Adirondack Audacity (3 page)

It’s because of my grandmother that I’m qualified to
take on the job as a nature counselor at camp. She passed
her love of the outdoors on to me. I grew up spending
afternoons wandering in the fields and woods around her
house as she pointed out various plants and animal signs
to me. In her world, the fields and forest are her church
and Bible. There are no expectations or criticisms in the
woods. Acceptance, respect and forgiveness abide
amongst the trees and animals.This is where God lives.
Glancing at Vera to make sure she is still asleep, I
brush away stray pieces of lint from the journal’s cover.
The front is hand-tooled, scrollwork blooming with
flowers and leaves. The binding is broken and worn.
At one time the pages smelled faintly of trees and
sunshine. Now they smell of earth and dried leaves.
Growing up in a house that wrote its own definition
of normal, I became introspective and quiet. Coupled
with my stumbling clumsiness, the kids at school dubbed
me with the nickname, Klutz-Ellen. It’s no wonder I
preferred playing with frogs and butterflies. It’s not that
I’m bad at sports; I’m just bad at life. It could be worse;
Joey Thompson’s nickname was Poopy Pants. Don’t ask.
Never having many friends, I spent my time
outdoors, learning how to sketch plants and animals, and
sometimes the journal provided an outlet to purge the
frustrations of my home and social life and come away
renewed. Turning a page, I run my hand over the delicate
plants pressed in the peak of bloom, now faded and held
eternal by a dab of glue. Colored pencils highlight or
shade points of interest…
And there on the inside cover is my grandmother’s
firm handwriting.

Hold fast to your dreams; keep a still secret spot where
they may go. Shelter those dreams so they thrive and grow,
away from doubt and fear. Let the magic of nature work
at will in you, and may your spirit soar. Be not afraid of
the miles ahead, hold fast to your journey, stay proud and
strong. Make the past your history, and not an excuse for
the future. Embrace truth, banish falsehoods and never let
darkness win.

The bus winds and climbs the steep roads, pushing
through rocky outcrops of forests. Huge boulders bump
through the forest green like gnarled knuckles and
rippling spines of granite. Balsam fir gives way to red
maple, white birch and towering white pines. And I can’t
help but wonder what this summer has in store for me.

My guide book said the Adirondack Park is one of
the largest parks in America, larger than Yellowstone,
Grand Canyon and Yosemite combined; the largest
publicly protected area in the contiguous United States.
The park contains forty-six mountains over 4000 feet,
thirty thousand miles of rivers and two thousand lakes
and ponds. In 1894 the Adirondack Forest Preserve was
established and recognized as a protected Forever Wild
area.……..and my passport to summer freedom and new
beginnings.

The sign along the roadside reads
Inlet
in carved gold
letters poised above a painted loon. The bus turns into a
parking lot and comes to a stop with a hiss of air brakes.

“Good bye, Vera.”
My voice muffled as I bend over
tying up the laces of my hiking boots.
“Whattt?” Vera blinks with bleary eyes.
“This is my stop. I have to get off here.”
“Here, dearie let me move so you can get out.” She
stifles a yawn. “Goodness, I fell into a dead sleep. Now
you have a good summer.”
“I will,” I assure her, wedging myself into the narrow
aisle of the bus. “I hope you enjoy your stay in the
mountains.”
She gives my shoulder a motherly pat before settling
back into her seat. “Honey, don’t you worry about me. I
know how to have a good time.”
Taking a deep breath, I head for the stairs. With a
wave good bye, I turn to exit the bus and snag the toe of
my boot on the ragged edge of rubber mat covering the
steps, lose my balance and crash with a thump into the
arms of the surprised bus driver.
Ouuu!
“Whoa, little lady, you’ll get there soon enough, no
need to fly off my bus.” He says with a chuckle helping
me to my feet with his strong arms.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to him, pushing myself off his
chest.
Oh God.
While the driver retrieves my suitcase from
the luggage compartment, I survey the parking lot hoping
no one noticed my precarious flight down the stairs.
“Good luck, little lady.” The driver gives me a salute
as he boards the bus. “Enjoy your summer!”
The door closes cutting off my last link with home,
leaving me in the cool Adirondack evening. My last sight
of the bus is Vera wildly waving good bye from the
window.
In the west the setting sun outlines the pines behind
the town hall in streaks of orange and pink. Shading my
eyes against the glare, I look around the parking lot for
my ride to camp and stop dead in my tracks…..
it can’t be?

