Buck Rack Lake

Buck Rack Lake

Jay Giess

BUCK RACK LAKE Copyright © 2013 by Jay Giess

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For Shela

Part 1: The Camp

Some men know they’re competitive. The others just don’t know it yet.

– attributed to St. Engelbert by the Germans, St. Odo by the English.

Horace

Camp Burlwood—twelve years of hard work. Horace Wainsborough stepped onto the dock and tied his canoe to a cleat. He imagined himself an industrialist from the turn of the twentieth century arriving at his rustic retreat: the black flies gone for the season, his wealthy friends packing their trunks in Manhattan for the train ride north, and his 130 employees hidden away in their cabins a half mile down the road.

He glimpsed through the pines to the upper floors of the four-story main lodge. The graceful branches that formed the moldings under the peaked roof blended with the trees. He walked up the stairs made only of wood found on the twenty-three thousand-acre site.

At the landing halfway up, he stopped to draw in the scent of tangy evergreens; he turned toward the water. A loon swooped down and dinged placid Buck Rack Lake—named that because it resembled the antlers of a male deer. On the far end of the lake, Mount St. Engelbert stood guard, the rocky top jutting to the left. Orange and raspberry hues of the falling sun settled on the tops of the sugar maples, spruces, and pines that undulated along the shoreline—no visible manmade structures (he had insisted on it).

Perfect, he thought. Then he heard a crack from near the lodge. The sound could have been a branch breaking, backfire from a motorized vehicle, or…a gunshot. He hurried up the steps to the narrow swath of grass in front of the building. A boy emerged from the double doors and ran toward him on the gravel path. Upon seeing the man, though, the boy made a quick turn and slipped; he buffered his fall with his hands. Horace helped the lad to his feet but kept a tight grasp of the boy’s collar. Who are you? Horace said.

The boy of twelve or thirteen brushed off the debris and looked up. Sorry, sir. Without warning, he kneed Horace in the groin. Horace released his grip to tend to the ache, allowing the youngster to dash around the left side of the lodge and disappear into the woods.

Bradley

Bradley Van Dyke folded his green North Face jacket and slid it into the beige duffel bag. He could have used a suitcase, but it didn’t seem right for a trip to the High Peaks. The board members of the Adirondack Mountain Preservation Society were to be the first guests at the newly constructed Camp Burlwood. Bradley had inherited his spot on the board from his father, who had died a year earlier; this would be Bradley’s first meeting.

A woman rolled over in his bed. Her petite breasts waggled under a pink tank top. Where are you going? she said.

Don’t you remember, I’ve got a board meeting in the Adirondacks. I’ll be back Sunday night. You can stay if you want.

Thanks. She pulled the blue comforter over her body—the thermostat for the air conditioning was set to seventy degrees.

Bradley recalled a ditty: Pine Manor to bed, Wellesley to wed. Tabitha was definitely Pine Manor. He shook the duffel bag to distribute the contents evenly and closed the zipper that was positioned like the grip on a football. He kissed Tabitha on the forehead—she didn’t notice—and went down to the garage of his brick townhouse, where he tossed the bag into the trunk of his black BMW. Twelve minutes later he was cruising east on Interstate 490, a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, black, in the cup holder.

Simon

Simon Goldstein was the only Jewish board member of the Adirondack Mountain Preservation Society. He was also the only board member who lived in the mountains full time.

I’m going for a run, he said to his wife as he leaned against the family room wall of the log home he’d built himself, stretching his left calf muscle.

When does your meeting start? she asked from the kitchen.

Cocktails are at six.

Are spouses invited to anything?

No, he said, knowing she’d be relieved.

I’m going to finish my quilt for Hiram’s boy.

Simon switched legs, his left leg warm—he now rarely sensed the after effects of the torn Achilles tendon he’d suffered a year earlier. How many kids is that then?

Five. Four girls and now Hi Two.

Hi Two?

Hiram Junior, but they call him Hi Two.

Hiram was Kathy’s cousin, once or twice removed. Oh. Simon arched his back and stretched his arms over his head. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, he said before sprinting out the door. He passed Kathy’s green Land Rover with the ADK Native sticker in the rear window—he sometimes felt guilty driving it since he grew up in New Jersey.

He settled into an eight-minute pace on the flat section of State Road 99 where there weren’t any trees to provide shade from the July sun, but as summer was short, he welcomed the heat. And there were plenty of opportunities to get water on the route he’d chosen: the fountain in the campground, Jordan Grocery—he’d put braces on all the Jordan children—and several hoses in town.

