Mountains Adirondack

By S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson

Sometime between 1882 and 1886 Arthur Conan Doyle anonymously wrote a story entitled “The Narrative of John Smith”. As was the practice of the day, Doyle mailed the single manuscript copy to a publisher. The copy was lost in the mails, never to be found.
This story's fate was almost that of Doyle's 'Narrative'. I had misfiled my single typewriter written copy of “Mountains Adirondack” in the stacks of my library. Decades went by when this story suddenly reappeared as I was crating up my books for my move from the beautiful, cruel, Adirondack's High Peaks Region.
Of course, the Statute of Limitations, still to this day, keeps things like actual names and specific locations from appearing in my account of the events of that hard winter. That said, the sands will eventually run out and this story's heroes and evildoers names will finally become righteously known, just not anytime soon.
A hardcopy Government Letter periodically arrives in the mail with a detailed 'Confidentiality And Ethics Reminder' memo. The Letters always start with a reminder that My Oath of Office means that I “... cannot disclose any nonpublic information that is protected by statute.”
From the public record, available to those who know where to find it, the Adirondack High Peaks Region has been a crossroad of international intrigue, rivaling Vienna, Helsinki, and even Beirut. Under the cover of international sporting events, nefarious individuals and organizations have preyed upon and interacted with the innocent and not so innocent residents, transients, and purveyors of actions most foul. This is a story from the not so public record of some of America’s best, standing Horatio-esque, at the bridge.
--
The Canadian Game was nickel ante, dime raise, a maximum of three raises per bet, quarter allowed on the last raise.
Only old Canadian coins allowed, but no Loonies or Toonies.
The game had to be Adirondack Stud unless all players agreed to what the dealer proposed. It was the typical third Friday of the month Canadian Game.
Jacques arrived long before the proscribed start time of 7:00 pm so as to claim a good chair at the poker table.
Sergeant Johnner was, as usual, a little late. He entered the cabin with a loud, “I'm shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.”
The State Fish and Wildlife Agent, who was shuffling the cards asked, “Well Captain Renault, this ain't Casablanca. I know this because it’s too damn cold to be Morocco. Even east of the Atlas Mountains don't get this freaking cold.”
Doctor Skidmore, ever the psychologist, directly addressed Johnner, “You are aware that you are a Sergeant and not a Free French Police Captain, yes? Tell me you know you remain an over the hill State Police Sergeant?”
The Wildlife Agent sighed, “So is this where you arrest us?” He asked Johnner.
“Oh, yeah,” Johnner said as he sat down next to the Wildlife Agent and dropped his leather drawstring bag of Canadian coins in front of him on the poker tabletop. “OK, well, any arrest would be for unlicensed gambling?”
The retired Federal Judge sitting across the poker table spoke up. “Good. It's about time this moral turpitude was eradicated.”
The Sporting Goods Store owner spoke, “But Officer, it's only Canadian money. We never play for legal tender. Well, on the third Friday of the month we don't.”
“Oh, OK, in that case, it must be all right,” Johnner grunted as he pulled his Canadian coins out of his gambling money pouch.
As a rule, Jacques never looked at his first card until the face up second card was dealt. He watched the other players' faces as they peeked at their down card.
“Ante's short,” the Wildlife Agent said with satisfaction. “Who is short?” he said, although the whole table knew who it was.
As a group the players turned and looked at the Mayor, who habitually seemed to always forget about buying into a hand.
“Oh, must be me,” the Mayor mumbled and tossed in

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson
• Release date: Oct 21, 2014

S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson

S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson claims to be hubris-free, which, of course, is the purest form of fiction. S.K. has lived, loved and laughed in most places presently accessible to human beings. He has frequented Siberia Forests, Arctic Wastelands, Caribbean Beaches, the Adirondack Mountains and of course, Las Vegas. He has walked Tectonic Fault Lines, Roman Roads, Scottish Highlands, Black Forest Ridgelines, Mexican Highways, the California Coast, Hollywood and Vine, K Street and Wall Street. He has sailed the waters of Cape Cod, the Gulf of Mexico, the Adriatic, the Hawaiian Islands, the Norwegian Sea, Japan's Inland Sea and the Pirate Coast to name but a few. He has stood on the Great Divide on three Continents. He is a survivor of Black Death, Diffi-Qs, muscle cars, gold panning in California, Colorado and Eastern Manchuria, Florida hurricanes, Texas dust storms and the dearth of daily exposure to good poetry. The Author presently calls Florida's Pirate Coast home, which he claims is as near to the Magic as is humanly possible. Specific to these stories are the Author's first hand experiences in the places depicted and the events, taken in the aggregate, portrayed.

