The Mystery of the Mountain

Clyde Barlow exhaled an enormous cloud of fragrant pipe smoke, pulled at the brim of the filthy, brown cowboy hat, and smiled a toothless smile.

“So, you bought that old lodge up on Crippled Pine Creek? That’s a piece o’ Teton County hist’ry ‘f ’ere ever was one. Yessiree, been there since WWI, and afore that, it’uz mining country. Up in them mountains there’s a whole bunch o’ old, rotted-out cabins and them little mines them prospectors dug lookin’ fer gold. I suppose your lookin’ to get away from it all, just like the others.”

“No, I’m looking to bring a little of it to me. I’m going to open up the lodge for hunting and fishing parties, as soon as I get it fixed up. Funny, the real estate agent didn’t say anything about any mines on the property.”

The old man smiled again as he packed the nails and other assorted hardware in a cardboard box.

“Well, Harry’s sold that place before, so he oughta know ‘bout ‘em. Some folks think there’s ghosts up there, the ghosts of them miners, least that’s what they say. The young folks go up there neckin’, and they claim to’ave seen em’. Harry prob’ly thought it’d queer the deal f’you heard ‘bout that. Some folks is funny that way, ‘specially if they’ve got some Injun blood. Never worried ‘bout it, myself, though, an’ my Grandma was a Blackfoot. Fishin’s too good up there to care about a few spooks.”

The pipe belched out another voluminous cloud.

“Well, that be all for ya today?”

Dave Morrison hadn’t planned his life to include owning a hunting lodge. His plan was an MBA, a high-paying job as a stockbroker with a partnership sometime before he turned forty, and a life of ease beginning at fifty-five.

This spring had forced some changes to his plan. The markets were down, and clients weren’t trading as heavily as the business plan had forecast. This meant the monthly profit figures were short, and Walters, the manager of the brokerage firm, had made a “suggestion” that all brokers should roll their accounts.

Dave knew he was a key account manager for the firm. He’d brought a lot of investors to the brokerage, and his clients’ trading generated better than half of the firm’s income. He had been there when Walters bought his way in, six years ago. What right did he have to tell Dave to screw the people who depended on his advice for their retirement income or for college funds for their children? On Friday, he told Walters he was taking two weeks vacation, and headed for his favorite spot on earth. He needed time to think, and Teton County, Montana was a place made for thinking. Dave had been fishing and hunting in that area for most of his adult life.

The hotel room in Choteau wasn’t fancy, but Dave didn’t need fancy. His favorite fishing spots beckoned during the day. After a good evening meal at the hotel restaurant, he read a little and then went to bed. Dave spent more time out of town than in the room. It was almost an accident that he looked at the real estate pamphlet over breakfast.

The place had five hundred acres that were mostly mountains, a year-round stream full of trout, and enough grassland and forest to attract deer, elk, and other game. His inspection of the lodge was a little disappointing. It needed a new roof and some way to get water from the stream, but he figured it might dress out in an acceptable, if really rustic, fashion. For the price, he couldn’t really have expected more. On his final night in Choteau, Dave poured himself a double scotch and tallied his own investments.

It had taken another month to sell some selected stocks, the house, and most of his furniture. The convertible made a nice trade on a four-wheel drive pickup. Dave transferred the money to the bank in Choteau, and drove to his new home.

After nine weeks of hard work and several trips to Clyde’s store, the place was looking better. Dave had planned on at least a year of repairs before he could open the lodge, but it was now at least livable. The roof no longer leaked, and he’d replaced the rotted floor with new white pine planks. Water was still a problem, but Dave had located and repaired the old cistern put in by one of the former owners. A little plastic pipe would get water from the Crippled Creek to the cistern, and a hand pump would get it from the cistern to the kitchen. All this could easily be done before winter. The cold months would be spent fixing the interior. In spring, he’d place ads in several hunting and fishing magazines, and would hopefully host the first guests for deer season in the fall.

Dave and Clyde had quickly become friends. The old man was about eighty, looked at least a hundred, and belched vast plumes of smoke from the battered old pipe that seemed to be a part of his face. It had become a pleasure to make the long drive to the store even though it cost Dave most of a day to make the trip. Clyde’s son actually ran the store now, but Clyde still came to work every day. The old man was a volume of area history and myth.