A minute or two after he rounded a bend into a heavily wooded area, a white van approached, hugging the right side of the road. He moved left to offer plenty of clearance. As the van passed, a young man in a white shirt leaned out the passenger window and yelled, Watch where you’re going, mister.

Simon looked back. The van slowed. Two boys, also wearing white shirts, stared at him from the rear window. The van turned onto a gravel road that Simon thought had been abandoned—he couldn’t recall ever seeing a vehicle on it.

Bradley

Welcome to Camp Burlwood, the man with white hair said, standing in front of the bay window that offered a view of the lake.

Bradley took a sip of Saranac Lager; he set the glass on the table topped with a piece of varnished burl wood, the irregular edges and odd grain pattern suggestive of a geode.

I’m Horace Wainsborough, the man continued, and I will be your host for the weekend. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know.

Simon leaned toward Bradley. Can you believe this place? It makes Sagamore look shabby.

Bradley nodded. He’d heard of Sagamore but never been there.

A man of about fifty got up from a table near the front and turned to the six people scattered around the bar. Bradley recognized Bob Parry. Welcome to the annual retreat of the Adirondack Mountain Preservation Society board of directors. He paused. First I’d like to welcome our newest member, Bradley Van Dyke.

Everyone clapped. Bradley gave a bent-arm wave in acknowledgement.

Bradley has taken his father’s seat. Over the next couple of days, I’d like you to think about what might be an appropriate tribute for Wayne. I’ve scheduled some time on Sunday for a discussion of the topic. Now that concludes the business for this evening. Please enjoy yourself at this wonderful facility. Dinner’s at seven.

Bradley turned to Simon. Are all the meetings like this?

Pretty much. First time we’ve been here, though. First time anyone’s been here. I’m going to go down to the lake. Care to join me?

No thanks.

Simon left the bar. Bradley took another swig of his beer and went back to his room. He opened the oak door and went in. A young woman with short brown hair was leaning over his bed, placing something on his pillow.

Excuse me, he said.

The woman looked up. I’m so sorry, sir. I thought you were at dinner. I’ll be leaving.

Go ahead, Bradley said. I just want to grab a sweater. It’s cooler than I expected. He walked to the closet, noting the treat wrapped in green foil resting on his pillow.

She straightened the comforter and started to the door.

Bradley closed the closet and turned toward her. I’m Bradley, by the way.

Obviously embarrassed, the young woman said, Uh. I’m Emily. I have to be going. Then she hurried out of the room.

Probably her first day on the job. She had to be kind to the guests but wasn’t prepared for his friendly overture.

Horace

Did you find anything? Horace said.

Nothin’, the man in dirty overalls said. I looked everywhere. And the AC’s working fine. Are you sure it wasn’t a ghost?

He had on a white shirt, I’ll grant you that, but no ghost I know can kick you in the balls.

They stood in the hallway that led to Horace’s office from the bar.

What do you want me to do now?

I’ve got to socialize with our guests. Clean yourself up. Put on one of the green golf shirts. I want to introduce you to everyone.

The man frowned and shuffled away. Alfred Oxley could fix anything: generator, beer tap, chimney, Ford F-150, inboard motor, outboard motor, flush toilet, and anything else Horace could name. But Alfred had refused to attend the hospitality sessions led by a former Four Seasons training manager.

Horace checked that his collar was straight before returning to the bar. He poured himself a ginger ale, then approached Bob Parry and a woman in khaki pants and red flannel shirt.

What do you think? Horace said to the pair.

Looks great, Bob said. But I can’t wait to get on the lake and do some fishing.

Can I get to Mt. St. Engelbert from here? the woman said.

Sure. You can get a trail map at the front desk. But it’ll take you five, six hours to get there and back.

I’m planning on starting early, she said, then shifted her gaze to Bob.

As long as you’re back for lunch, Bob said.

Christy Hazzard was the toughest of the bunch, except for maybe Simon, Horace thought. She’d lived in Alaska for many years before returning to New York to run the Hazzard Foundation after her father’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point that he couldn’t run it anymore.

I’ll get one of the guides to accompany you, Horace said. If you don’t mind.

As long as he’s young, cute, and can keep up with me, Christy said.

I don’t know about the first two, but I can assure you that you won’t be slowed by any of them.

Is it possible for me to stay on for a couple of extra days? she said.

Horace thought for a moment. Sure. He hadn’t planned on anyone being there after the retreat—his crew would doing some final touches in the cabins before opening to the public the following weekend, but one guest shouldn’t be a problem.

