Читать книгу Tale of the Taconic Mountains - Mike M.D. Romeling - Страница 8

In truth, few people have been to the summit of Bakers Mountain. For the weekend climber, there are higher and better known peaks, both in the Taconics and the other New England ranges that are within easy traveling distance. A morning’s ride can get one to the high peaks of the Adirondacks where climbers often spend years trying to reach the summits of all forty-six mountains that are over four thousand feet high. Some obsessed souls compete to see who can climb them all in the shortest time. The Catskills, the Greens and the White Mountains also can be reached easily and offer excellent climbing both for the casual hiker and for the serious climbers who seek out steep rock and ice routes of varying difficulty. Still these climbers would find Bakers Mountain to be a peculiarly formidable mountain to come to grips with, as one recent climber on the mountain could bear witness. He had stopped at Randle’s cabin one fine autumn day to ask about some ambiguities on the topographical map he was studying. Randle had not at first been happy that his cabin was included when the topographical maps of the area had been updated some years ago. But upon consideration, he decided it was kind of cool; a little dot that marked his domain on the planet for posterity.

Randle had been living happily in his cabin on the mountain for over twenty years. He had a couple of friends who visited now and then, sometimes staying overnight to get just a taste of his eccentric lifestyle. But other folks had trouble with the fact—or at least the rumor—that Randle was quite wealthy even though he lived like a virtual pauper. When hard times began to wrap their cold claws around Cedar Falls it was hard to resist the feeling that if the old coot wanted to live up there and grow odd as a barn owl, then maybe he ought to pass his wealth along to folks who would know how to use it. Randle didn’t mind; he had been able to do precisely what he wanted with his life for almost thirty years now and he had grown old enough to realize how few men can ever share that happy fate. Sometimes when he was down in Cedar Falls, someone might ask him about the way he lived. If it sounded to Randle more like a disapproving challenge rather than a sincere wish to know, he would get a twinkle in his eyes and talk about how he was a believer in reincarnation and how he had already long passed through the realms of struggle and strife for the useless material acquisitions of this world, and had now entered the serene levels of enlightened contemplation. Soon, he said, he might be melding into pure energy.

This kind of talk would usually plant the seed in his listeners’ minds that Randle was taking them into the murky waters of mysticism or somewhere else they didn’t want to go. Either that or he was making fools of them in some warped way. They would get a little fidgety and fishy-eyed and move along about their business after what they hoped was a decent interval.

Randle had seen the young hiker gingerly hopping from rock to rock as he crossed the stream below the cabin. He came outside to meet his visitor on his slightly tilted front porch, shook hands with the breathless young man, and sat down on the rocker he had built himself. They studied the map together and the young man pointed here and there to show where he had become puzzled. He was having a little trouble following Randle’s comments because the older man’s wide-brimmed hat hid the map from view every time he looked down at it .

“Well , these maps sure show a lot, don’t they Sam? You said your name was Sam, didn’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

Randle took in Sam’s brand new boots with the silly velcro fasteners, his new day-pack and his shiny red coat made of gortex that was all the rage now and supposedly even warmer than wool. Except for the faded blue jeans, Sam looked like he might have come here straight out of a store.

“But did you ever consider how much this map doesn’t show you?” Randle asked Sam mildly.

“Uh, no I guess not. Not really.” Sam was already regretting having stopped here. Obviously he had stumbled onto some weirdo local who thought he owned the mountain and spent his time trying to scare others off. Now he’d have to waste time humoring the old coot just in case he was a total loony bird who might break out the old twelve gauge blunderbuss at the slightest provocation. Or perhaps worse yet, the old guy might call out some pack of deranged mutant hounds from behind the cabin, and Sam would end up being run off the mountain like a frightened rabbit.

Sam shifted his feet. “I’m just trying to find the easiest way to get to the top.”

“Oh, well that would be by helicopter.”

Sam groaned inwardly. This was just getting worse. He searched for ideas to bring this conversation to a close.

Randle cocked an eye at him. “For instance, this here map doesn’t show the rock slides, does it? These mountains are old, Sam. Most of the topsoil has already come down; now the rocks are following. When they slide, they take down trees with them. When the trees come down, they hang and twist together into deadfalls like a pile of pick-up sticks. Don’t ever try to climb through those deadfalls, son. They might look solid, but it’s like they’re waiting for an excuse to crash down; waiting for you or me to come traipsing along whistling a merry tune.”

“I’ll go around them for sure,” Sam said, making a move to pick up the map. But before he could, Randle stood up and took it over to where the light was better by the railing that ran all the way around the porch.

“Don’t see nothing here on the map about wild dogs either, Sam.”

