Rayhi

THE MOUNTAIN MAN


“The mountain man was here again.” Mike hissed as he entered the camp.

“Or woman.” Scott corrected, coming in behind and eyeing the mess.

“Huh?” Mike asked.

“It could be a woman you know. A mountain woman instead of a mountain man.” Scott explained. He had given it some thought over the last week.

“There’s no such thing.” Mike countered. “Besides, a woman would have cleaned up.”

“You better not let my wife hear you say that!”

“Well, whichever it is, they can’t read.”

They had left a note on the table last weekend:
“We don’t mind if you use the camp or
eat some food. Just please clean up
when you leave.

Scott Countryman.
Mike Malone.”

The note was still on the kitchen table with the pen on top. Dirty dishes were strewn around as if to mock the note.

“Maybe he . . . or she . . . got scared and left in a hurry.” Scott suggested.

“Or maybe he’s just damn lazy.” Mike was getting hot under the collar. He grunted with disgust and walked by the mess, leaving it for Scott to clean up. Taking binoculars from his pack, he went out on the deck.

It had been going on for the last two months. Someone was using the camp while they weren’t there. Each weekend they would return to find dirty dishes scattered around the kitchen. Pots and pans, grungy and crusted, piled in the sink. Discarded cans and packaging tossed about. It appeared the person, who Mike surmised to be a notorious mountain man, didn’t go beyond the kitchen. The beds weren’t messed up nor did anything seem amiss anywhere else. Mike, taking the intrusions as a personal assault, had immediately wanted to put locks on the windows and doors. “He just wants food,” Scott had reasoned with him in the first few weeks, “and if someone is that hungry then they are welcome to what’s here.” Mike had relented but set about trying to find the culprit. He purchased a pair of high-power binoculars and sat on the deck for hours scanning the rocky shoreline and pine-covered hills beyond. His vision of the mountain man, which made Scott laugh every time he heard it, was a cross between Grizzly Adams and the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

After cleaning up, which he didn’t mind at all, Scott joined Mike on the deck. The day was sunny and hot. Perfect weather for a relaxing weekend. He opened the book he had been reading off and on for a few weeks and tried to get back into the story.

“I see something!” Mike exclaimed only a few minutes later. He jumped out of his chair and went to the railing.

“What?” Asked Scott getting up as well. Slowly though. He was a bit annoyed by the interruption.

“Flashes of light. Like a mirror reflecting the sunlight.”

“Just some broken glass or something,” suggested Scott looking across the lake.

“No. It’s moving.” Mike adjusted the focus on the binoculars. “I bet it’s him. He’s probably watching us to see when we leave so he can break in again.”

Scott still couldn’t see anything without the binoculars. “Maybe he’s just curious.”

“Yea, and maybe he’s a voyeur. A pervert.” Mike flushed with growing anger.

“Uh . . . Mike . . . you’re doing the exact same thing. What does that make you?”

Mike ignored the question and passed the binoculars over. “Here take a look for yourself.”

Scott brought them up to his eyes and tried to focus in the general area Mike had been looking. “Where?”

“Over by the second big hill, on the bluff.”

Scott moved the binoculars around trying to find the spot. For all he knew he was looking a mile east or west of the exact spot. Everything looked the same. But then he saw it too. A flash of light just as Mike had described. “I see it,” he said wondering what it was exactly. Just then, on a steep bank on the other side of Hogan Lake, a figure appeared. Scott jumped in surprise and handed the binoculars back to Mike. “I think I see him on the bluff!” He said more excited than he realized. “Take a look.”

Mike focused quickly on the bluff. “It’s him! It’s the mountain man!”

He watched until the person had moved off the bluff and out of sight. His adrenaline had reached a peak and he was halfway to the dock when Scott yelled out to him.

“Where are you going?”

“To get him.” Mike bellowed back without stopping. “Come on!”

“Wait for me.” Scott yelled back. He went into the camp and grabbed the hiking pack that always stood ready and a couple of life jackets. Mike was already in the canoe, drumming his fingers on the gunwale impatiently, when he got to the dock. Scott jumped in, tossing the pack in the middle, and shoved off from the dock.

“Come on, come on! Let’s go, let’s go!” Mike chastened every few minutes. He was paddling hard and erratic. Scott, who was in the bow, couldn’t match his rhythm at all. The lake was calm and they could have made better headway if they could coordinate their paddling.

“Go left!” Scott hollered back to him. “We’re going to run right into George!”

George Harris, an avid fisherman who was on the lake every day, watched them approach with growing concern. At first it was comical as they veered left and right not able to get the canoe going in a straight line but as they got closer he realized they were going to run into him. He didn’t know which way to row to get out of their way so he started waving frantically and calling them.

Scott saw George in time and put all his weight into paddling to compensate for Mike who was paddling too hard and not steering enough. The boats passed each other with only a few feet to spare.

“Where are you boys going in such a rush?” George called out to them as they clipped by.

Scott smiled back at him with a half wave. “Mike’s on a mission!” He couldn’t say more because they were headed way off course. He had to start paddling again to get them turned back toward the shore. Mike, paddling and concentrating hard, barely took notice. George Harris, looking puzzled yet amused at the same time, watched them for a few minutes then returned to his rod and reel.