Was that a ferry boat I saw on the other side of the lake? Bob said.

Yup. Just like the old days. There’s a railroad spur that comes in over there that connects with the old New York Central line.

Bob downed the last of his drink—scotch , most likely.

Can I get you another? Horace said.

No, Bob, the chairman of the Adirondack Mountain Preservation Society, responded, I’m good for now. He set the glass on a counter-high burl wood table just behind him. Anything you’ve left out…from the Great Camp days?

I put in flush toilets and showers for the staff. OSHA regulations.

Bob guffawed. He owned a chemical products company—probably had regular dealings with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.

Horace could see a salt-and-pepper beard jutting from the doorway behind the bar. He called to his handyman. Alfred, come out and join us. The man shuffled toward them, his head down. The creases were still visible in the green shirt, which had an ornate B&W gold logo over the left breast. Introducing Alfred was, of course, not absolutely necessary, but someone was sure to run into him, and Horace didn’t want any thoughts of Deliverance to cross the minds of his guests. This is Alfred Oxley, chief caretaker of the place.

Alfred, this is Bob Parry and Christy Hazzard. The caretaker shook their hands, raising his gaze to the lower part of the board members’ eyes.

Nice to meet you, he said, then turned to Horace. I’ve got to check on the dock.

Horace nodded. The man retreated to the door behind the bar, his escape hatch. Horace looked at his watch. Dinner is ready in the dining room.

Then let’s eat, Bob said, motioning to the door opposite the bar and indicating that Christy should lead the way.

Bradley

Bradley had only walked a couple hundred yards along the red trail and felt like he was miles from the civilized world. As a child, he’d been a reluctant camper—his father had professed the value of the outdoors for a young man. Bradley had figured additional training on Super Mario Brothers would be a better use of his time since he had intended to become a professional video game player.

A rustle came from his right. He turned; the leaves of a maple tree swung back into place. His heart jumped. A white tail deer scampered away. I need a drink, he thought, or something stronger, or maybe a month in the woods. Although he was now prepared for the sounds of a prancing deer, for the remaining half hour of his jaunt, he didn’t see any animals larger than a squirrel.

Twenty minutes later he was back at the lodge and it was time for dinner. The meal started with butternut squash soup, followed by Caesar salad and caramelized scallops with orange cinnamon sauce. Both Cabernet and Chardonnay wines from Konstantin Frank were available. Bradley sat next to Christy. They had met once before, at his father’s funeral.

How often do you come to the mountains? she asked after he downed a scallop.

Was it a loaded question, an evaluation of his ability to serve on the board—but that just had to do with money: how much he’d be willing to donate. Or was there an expectation that board members were outdoorsy? Not as much as I’d like, he said.

I know what you mean. She sipped some wine. I’d run my foundation from here if I could. Well, not here. She looked around the dining room: the stone fireplace, the animal heads along the wall, beams in the cathedral ceiling that looked hand-hewn. Just a cabin with a stove, but the trustees would demand that I had access to the Internet, which would require electricity and…pretty soon it would be like living in the city." She drank the remaining wine in her glass. A waitress refilled it.

Christy turned back to Bradley. You married?

No, he said. I haven’t found the right woman yet.

Me neither, she said. I’m too much of a loner—if you don’t count my dog. I’d bring him to the office if I could.

Why don’t you just quit the foundation and move here, Bradley said.

And let those idiots on my board squander my family’s money. No. Not yet anyway.

What about you? What do you do with your time? she said.

I’m a business consultant, he said, and he had a card that proved it.

What’s that mean?

He was ready for the question. I evaluate organizations for their suitability as investments. It was partially true. He had invested in two businesses but didn’t mention either the skateboard park or Ethiopian restaurant, both of which had gone bankrupt.

Oh, she said, ate a scallop, and emerged into conversation with Riley Rey, the tall, thin man with an olive complexion to her left.

A minute later, the man on Bradley’s right, Clinton North, midfifties, short, trim spoke to Bradley. So, young Van Dyke, stepping into your father’s shoes. Mighty big ones to fill.

Bradley nodded. My father meant different things to different people.

Well, this board isn’t a bad one to start with. We mostly get along, and we get an all-expenses-paid weekend in the Adirondacks every summer.

The expected ten thousand-dollar annual donation should cover that cost, Bradley thought. Through the dessert course, Bradley listened to Clinton describe the seemingly infinite flaws in his wife. He was saved by the Can I have a moment of your time from Bob Parry, addressing the group from the head of the table.

