Adirondack Audacity (5 page)

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.

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.”

“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….

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 opening 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.
“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…..
.