Thirty minutes later they had crossed to the rocky south shore. It took another ten minutes to find a place to bring the canoe ashore which drove Mike crazy with impatience. He was ready to jump into the water and swim. He probably would have if Scott hadn’t noticed a small sandy bit of shoreline and got them going in that direction. He was hardly finished securing the canoe before Mike was racing blindly into the bush. With branches lashing back and black flies darting at him, Scott managed to catch up a few minutes later. The underbrush had slowed Mike down considerably but he was still moving at a fast trot. There were ancient dead-falls all around, hidden by a thick layer of leaves and flora. It wasn’t until they happened across a path that Scott was able to catch his breath and talk.

“What do you plan to do when you find him? Punch him in the nose?” Asked Scott bluntly. He was upset by the hunt. It didn’t feel right. In fact the only reason he had come along was to make sure Mike stayed out of trouble.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t care. “We’ll see what happens when we get there.”

“Mike . . . wait.” Scott refused to go any further and stood on the path swatting blackflies. “Just stop and think about it.”

Mike turned to face him. “What?” He asked with intentional innocense “We’ll just tell him to stop breaking into the camp. I won’t start a fight or anything.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and continued up the path. Scott held his ground but when he realized Mike wasn’t about to come back, he started walking again.

The path meandered through the dense trees, up a few hills and down a few. Mosquitoes joined the blackflies in their attack and made the hike miserable. They made a couple of stops to apply bug repellent that Scott had in the pack but the buzzing insects seemed immune. They broke off branches from wild ferns and used them in a sweeping motion around their heads to ward them off. The bugs darted at them in crazy circles regardless. They kept moving on, swatting as they went. The path finally ended at a small clearing. Scott and Mike stopped abruptly.

“What the heck?” Mike asked in surprise, sweat dripping down his face.

“Holy jeez! It’s a still!” Scott said almost in a whisper. He moved toward it with caution.

The coals were still glowing red beneath the potbelly and a slight hiss came from the coils. They examined it from a distance, afraid it might blow up if they got too close. The hissing receded as the unit cooled.

“Are you sure?” Mike asked, also in a whisper. He’d never seen a still and wasn’t sure what it was. He looked around with a worried frown. The mountain man might be close by. And everyone knew they carried rifles and hidden hunting knives in buckskin sheaths.

“Pretty sure.” Scott said with some confidence. “Why else would it be hidden way out here like this?”

Mike walked around it trying to figure out how it worked. Scott didn’t go any closer until the hissing stopped.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Mike said, bending to inspect it closer, “but here’s a tap.” He opened it and let some of the liquid pour onto the ground. No steam came from the puddle and he assumed it was cool. Always the brave one, he opened the tap again, cupping his hand underneath to catch some of the outlawed hooch. Tentatively, he brought it to his nose.

“It smells okay.”

Scott leaned in closer to take a whiff. The aroma was strong but unlike anything they had ever smelled before. Mike brought the liquid to his lips.

“Wait.” Scott warned. “What if it’s not alcohol? Who knows what’s in that stuff. You’re going to be awful sick if that turns out to be refined turpentine.”

Mike paused long enough to give it some thought. Scott was right. It could be anything. He considered what would happen if he swallowed a toxic mixture. Probably nothing too bad he decided. Not with just a small taste anyway. He winked at Scott who moved close beside him with his arms out, ready to catch him if he keeled over. Mike stuck his tongue out and licked some of the clear liquid from his palm.

“Hot damn!” He yelped. “It’s moonshine whiskey!”

Scott smirked and relaxed somewhat but was still ready to catch him. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Here, taste it.”

Scott dipped a finger into the liquid and tasted it. He recognized the taste of alcohol and smiled. “I’ll be damned! It really is.”

They sat on the ground and tried to figure out what to do next. Mike wanted to follow the path, going the opposite direction from where they came upon it, hoping to find the mountain man’s home. Scott talked him out of it. It would be getting dark soon and they were liable to get lost. They weren’t prepared for that. Scott just wanted to leave a note on the still and get back to the camp.

“If he could read then he would have read that note from last weekend.” Mike protested.

“I’ve got an idea.” Scott said and reached in the pack for a pencil and paper. He gave them to Mike. “Draw some pictures for him.”

Mike, being an adman, had some skill at sketching and Scott told him what to draw. Soon a line of modern-day hieroglyphics appeared on the page. A house, a thumbs up sign, a plate of food, a thumbs up sign, a bed, a thumbs up sign. It was followed by a drawing of a messy pile of dishes, a person crying, pots and pans dripping goo, a person crying. At the end Mike drew a picture of three men shaking hands and smiling. Scott made a hole in the paper and attached it to the tap. They sprayed themselves with a thick layer of bug repellent and headed back down the path.

Scott sat in the stern of the canoe on the return trip so he could steer them over to George’s boat. Though George had caught all the fish he wanted for the day, he had stayed out on the boat waiting for them to return. With a knowing grin he wasn’t surprised when they pulled along side his boat. He knew where they had been. The amount of swollen bug bites on their faces and arms were a dead giveaway.