Book preview

Mountains Adirondack

Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson

ISBN: 978-0-9765104-7-5

Copyright©1992, 1996, 2000, 2014 by David Allen Hubbell

Smashwords Edition

–

Mountains Adirondack

Volume I

By: S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson.

Mountains Adirondack

Volume I

--

other books by Hubba:

Bear & Bunk

Billable Hours

Boulders

Boulders Quantum

Case Of The Missing Case

Case Of The Missing Velvet Nudes

Conscious Awareness

Death by Xmas Scone

Keepers Of The Secrets

Lisbeth & George

Me Myself & I

Mr. Dark Side, Vol. 1

Mr. Dark Side, Vol. 2

Shield Wall

Wood Book

Fourth Edition, Second Digital Edition, Second Digital Image Posting

All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions

thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address;

HEI, PirateCoastEtchings, Rights Department

P.O. Box 171, Ft. Walton Beach, Florida 32549, or

contact: [e-mail]

[e-mail]

Photos Permission: E. Leavitt (Cover, pgs 1, 26, 37)

Copyright©1992, 1996, 2000, 2014 by David Allen Hubbell

This is a novel. That means it is possible that not everything actually happened or looks exactly the same as I have described it in the book. But it could have happened, exactly as described. Poetic license gives the author the freedom to create .... If necessary. And it sometimes is.

Henning Mankell

Ditto.

Hubba Lodbrokson

Mountains Adirondack

PREFACE

Sometime between 1882 and 1886 Arthur Conan Doyle anonymously wrote a story entitled The Narrative of John Smith. As was the practice of the day, Doyle mailed the single manuscript copy to a publisher. The copy was lost in the mails, never to be found.

This story's fate was almost that of Doyle's 'Narrative'. I had misfiled my single typewriter written copy of Mountains Adirondack in the stacks of my library. Decades went by when this story suddenly reappeared as I was crating up my books for my move from the beautiful, cruel, Adirondack's High Peaks Region.

Of course, the Statute of Limitations, still to this day, keeps things like actual names and specific locations from appearing in my account of the events of that hard winter. That said, the sands will eventually run out and this story's heroes and evildoers names will finally become righteously known, just not anytime soon.

A hardcopy Government Letter periodically arrives in the mail with a detailed 'Confidentiality And Ethics Reminder' memo. The Letters always start with a reminder that My Oath of Office means that I ... cannot disclose any nonpublic information that is protected by statute. That I am not allowed to ... receive payments for writing about programs or operations or about assignments (I) have been given as an employee. I'm reminded, that I ... must be careful to ensure that there is no appearance created that (I am) writing on behalf of the United States Government, when (I am) writing in (my) personal capacity. Finally, I'm reminded that I will never be allowed to communicate to anyone about anything during my service, ever.

From the public record, available to those who know where to find it, the Adirondack High Peaks Region has been a crossroad of international intrigue, rivaling Vienna, Helsinki, and even Beirut. Under the cover of international sporting events, nefarious individuals and organizations have preyed upon and interacted with the innocent and not so innocent residents, transients, and purveyors of actions most foul. This is a story from the not so public record of some of America’s best, standing Horatio-esque, at the bridge.

I leave to the Reader to fill in, between the words I've written here, the truth. I stress to the Reader that the heroes, and villains, depicted, will probably remain hidden, forever. Hopefully, by the time you read this, the villains will all be dead. The heroes you may never know.

Fourth of July, 2014,

S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson.

Deep Winter, Third Friday Of The Month, Evening, Poker Night, The Canadian Game

The Canadian Game was nickel ante, dime raise, a maximum of three raises per bet, quarter allowed on the last raise.

