Adirondack Audacity (6 page)

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 Adirondack 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.
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.
That’s it, I’m done here. I turn to place the bucket on
a hook, and as luck would have it, in doing so I step on
the rake propped against the wall. The rake handle
springs forward, whacking me on the head, and with the
heavy bucket in my arms, I lose my balance…and fall
sideways……. into the loaded wheelbarrow… full of
“you know what”……followed by the bucket of water
crashing over my head.
Splat!
I’m sitting in manure, wet smelly disgusting horse
poop seeping into my new jeans with a bucket over my
head… Please God, let me die now, if you love me you’d
grant me this one wish. I cannot face Scott and Vic Rienz
covered with horse shit. Howls of hysterical laughter
echo in the tin bucket. Well, there is nothing to be done
for it; God refuses to grant my death wish. I can’t sit in a
pile of horse shit for eternity. And obviously, there will be
no help from the two of them. I pull the bucket off my
head; wipe the hair out of my eyes only to smear manure
down the side of my face….sending the two of them into
further bouts of laughter. Slumped on the stall floor, Vic
rocks back and forth laughing, “Oh my God; I’ve never
seen anything so funny in my entire life. She’s covered
with horse shit.”
“Wet shit, no less!” Scott says in a fit of laughter.
“Here, let me help you get out.” Scott wipes the tears
from his eyes as he sees me struggling to my feet, trying
not to bury myself further in the muck. “I’m sorry, we
shouldn’t laugh but you look so damn funny! Like a little
heifer that slipped coming into the barnyard.” This only
sends Vic into another bout of laughter as he staggers to
his feet, leaning against the wall, hands on his knees
trying to catch his breath.
I hope he chokes to death…
As much as I’d love to be a good sport…some things
are beyond humor. Lying in a pool of filth in front of the
man that fills my fantasy dreams….and the jackass who
has become my new nightmare, I just want to cry. So help
me if I cry, I will personally hang myself.
Taking Scott’s hand to pull myself out of the black
fetid muck, I turn on them, my voice dripping in venom,
“If either of you…..so much as breathes a word of this to
anyone…….and I mean anyone, I will haunt you every
day for the rest of your miserable lives and the lives of
your children and grandchildren.” Pointing my finger at
them with a vengeance, I intone, “Do you understand
me.” The two of them nod, biting their lips to keep from
laughing.
Jerks!
I turn with as much dignity as I can
muster to stalk out of the barn, but not before I see Scott
trying to wipe his manure covered hands on something
other than his clothing, thus sending them into further
hysterics.
Ughhhhhhh
…there aren’t enough Twinkies in the
world to make this feel better.
…
Later that evening as the sun nestles down behind the
mountain range, and all the little campers are snug asleep
in their bunks with visions of swimming, archery and
nature hikes dancing in their heads. It’s time for the
counselors to gather at the dining hall for some needed
rest and relaxation. The camp cooks, Frank and Marsha,
started a tradition they called “Night Owls.” A few times
a week they put out an assortment of leftovers from the
day’s meals, adding homemade cookies and batches of
hot buttered popcorn. A time to gather, kick back and
relax at the end of the day. And everyone loves Frank and
Marsha, not just for their culinary talents, but their
generous nature. And Frank is the king of knock-knock
jokes.
“Knock, knock.”
“Who's there?”
“Owl”
“Owl who?”
“Owl you know unless you open the door?”
One joke every meal, the camp is overrun with
knock-knock jokes, there is so much knock-knocking
going on, the woodpeckers can’t hear themselves think.
As with everything at camp, there is a clean-up
schedule after the Night Owl sessions. Tonight it’s Mac
and I. It doesn’t take long to cover, refrigerate or toss
out food no longer servable. Mac rinses, placing plates
and cups in the dish machine, while I wipe down the
counters tops and buffet table. After turning off the
lights, we stand on the porch, gazing at the stars. Millions
of stars pepper the horizon. I sigh, enjoying the beautiful
night sky even though my wounded pride over the barn
incident still smarts. In fact, it stings; it will take some
time to get over the humiliation.
“The stars seem so much brighter up here, away from
the city lights.”
“They are beautiful.” Mac says coming to join me at
the porch railing.
“Star light, Star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I
may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” I laugh,
quoting an old nursery rhyme.
“What do you wish for tonight, Ellen?” He asks,
leaning in close to me.
“At this moment, nothing, I’m just happy to be
here.” With the words barely out of my mouth, he takes
my arm and pulls me against him, and presses his lips
against mine.
Holy cow!
I should be shocked and
horrified… but he tastes like Twinkies, with a little
overtone of brownie. As my experience is limited … I’ve
never had a real boyfriend, not even a crappy one.
Curiosity wins out over reason and I think why not….so
I let him kiss me in the moonlight. It wasn’t a bad kiss, in
fact rather pleasant, when he raises his head, I don’t
protest, so he starts kissing again. Only his time with his
tongue.
Holy double cow, a French kiss.
I’ve
never
been
French kissed before. I surrender to the warm deep
probing in my mouth as he lightly flicks his tongue over
my teeth… a totally new experience. But I’m not sure I
like this experience, his tongue reminds me of a wet
sloppy frog flopping around in my mouth. And the kiss
wasn’t that great once the taste of the brownie and
Twinkie wore off. I don’t even like Mac. And to my
astonishment the image of Vic Rienz in the barn creeps
into my mind, his broad shoulders filling the stall door,
dark hair gleaming in the sunlight and those eyes….
oh boy.
I push away from Mac’s chest saying, “I have to go.”
“Let me walk you back.” He says eager to continue
our “French” lesson.
“No thank you,” I gulp. “I prefer to walk back alone,
but thanks for the offer.”
“Fine then,” He says in a withering voice.
“Whatever.” Turning on his heel, his boots clatter down
the steps and he stalks off into night. Standing alone on
the porch, I can’t help but wonder … if Mac tasted like
Twinkies… what would Vic taste like.........
hmmmmm….
the
unbidden thought of velvety, rich deep, dark chocolate
swirled with warm caramel over soft, silky peaks of
vanilla-coffee ice cream, covered in shaved curls of
toasted coconut, and a sprinkle of toasted
pecans…….
damn it.
He is
such
an arrogant asshole, why
do I keep thinking about him!