“I’m sure not.” There was a hint of weary exasperation in Sam’s voice, but Marsh ignored it.

“Well, they’re up there; coyotes too. Coyotes won’t bother you but you can never trust wild dogs. They maybe understand man more and fear him less. Know what I mean? You hear any yapping coming through the woods, don’t wait on ‘em. Find yourself a tree.”

“Sure, but listen, I got to get going if I’m gonna get back before dark.”

“Why are you going up the mountain today, Sam?”

Taken aback by this abrupt question, Sam hesitated, trying to judge what kind of answer might finally get him away from here.

“My granddaddy lived around here. Owned the house near the mill, the blue one that’s almost fallen down now.”

“Sure, I know that place.”

“Well, he used to talk about hunting on this mountain. We’ve still got pictures of him with his beagles and his old muzzle-loader. Even got the pouch that used to hold his powder hanging on our kitchen wall. I promised myself someday I’d get back here and see his house and hike the mountain.”

“Well Sam, that’s one fine reason to be going up this mountain. I’ll wager your granddaddy was a fine man.”

“Yeah he was. I miss him.”

“And you been thinking I’m just some old crank trying to scare you for no good reason, right?”

“Maybe a little,” Sam admitted. Behind him the sun was rising hight in the sky; it was heading for noon now and he was anxious to be off.

“Listen, I don’t go high up on the mountain very much anymore. Getting too old. But I know it like the palm of my hand. It can be a queer place. So just one more thing before you go. Do you know what those jeans of yours are made of?”

Sam looked down, puzzled by this sudden change of subject. “Uh...denim I guess.”

“Yeah, well that’s just a fancy word for cotton. Cotton’s no good outside, Sam, especially when it gets wet; then it’s worse than nothing at all. You got yourself a fine coat and some good boots there; now buy yourself some good wool or water-proof pants if you’re planning on being outdoors a lot. Got a hat in that pack of yours?”

“No, I’m just going to be a few hours. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s what they all say, Sam, when they get lost and are lucky enough to find their way back in. Or more likely when someone finds them and gets them home in one piece. You lose all your heat through your head, Sam, and that’s why I’m going to give you one of my hats. You can bring it back later and we’ll have a nip of whiskey together if you care to, and you can tell me about your day.” He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and smiled.

Sam felt himself instinctively pulling away for a moment but then the momentary touch suddenly felt infused with friendliness—almost affection —and Sam found himself smiling back into the weather-beaten eyes.

With Randle’s hat pulled over his head and around his ears, Sam finally started off along the path that disappeared into the trees behind the cabin. Randle watched him go with all the memories of his own years on the mountain flashing through his mind. He knew Sam would probably be fine. Almost everyone, even those who didn’t really belong in the mountains, usually made their way back out safely. It was just those few...those few you read about...they stick in your memory.

As it turned out, Sam would not see the summit that day, nor would he have any whiskey with Randle Marsh. Instead he would be carried out ignominiously by the Boudine sisters who found him late in the afternoon trying to crawl down the mountain with his broken ankle trailing behind him.

Perhaps, as long as Randle was going to regale Sam with warnings and advice, he should have mentioned one other thing—the ancient rock outcroppings that are everywhere on the flanks of the Taconics. These have been exposed for ages to the forces of erosion, and one effect of this erosion is that the rocks eventually split apart, creating small crevasses. Over time, falling leaves and twigs fill up these spaces, making them appear to be solid ground. And right after the autumn leaves fall, these cracks can be particularly well hidden. Sure enough, Sam fell prey to this hazard as he strode along with increasing confidence and decreasing caution toward the top of the mountain. There was the unexpected plunge of his right foot, followed by a sickening cracking sound, leaving Sam and his broken ankle at the mercy of the mountain and whatever the weather and eventual darkness would bring. With fear gripping him, and the icy shock-induced sweat breaking out all over his body, Sam was able to do little but gingerly pull his leg out and begin a snail-paced crawl back down, stopping at intervals to call for help.

When the Boudine sisters found him, they worked quickly. Ariel fashioned a litter from fallen branches lashed together with thin roots she cut out expertly from a nearby grove of spruce trees. Tara started a small fire and brewed a concoction composed mostly of the roots of valerian, a wild plant that is the herbal precursor of the synthetic and similarly-named drug, Valium, prescribed these days for our wired-up and stressed-out lives.

Tara’s tea was so strong that Sam soon fell into a profound sleep, and this proved fortunate because it was hardly a smooth trip down the mountain. There were some places where the sisters had no choice but to let the litter drag and slither down the steep pitches like a sled. Once he even rolled off the litter and fetched up against an oak tree. Sam reacted not at all.