“Did you find him?” George asked. He was seventy years old and had owned a cottage on Hogan Lake for fifty years. He and his wife Viola practically lived there year round. Only when the winter snow covered the road would they pack up and hibernate at their condo in Dakota Landing until the spring thaw. He knew everyone and everything that went on.

“How did you know we were looking for someone?” Scott asked with surprise. Mike looked surprised too.

“Because you’re not the first ones to do what you just did. And you won’t be the last ones neither. I’ve seen others on the same mad dash across the lake and go on shore at the exact same spot you did. And I expect you found the same thing they did. Not a someone, like you had planned, but a something. Am I right?”

Mike was baffled. “Yeah.” He said with awe. “Do you know who it is? The mountain man I mean.”

“Sure do. You will too when he wants you to know. He’ll tell you in his own way.”

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Scott asked.

George looked at him the way a grandfather regards a grandson. “It’s part of the mystery of the lake,” he said gazing across the calm water. The setting sun cast a red glow on his face. “There’s lots of things out here that you boys don’t know about yet. But you will in time. Don’t rush it. When you’ve learned to respect the lake, the lake will show you everything if your mind is open to it.”

Mike and Scott digested the prophecy slowly. They looked at each other and shrugged while George continued to gaze at the distant shore as if he were in a trance. Scott coughed slightly, hoping to bring George out of it.

“Well George,” He prompted, “We gotta get back to the camp. We haven’t eaten yet.”

George looked at him with dreamy eyes and gave the canoe a gentle push away from his own boat. “I think I’ll stay out for a while longer,” he said. “You boys come on by for some fried fish sometime. My missus makes an English style beer batter that you’ll think came from heaven.”

“Okay George. See ya.” Scott said, a little worried whether he should leave him there or try to convince him to head for shore.

“Take care George.” Mike followed-up with equal concern.

They paddled back to the camp taking frequent breaks to scratch the mosquito bites and look back to where they had left George. The moon was out when they approached the dock but did nothing to take away the eerie shadows. Finally, as they brought the canoe on shore, they saw a silhouette of George rowing his old wooden skiff toward home. Standing on the beach, they watched him for a few minutes.

“What do you make of what he said?”

Scott shivered when he thought about it. “I think that man sees more than we think he does. He’s like a prophet or something.”

“The ancient wise man sitting on top of the mountain waiting to dispense proverbs and advice?”

“Yea, maybe something like that.”

They looked at each other and grinned. After one last glance at George they went inside for dinner.

For the rest of the weekend, the boys relaxed and did minor repairs on the camp. Nothing more was said about the mountain man or about George’s odd behavior. The next weekend Scott and Mike entered the camp anticipating another mess. They were both pleasantly surprised, and relieved, to see the kitchen and dining areas were just as clean as when they had left.

“See! We scared him off. He didn’t come back.” Mike was triumphant.

“Look again.” Scott said pointing to the table. “He was here. He understood our message and cleaned up.”

On the table was a crudely drawn picture of a stick man, smiling and waving. Mike noted with amused satisfaction that the stick man was wearing a scruffy beard and mustache . . . just like Grizzly Adams. Beside the picture was a jug of fresh brewed moonshine whiskey. From then on, the jug was refilled every week by a mysterious mountain man whose secret name had become a legend.

-Collidescope-

I must say, excellent, excellent writing. There's a wonderful job of keeping up the feeling of mystery the whole time. George Harris, the fisherman, though only mentioned, feels full of depth, as though he had been described for hundreds of pages. The writing style stays the same the whole time, and keeps up a kind of spontaneity when the character(s) make decisions. Great job of description, not too much, not too little, just perfect. And, though the story has sort of a loose-ends ending popular in short stories, it feels full and satisfying, in a way that a lot of short stories are not.

Two big thumbs up, Rayhi.


--CS--

__________________
They say you can’t be hip,
But I don’t care what they say,
The thing I got’s cold blooded,
And I’m coming from a brand new place,
I’m dealing quick and I don’t miss a lick and I better don’t leave no trace. -James Brown

DawnMorningStar

This was well written and has an easy flow. And the plot kept me interested throughout the entire story. My only complaint (and it's a small one) would be the dialogue. Not the spoken words themselves, but the way you use Scott corrected, Mike asked, Scott explained, etc. I found it just a tad jarring since every quote ended that way. Perhaps once you've established that Scott and Mike are talking, you can do away with the Scott said and just have the dialogue in places. Just a suggestion. But I think the story is really well done!

Nazareth

Yeah learn to love the words "he said'

Said reads easily and automatically- reading things like "Mike beloowed, and stomped his feet" slows the reading too much- Take all your 'descriptive answers and turn them into "Mike said" "Scott said" etc. and you'll see what we mean- It's alright to add description once in awhile, but limit it. It's too tiring to continually read things like Here there is too much descriptive adjectives/Adverbs, and reads too clunky (I overused them- but to illustrate the point)

It reads much smoother to say Here I've got staight 'showing' verbs and nouns instead of the cumbersome adjectives and adverbs, and have used 'he said' instead of things like 'he moaned'

The story was good, I agree with the first poster.