“D’I tell ya ‘bout them hippies used to live up there? Bunch of rich kids from someplace in California. They bought the place in sixty-six, back afore people knew what the land was worth. Twelve of ‘em moved in with a bunch of goats and a whole passle o’ chickens. Six of the mos’ raggedy-assed boys ya ever saw and six of the purdiest girls on God’s green earth. Said they come here to start a commune and have free love. Them girls looked like they’s ready for it. Ain’t none of ‘em wore any underwear that I could tell. Pissed me off good, they did.”

“Why?”

Clyde grinned a pink-gummed grin.

“They never invited me up for any o’ that free love. Hell, I wasn’t old then, only ‘bout fifty, and horny as a three-peckered billy goat. I’d a showed them girls what lovin’ was all about. Well…”, Clyde winked, “one at a time, anyway.”

“What happened to ‘em?”

“Well, the cougars got the goats, and the sheriff found out about them marijawanna plants. They allowed as how they was hemp plants and they was growing ‘em for rope and stuff, to barter with, but he pulled ‘em all up and burned ‘em anyways, right there in their front yard. Funniest thing you ever did see. The sheriff and all his deputies got higher’n hoot owls from breathin’ the smoke. See, they had to keep it little so’s not to set the woods on fire, an’ it took quite a while to get it all burnt.” Ol’ Fred’ll never live that down. Anyway, they up an moved out after a couple o’ years and three bastard kids. Don’t know what happened to ‘em after that, ‘cept they put the place up for sale. A guy by the name of Breedan bought it in seventy. Odd sort of guy. From Kentucky if I recollect right. Thought the gov’ment was gonna fall apart and there’d be riots ever’where. Said he come up here to survive till things got straightened out again.”

“How come he decided to sell out?”

“He didn’t. He went up there like he was one o’ them old-time mountain men, to live off the land, he said, and he never come back down again. Sheriff looked all over for him, but up there, that’s like findin’ a flea on a hairy, black dog. His brother finally had him declared dead last year, and put the place up for sale. Thought he had a gold mine, and asked about twice what the place was worth. He decided to drop the price ‘bout the time you come along.”

Summer ended in tall, brown grass swaying in the wind and the calls of geese flying in formation to warmer climes further south. Early mornings were crisp air and the bugle calls of bull elk in search of mates. The crashing of mule deer antlers against aspen saplings could be heard from the lodge porch, and the inviting grunts of the does punctuated the songs of the mountain birds. The weather quickly turned colder, and the small wildlife disappeared into burrows and nests to await the coming of spring. A few bears prowled for their last food of the year; they disappeared soon after the first snow.

Dave prepared for winter by chopping a mountain of firewood and laying in enough food to last a few weeks should he get snowed in. The first fire in the big hearth was a pleasure to be accompanied by old scotch, a good book, and the satisfaction that the woodpile would last through the winter. A light snow followed quickly, and Dave was thrilled to find deer tracks behind the lodge the next morning. That week, Dave made the first of many hunting trips across his property. Usually, he didn’t shoot anything; it was just a wonderful experience to walk through the countryside and explore.

Winter brought both hardship and beauty. The lodge was a prison when the wind whipped the fragile snowflakes into swirling clouds of fluff. It was not safe to be outside during these blinding storms. The millions of white wisps could make a man lose his sense of direction. If he didn’t make it to shelter quickly, the killing cold would lull him into an everlasting sleep.

When the snow stopped, the winter-crisp air forged the new snowfall into pristine white armor that covered everything. It was easier to find the way through the woods when this cloak pushed down the brambles and grasses. Dave explored much of the forested land on snowshoes. He relished the openness and fresh air. Walters could go to hell with his business plan. Dave’s current business plan was to hump his elk quarters back to the lodge, and then have a cup of coffee and watch the chickadees through the window. Tomorrow’s plan…, well, he’d wait until tomorrow and see what he felt like doing.