Only old Canadian coins allowed, but no Loonies or Toonies.

The House Rule was the deal changed hands after each hand and the game was Dealer's Choice so long as the game was high-low Adirondack Stud.

The game had to be Adirondack Stud unless all players agreed to what the dealer proposed. Total agreement rarely happened so the game ran its usual full five hours or so playing only Stud, a la Adirondack. It was the typical third Friday of the month Canadian Game.

Jacques arrived long before the proscribed start time of 7:00 pm so as to claim a good chair at the poker table.

Sergeant Johnner was, as usual, a little late. Also as usual, he entered the cabin with a loud, I'm shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.

The State Fish and Wildlife Agent, who was shuffling the cards asked, Well Captain Renault, this ain't Casablanca. I know this because it’s too damn cold to be Morocco. Even east of the Atlas Mountains don't get this freaking cold.

Doctor Skidmore, ever the psychologist, directly addressed Johnner, You are aware that you are a Sergeant and not a Free French Police Captain, yes? Tell me you know you remain an over the hill State Police Sergeant?

The Wildlife Agent sighed, So is this where you arrest us? He asked Johnner.

Oh, yeah, Johnner said as he sat down next to the Wildlife Agent and dropped his leather drawstring bag of Canadian coins in front of him on the poker tabletop. OK, well, any arrest would be for unlicensed gambling?

The retired Federal Judge sitting across the poker table spoke up. Good. It's about time this moral turpitude was eradicated.

The Sporting Goods Store owner spoke his required line, But Officer, it's only Canadian money. We never play for legal tender. Well, on the third Friday of the month we don't.

Oh, OK, in that case, it must be all right, Johnner grunted as he pulled his Canadian coins out of his gambling money pouch.

Jacques turned to His Honor, the Mayor of Keene Valley and asked him to turn up the kerosene lamp a bit.

The wood stove was starting to throw off some decent heat. Jacques got up and checked the thermometers. He noted out loud that the indoor-outdoor thermometer claimed that it was minus 15 degrees outside and the cabin was almost above freezing.

Collectively the card players agreed that the cabin was warming up fast.

The Wildlife Agent dealt the first card down.

As a rule, Jacques never looked at his first card until the face up second card was dealt. He watched the other players' faces as they peeked at their down card.

Ante's short, the Wildlife Agent said with satisfaction. Who is short? he said, although the whole table knew who it was.

As a group the players turned and looked at the Mayor, who habitually seemed to always forget about buying into a hand.

Oh, must be me, the Mayor mumbled and tossed in a Canadian nickel.

Those players who had looked at their down card all passed.

The bet came to Jacques. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He briefly fingered a dime, then bet the coin.

Johnner snorted, Oh sure, you're betting and you didn't even look at your card. Oh please. He offered a grin.

Jacques smiled. "It's known as luck, born lucky I believe it’s called.

The Judge laughed, Yeah. I seem to remember your mother saying something about you being lucky to be born.

That's right, Jacques smirked. You are that old. How old are you?

Old enough to be your father, the Judge replied under his breath.

Jacques smiled, Yeah, and how is Mom?

Still up in Quebec City. Don't know when she plans to come back, the Judge sighed. I think from time to time she still loves me.

The rest of the players all looked at their down cards again, then matched Jacques' bet. They dropped their Canadian dimes in the middle of the table.

The Wildlife Agent, as dealer, declared the pot as being right and dealt the next cards face up. The players all got quiet as they watched each others reactions to the cards they were dealt.

Jacques spoke quietly to the Judge, I haven't talked to Mom in a while. You know you could always drive up and see her. I know she'd like that. She really would you know.

The Judge shook his head. No. no. The Second Amendment stops at the Canadian border. I don't need to get arrested. Again. I don't go anywhere without lots of firepower.

The local Taxidermist piped up. Amazing. How did you ever get appointed to the bench? he asked the Judge.

Politics, pure politics, the Judge grumbled. The powers that be were in need of a fire breather. Somebody who didn't give a rat's ass about American and Canadian relations. They wanted somebody who would smother any Free Quebec support groups here south of the border. Somebody tough enough.

Jacques reached out and patted the Judge's arm. And you did a good job of it too, Dad.