There are several options for tomorrow morning—before we get down to business. You can go fishing, canoeing, hiking, or just relax. Horace’s staff is available to help in any way. Bob motioned toward the camp owner who was standing by the door. Isn’t that right?

Our guides know this area like their own backyards, Horace said before retreating into the hall.

Bob continued. The only requirement is that you be back here at noon for lunch.

Riley Rey excused himself, and within ten minutes, everyone had left the table. Not being invited to anything after the meal, which seemed odd, Bradley went to his room. Maybe he’d drift down to the bar later—he could have sworn there was a TV tucked into the woodwork—and catch the Yankee game.

Bradley

Bradley quickly grew bored. The Campbook—a leather-bound guide of the facilities—indicated that TVs were available. He’d be a wuss to order one, so he left his second-floor room and walked to the central staircase. He tested the handrail, sturdy, even though seemingly held up only by balusters made out of branches. He stopped before descending, as he heard someone say young Van Dyke from down the hall. The voice continued. Bradley’s got about as much chance as Christy. Laughter followed. Bradley waited several seconds and walked in the direction of the voices, just past the stairs. He looked into a smallish room lined with bookshelves; a round table was positioned in its center. Bob Parry, Clinton North, and a man he didn’t recognize sat at the table. Bob waved him in.

Hi, Bradley. Come in for a second. I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine.

Bradley did as asked.

This is Troy Green, Bob said, motioning to the man. Bradley shook his hand.

Bradley is Wayne Van Dyke’s son.

Troy nodded.

Troy was passing through and wanted to see the place.

Nice to meet you, Bradley said; he turned to leave—not feeling welcome; none of the three men made any effort to ask him to stay.

I think you’ll find tomorrow’s session rewarding, Bob said.

Bradley turned back toward the men. I’m looking forward to it. He went to the bar, where, indeed, behind a sliding wooden panel, there was a TV. And the bartender seemed appreciative that Bradley wanted to watch the Yankees play the White Sox.

Christy

Christy didn’t need an alarm clock to wake up. She looked at her watch: 5:33. If she’d been at home, she’d walk the dog. Instead, she put on her shorts, sports bra, white, wicking hiking shirt, and boots. She pulled her Camelbak pack from a hook in the closet and filled it with water; then she went down to the breakfast room at the east end of the building. The first rays of sun were sliding through the trees into the windows and striking the stone fireplace, which was a smaller version of the one in the dining room.

Christy took a seat at a table next to a window. A waitress approached, the same young woman who had served them dinner. What can I get you? she said with a hint of an Eastern European accent.

There was no menu, but Christy expected they would have what she wanted. Coffee, three scrambled eggs, and some fruit.

Yes, ma’am, the girl said and went through a swinging door.

Christy opened the map that the woman at the desk had provided her the night before and spread it on the table. It would be six miles each way and nineteen hundred feet up—a good workout.

The girl returned with coffee in a white mug.

I’m supposed to meet a guide at six— Christy started to say.

Yes. Jean-Georges is already here. Would you like for him to join you?

No. That’s fine. She’d relish the last few minutes of Christy time. She’d contemplated declining the offer of a guide—if she was twenty years younger, she would have—but venturing up a mountain alone was not a smart move, particularly with the gaps in cell service in the Adirondacks.

The melon was sweet and moist. The eggs were, well, as expected. Christy was finishing her second cup of coffee when a lumberjack walked into the room. At least he had the beard and thick arms of a lumberjack.

I’m Jean-Georges Boucher, the man said. He put out his hand, which Christy shook without getting up.

Christy Hazzard, she said. Would you care to join me?

He sat across from her.

I see you’ve brought your own water, he said, looking at the Camelbak pack resting on the table.

I lived outside Fairbanks, Alaska, for several years, she said.

Maybe you should be guiding me, then, he said with a serious look. But don’t tell the bears you lived there. He seemed to smile through the dark hair on his face. They sometimes have an inferiority complex relative to their more northern brethren.

Christy pondered where his humor was going. This hike could be the longest five hours of her life.

Bradley

Bradley opted for canoeing. He had some experience from summer camp. And he’d only fished one time, with his father—a summer weekend when he was twelve, not long after a battle of words between his parents. He recalled overhearing, Just once you could go into the woods with your son instead of those old cronies of yours, coming from his mother. It wasn’t a memorable trip. His father pretended that he knew what he was doing, but all Bradley came home with was sunburn and some filets from Palmer’s Fish Market.

Riley Rey was in the breakfast room, reading, when Bradley walked in. Emily, she apparently worked as a front desk clerk as well as a maid, had said that Riley and Todd Germain