It was on the fifth of January that he found the deer kill, or rather, the depression and bloodstain in the snow where someone had gutted the deer. He also found snowshoe imprints and the twin streaks left by sled runners. There were animal tracks all around, probably from scavengers jousting for the entrails from the carcass. Dave had killed a couple of deer so far, but none in this area, and anyway, the snowshoe imprints were longer and narrower than the short ovals left by his bearpaw style. This discovery was strange, because all the other lodges had their own hunting land, and the townspeople of the area always asked permission to hunt on someone’s property. There were too few people in the area to do otherwise without being discovered. It was also strange that there had been no shots. He would have heard the sound echoing off the mountains. This had to be the work of poachers who caught the deer with wire snares and sold the meat and hides in other states. At best, they were trespassers who killed the deer in a cruel manner; at worst, they were criminals who might do anything to protect themselves.

Dave slipped the safety off the rifle and started following the tracks. They led toward the face of a rocky cliff that rose at least fifty feet from the forest floor. He had seen the cliff the summer before. There seemed to be no way to reach the top, and a half day’s walk in each direction had revealed nothing but more vertical rock at least as high. The poacher must have made a camp of sorts at the base of the cliff.

The trail led to a giant spruce that sat tight against the cliff face. . Dave knew spruce trees were good shelters when one was caught in a storm, because while the outer blue-green fronds kept off the rain or snow, the inner portion was only bare branches. He approached as quietly as the crunch of his snowshoes would permit, and stopped behind a tree to survey the situation. He could see where the poacher had dragged the deer under the boughs. Thoughts raced through Dave’s mind. The poacher was probably hiding beneath the tree in hopes he wouldn’t be seen. There might be a rifle pointed in his direction at this very instant. Maybe the poacher had hidden the carcass, and had gone back for help. No…, no tracks went away from the tree.

It was then that Dave decided he was being stupid, and backed down his own trail. One deer was not worth getting shot. He kept telling himself that as he walked back to the lodge. The sheriff said he’d relay the information to Fish and Game, and cautioned Dave to get him the next time instead of following the tracks himself.

Spring burst out with singing birds, fawns cavorting in the meadows and beaver kits learning to swim in the large pond above the lodge. Nature’s rebirth filled the land as if to make up for the time lost over the cold winter. The lodge was fixed inside and out, and Dave placed ads for the coming hunting season. After that, there wasn’t much to do except drive to town once a week for the mail and some supplies, fish the creek and pond, and explore.

There was one other thing to do, but it took Dave some time to muster the courage to go back to the giant spruce. He was certain the poachers were long gone, but every time he thought about the experience, the hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he found some reason or other to do something else. Finally, the first week of June, he drove the pickup as far as he could, picked up his daypack and shotgun, and started for the cliff.

The aged tree stood with its branches gracefully clothing the rugged face of the cliff. He pulled aside a large bough and peered inside. Someone had been there, as evidenced by the trampled bed of brown needles that carpeted the ground. It was only a small effort to step through the caress of the exterior foliage and into the cave-like interior. The light that filtered through the needles revealed a pitch-black opening in the cliff face. Dave’s short exploration of the entrance only revealed that the opening went deeper than he could see. A rough wood shelf just inside the entrance held the rusting remains of an old kerosene lantern. It was the entrance to an old mine, and must have been the center of the poacher’s activities. He had not thought to bring a flashlight.

The next morning, Dave returned with his own lantern, though this one burned propane. The brilliant white light cast shadows on the rough-hewn stone and caused the quartz crystals set in the granite to glitter like diamonds. Clyde said some of these old mines had become winter dens for cougars and grizzlies. He jacked a round of buckshot into the shotgun, released the safety, and started inside. The shotgun wouldn’t have the stopping power of a rifle, but the range would be point blank and he probably wouldn’t miss with the buckshot.

Dave passed a broken, rusting pick leaning against a pile of rubble. His nose picked up the pungent odor of a skunk mixed with the cool, damp smell of the cavern. Faint footprints were visible in the mix of chipped rock and dust that formed the tunnel floor. They led deeper into the mine and Dave followed. After fifteen minutes of edging ever deeper into the blackness, he saw a dim light ahead. It was just a few pinpoints, really, like stars in a moonless sky, but it had to be coming from the back of the tunnel. When he arrived at the end, the lantern lit the rough-hewn, moss-cloaked timbers of a heavy door set into the rock.