Placing my belongings on the blacktop, I stop and
stare, shaking my head in disbelief. Am I hallucinating?
The man striding toward me could pass for Vera Watts’s
twin brother…. minus the mole. How is this
possible…did they leave her behind…. did she mutate
into a man?
Oh shit….

“Ellen,
come over here.” The man gestures for me to
join the group of teenagers lounging against a van in
various states of boredom. I say a quick prayer, please tell
me they missed my grand exit from the bus,
unfortunately it looks like they had…nothing…else…to
do.

“I’m Morris Erhart, Director of Camp High Point
;
we spoke on the phone last April for the interview.
Welcome to the Adirondacks.” Rocking back on the
worn heels of his cowboy boots he continues, “You can
call me, Morris, unless my wife is around, then it’s Mr.
Erhart. She likes a little respect between staff and
management, but for me, I’m more of a down to earth
kind of cowpoke.” Morris Erhart is a large man weighing
at least 270 pounds with a broad face, dark brown eyes
that tend to vanish into the little folds of fat surrounding
his eyes when he smiles. Faded blue jeans are held in
place by a turquoise belt buckle and his plaid cowboy
shirt strains against a spreading paunch. Atop his head is
an honest to goodness Stetson cowboy hat. Not exactly
attire for a mountain man. Vera Watts gone Texas style?

According to the camp information Morris sent me,
the Erhart family was originally from Texas and involved
in the oil industry. His grandfather fell in love with the
Adirondacks while on a business trip to New York in the
1920’s, and purchased a mountain retreat for his family to
escape the dust and heat of Texas summers. Due to
economic reasons in the 1950’s the family converted their
vacation property into a summer camp for children.
Morris and his wife are the second generation of Erharts
to manage the camp.

“
Ellen, you’re the last to arrive but before we pack up
and head to camp, let me introduce you to some of the
other counselors you’ll be working with this summer.”
Morris rubs his hands together and continues, “Let me
see if I have all the names and faces straight.” He glances
around at the group, tapping a finger against his cheek.
“Once we get you buckaroos introduced, we can hit the
road and head back to camp.”

I notice a dark lanky kid leaning against the van roll
his eyes skyward and silently agree with him. Buckaroos,
seriously? This could be a long summer.

“This here tall fellow is Mac Luciano.” Morris says.
“He’ll be the assistant director of sports this summer.
Mac plays varsity baseball and even had a few college
scouts check him out this spring.” Mac is over six feet tall
with straight brown hair that falls over his eyes, as if he
were trying to hide something. He’d be good looking
except for his large nose and acne marked face. As he
throws a baseball back and forth, I can’t help but notice
he’s missing half of the pinkie finger on his right hand.
He stops throwing the ball and extends his hand to me,
challenging me to touch his damaged finger. Little does
he realize, I’ve grown up with two younger brothers
who’s sole purpose in life is to gross me out. I reach out
and firmly shake his hand, our eyes meet and I return the
challenge…it takes more than a missing pinkie to faze
me, buddy.

“Hey,”
he says, and with a mischievous grin, he leans
in and whispers, “Fall much?”
Crap…..
so much for no one noticing my exit from
the bus.
Ignoring Mac, I turn my attention to Morris who is
introducing a kid wearing a tweed blazer adorned with
suede elbow patches over a white t-shirt, the cuff of his
blue jeans are shoved into unlaced hiking boots. His
blond hair is long enough to run a comb through, but
considered short in this era of the long haired hippy.
Looking at him, you can’t tell if he wants to be a Harvard
law professor or a farmer.
“Ellen, this is Ben Harmon,” Morris points to Ben
who is straddling a suitcase and strumming a beat-up
guitar. “Ben will be in charge of creating the props and
scenery used in our theater productions and bringing out
the musical talents of our campers.” Shorter than Mac,
Ben is solidly built with a ruddy Irish face. I feel his keen,
green eyes surveying every detail of my appearance, but in
a nice way. His scrutiny is more curious than malicious.
“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?