the waterfalls, the mountain grows steep again with large rugged outcroppings of granite and quartz that often jut out at odd angles as though defying gravity and creating cave-like openings at the bottom. Limestone is not common in the Taconics and so true caves are not often found. The shiny quartz was the source of the “Spirit Stones” that were sacred to the Mohican Indians and played a large role in their lives and legends. And although this barren, forbidding, and rocky terrain continues almost unbroken on up to the summit, still there were numerous hidden hollows scattered here and there as well as two small swamps high up on the north and east. From these swamps, the streams emerge. It was somewhere on these higher slopes that most believed the Boudines lived.
Stories and rumors were traded around town all the time about Bakers Mountain. How could it be otherwise, what with the crazy Boudine sisters up there somewhere and old eccentric Randle Marsh living like a hermit in his cabin up on the lower flanks? And besides that, the mountain received visitors from time to time who provided new stories and new rumors, sometimes comical, but other times dark and disturbing. And this memorable year, it just so happened that several visitors were on their way.
CHAPTER THREE
MOUNTAIN VISITORS
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