A crudely forged iron bar protruded from the face of the door, and Dave tried it. Apparently, this lever served as a release for the latch, because there was a hollow click, and the door moved slightly. A strong pull on the bar brought the grating screech of iron hinges, and the door swung towards the inside of the tunnel. After a few moments to accustom his eyes to the bright daylight outside, Dave looked through the opening.

The high rock wall circled about a hundred or so acres of grassland interspersed with forested areas. Untarnished nature beamed her glory in the morning sunlight. At one end, a small stream emerged from the rocky surround, spilled out in snake-like curves over the canyon floor until flowing into a small lake fringed with aspens and cattails. The wake of a beaver was visible on the surface and Dave saw the beaver dam directly in front of the tunnel. The outflow from the dam wandered off past a large grove of large spruce trees in the other direction.

It was almost as if he had stepped into some sort of huge movie set, so perfect was the setting. He watched an eagle swoop down on the beaver pond with a splash, and then battle the water with flailing wings to regain flight while it gripped a wriggling, glistening trout in it’s deadly talons. The powerful bird flapped slowly upward until it settled on the branch of a tall, dead tree at the other end of the canyon. The bird screamed and a second eagle swept through the air to join its mate.

Dave quickly extinguished the lantern, picked up the shotgun, and stepped through the doorway. He was standing on a narrow ledge twelve feet from the canyon floor, and he saw a footpath that lead off to his right.

The footpath was difficult to negotiate. Dave slipped on a small stick about half way down the steep slope that led to the canyon floor. He flailed for something to grab, and lost the shotgun in the process. The weapon plummeted to the ground, butt first, as Dave pitched over the edge. Just before hitting the ground, he heard the shotgun fire. Then, his head hit a rock, and Dave’s world turned to blackness.

Waking was a screaming headache that forced his eyelids to clench shut. He felt sick at his stomach. After what seemed like an hour of mind-searing pain, Dave forced his eyes open. Things were blurry, as if he looked through the thick bottom of a cheap whiskey glass, and the surroundings were dark. After only a moment, he fell back into unconsciousness. He woke again, how long after the accident he could not tell. Beneath him was something soft, the grass-carpeted floor of the canyon, he assumed, but the smell was wrong. Dave was certain he could detect the odor of wood smoke. The blow to his head must have affected his sense of smell.

He tried to remember the symptoms of concussion, but found it difficult to focus on any one thought for long. The blinding pain in his head caused flashes of bright, white light in his eyes,. Closing his eyelids only changed the white light to red interspersed with black. Finally, he sank back into the blackness where he could hide from the pain.

It was sometime later that the hallucinations began. A wolf sniffed at his hand and growled a low rumble of warning. Dave jerked at the sound and looked for the source. He saw nothing but the red glow. Trying to rise brought another pain that left him gasping for breath.

Time had ceased to be for Dave. He drifted through the mists, sometimes awake, or so he thought, sometimes dreaming of things impossible. He saw an old girlfriend kneeling over him and saying he was going to be all right. Then, the face changed to a woman he had never seen before. The wolf came again and again. It seemed so real he could feel the snuffling breath as the large animal sought for his scent. The strange woman appeared again, and changed into Walters. His old boss chided him to keep rolling his accounts and promised him a corner office and his own secretary. From time to time he tasted something bitter, then something salty, then something sweet. He felt chilled to the bone, and then hot and sweaty. At one point, he was inside a building that seemed to be the log walls of the lodge. At another, it was daylight and he was moving through trees and grass, but he couldn’t feel his legs doing anything.

Patches of daylight shined bright red through his closed eyelids. Dave tentatively opened his eyes to a squint and found the pain in his head was gone. Inhaling deeply brought the scent of spruce and mouldering forest floor to his nose. He was lying just outside the tunnel opening inside the giant spruce at the base of the cliff. The shotgun and lantern were beside him. How had he gotten there? His last reliable memory was of slipping, hearing the shotgun fire, and then pain when he hit his head. Somehow in his delirium, he must have found his way back through the tunnel and then collapsed while still inside the sheltering boughs.

After forcing himself to his feet, Dave walked slowly through the foliage and sat down. He could see the pickup parked at the edge of the meadow below the cliff, and hobbled toward it. It took several short walks interspersed with five minute rests, but Dave finally sat down in the cab, fished the keys from his pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief when the engine coughed and came to life.