The Judge snorted. Like Hell. You guys are still running around loose!

Well, if you hadn't retired, Johnner offered.

Ha! It was either retire or get divorced. The Judge shook his head. So? Are we playing cards or what?

The betting got brisk as the fourth cards were dealt face up.

The Wildlife Agent started talking about the problems of the Adirondack moose population and the shallowness of the gene pool.

The Mayor suggested that if Big Richard, the local bull moose, continued to consume his apple trees that the Agent just might find the moose's radio collar at the Taxidermist Shop.

Johnner made a dismissive noise. Aw come on, if it weren't for the tourists coming' to see Big Richard eating his way through your orchard, why nobody would stop and spend any money at all in Keene Valley. He spoke to the group, Am I right? Well?

All but the Mayor made agreement grunts.

The Agent tried to hide a smile as he dealt the last card up, then sat back and contemplated his down cards.

The Judge squinted at Jacques. Your up cards say you're buffing. Right?

Jacques met the last raise and raised another Canadian dime. Yeah Dad. I'm bluffing. You can bet on that. He turned to the Mayor, You do realize that if, no, when, Big Richard moves on, well then I'm liable to be the only one visiting your restaurant.

The Mayor grinned. You know, he confessed, that bull moose. He is truly a magnificent animal. Make a great trophy over any fireplace. Well, any really large fireplace.

The Agent declared that there had been three raises, and that it was thirty cents to him. He threw in three dimes and called the pot right. The Agent put the remaining deck of cards on the pile of coins and called for the last round of bets. Bets allowed up to a quarter with a maximum of three raises.

The Judge turned to Johnner and mentioned he had heard that the old Great Camp in the upper valley just above the lake had been leased out for the remainder of the winter.

Jacques wouldn't have thought much of the Judge's statement if he hadn't seen Johnner's mouth twitch. Jacques made a mental note of Johnner's reaction and bent an ear to catch Johnner's reply.

Johnner concentrated on his cards and only offered the Judge an Oh, yeah?

Jacques eyes darted to see the Judge's reaction but his Dad kept a poker face.

The Judge felt Jacques eyes on him. He leaned forward. Say, how is the young man doing? Louis that is, how is Louis?

Jacques smiled, He just keeps growing. He's got to be a foot taller than me now. All muscle. He can chop down State trees all day without stopping. Sometimes works right through lunch.

Johnner jerked up in his seat, Don't joke like that! Oh my God! I've got enough to do without running around the back roads trying to catch trees rustlers! Don't talk like that!

The poker gang burst into a prolonged, loud, laughing fit at Johnner's outburst. Wiping their eyes and moping their sweating foreheads they final got back to playing cards.

The hand's last round of betting started.

The Taxidermist brought the conversation back to the old Great Camp by asking the Mayor if he knew who was renting the Camp.

The Mayor professed not to know.

Jacques' instincts told him that Johnner did know something about the old complex of buildings that made up the Great Camp compound. Perhaps even more interesting, Johnner wasn't telling his poker buddies. Jacques reminded himself to check out the old Camp come Sunday morning.

--

Sunday, Deadfall

It had taken Jacques most of the morning to snowshoe up the valley to where the windfall started. He picked his way carefully around and under the tangled tree trunks and branches. He pushed his long pole out and down in front of him looking for softness in the snow. The deep drifted snow covered large voids that a man might fall into and get stuck until somebody found him sometime after the Spring thaw.

Jacques estimated that the snow must be a good ten or twelve feet deep in places. Taking it slow and careful, he reached some overturned trees leaning against bigger trees that had lost their tops in a long forgotten wind storm.

He took off his snowshoes and scrambled up a leaning tree trunk to its top. There he got himself into a comfortable sitting position and pulled out his binoculars. From his perch he had a pretty good view of the Great Camp complex.

At first, Jacques could discern no signs that the old place was in use. The out buildings were buried in drift snow. The boathouse and iced over lake showed no signs of human activity. Then he noticed a thin plume column of hot air, blurring the far mountainside, rising above one of the main building's chimneys.

Now that's odd, Jacques said to himself. "Why use propane and not wood? Why go to