day off, standing in a stall with a pitchfork, up to my ankles in you know what, and not a trace of Scott in sight. A clean stall with a bedding of yellow wood shavings, warm and glowing, a soft breeze blowing through an open window, air sweet with the scent of horse, a clean stall is a pleasant place to be. But with several layers of days old manure….it stinks. Sunlight streams into the stall, as I breathe in the dusky rich scent of horse, and my adolescent girl’s version of infatuation deflates. I’m beginning to think my plan to attract Scott stinks….literally. With my mind busy formulating a new strategy; I heave a wheelbarrow full of manure toward the door and who should appear? Terrific……just what I need. Vic walks into the stall carrying a full bucket of water.

  “Hey, you look like you could use a hand there, Cowgirl.” That annoying lock of long hair falls across his forehead shading his eyes, but not before I see the smirk and mischievous glint.

  “Thank you, but you’re a little late.” I reply primly, wiping the sweat from my brow on my shirt sleeve.

  “What are you doing here?” Pretending not to know Vic and Scott became friends based on their mutual interest in horses. Vic’s family has a ranch somewhere in Mexico; he worked as a ranchero since he was old enough to ride a pony. “Shouldn’t you be throwing some unsuspecting girl in the lake, hoping to get her fired?”

  He sets the bucket down on the stable floor. “Nope, I’ve sworn off throwing damsels into the lake, bad for my social life.” He stops, a small smile plays across his face. “It’s my afternoon off, so I stopped to check on a horse with a lame leg. Scott and I think she needs a rest and shouldn’t be ridden for a while.” He points at the pitchfork. “And what are you doing mucking out stalls on your afternoon off? Burt not working you hard enough?”

  “I like horses.”

  “From where I’m standing, looks more like you like horse shit.”

  “Why don’t you just mind your own business, go mug a camper, burn down the forest with that cigarette hanging out of your pocket, start a gang war, rob a bank, there are so many opportunities for your juvenile delinquent behavior than here in this stall with me.”

  “Why do you want to get rid of me? I could help you clean this stall. Or…is there someone else you wanted to help you?” He leans back against the stall door with a smug smile on his face.

  Ohhh…..He is such an infuriating little creep. Except…he’s not little…..by any stretch of the imagination. I can’t help but notice how his broad shoulders fill the stall door….. and the sun streaming through the window lights up the dust motes floating around him like flecks of gold. And his eyes, dark chocolate caramel, amber gold. Aggggh! He is so annoying…

  “I could be nice to you, if you gave me a chance.” He cocks his head sideways, voice steamy, laden with hot Latin undertones, and his eyes twinkle with mischief as they travel over my sweaty, dirt streaked body. His eyebrows dance up and down in a suggestive samba. “Very….nice.”

  He can’t be serious, I’m a mess. Then I glance down and cringe, in the heat my shirt clings to my body like a drowning man on a life raft, a button or two undone just for extra effect. shit…

  “I don’t need your help.” Pulling away the snug garment in an attempt at modesty, I glare at him and point at the cigarette sticking out of his shirt pocket. “What are you doing smoking? If Morris catches you, you’ll be fired. How stupid can you be?”

  “I can take care of myself. I don’t need a mother, I already have one. I have two packs for the entire summer so I can’t exactly kill myself on forty-eight cigarettes.” Darn.

  “Suit yourself. No skin off my back. Why don’t you get lost, I have a job to finish.” I see his face wince at my callous brush off. God, he has the most beautiful eyes, dark, deep……and I feel myself falling into them. Whoa….pull in the reins…what am I doing, he’s only playing me.

&
nbsp; Straightening my shirt, I give him a withering look and assume a dignified pose, trying to forget I’m pushing a wheelbarrow of horse poop. “I can do the job myself. I like being around the horses and the……..exercise.” I finish lamely.

  Snorting, he gives me a speculative glance, “So why are you dressed in new jeans judging by the tag hanging off the back pocket, and your hair tied back with a pretty ribbon? The horses aren’t going to notice.”

  “Crap,” I curse, pulling off the offending tag. Groaning inwardly, I look like an idiot sporting the name, brand, price and size of my jeans.

  “I can wear whatever I want. Why do you care?” I turn my back on him, setting the rake against the wall wishing him away by the sheer force of my will.

  “Fine, have it your way,” his face moments ago, teasing and laughing, closes to a hard edge devoid of emotion. “I would hate to keep you from your precious muck raking. I see how dedicated you are to the task.” He spits out the words, thrusting the bucket of water into my arms. “Here, you want to learn about horses, finish filling the buckets and make sure each horse has a flake of hay. Rule number one: Horses need water and food. You know what comes out of them, now learn what goes in.” He turns on his heel to stalk away when Scott’s head appears in the doorframe.

  “Euuuu,” I sputter repressing a stinging retort, instantly changing moods and fixing a sappy-sweet smile on my face for Scott.

  “Well, little lady, haven’t you done a superb job. Hey Vic, look at how hard she’s worked cleaning these stalls. Ellen, you must be exhausted.” Scott kicks the shavings with his boot, smiling up at me. Oh, there is hope yet. He noticed me. Scott drawls “This stall looks more comfortable than my mattress.” I glance over his shoulder to give Vic a smug smile as if to say “Told you so, smarty.” Unfortunately Scott finishes his complement with this parting sting, “You work like a little heifer, a little she cow with a strong back and hunches.”

  Heifer!! My mind screams at the unintended insult, picturing a large black and white Holstein dairy cow placidly chewing her cud, over inflated udders swinging as she saunters back to the barn. She cow! Is my butt that big? I give a dubious glance at my behind. I hear Vic snort, choking on his laughter.