In the Ancient Lands of the Pemigewasset Read online

In the Ancient Land of the Pemiwegasset

  by Henri Bauhaus

  Copyright © 2014 Henri Bauhaus

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

  Author's Note

  The Pemigewasset Wilderness actually exists in the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire. The following two short pieces fiction come from that place of remote mountain notches, isolated craggy peaks, icy cold mountain streams and a dense mixed hardwood forests that covers the rocky slopes like a thick green blanket.

  Down By the Riverside

  Dusk comes slowly to the banks of the Kancamagus River, as the gentle evening breeze slowly disperses the sizzling, August heat. Here in the rugged mountains of central New Hampshire, the water runs fast and cool down from the rugged peaks of the Pemigewasset that remain snow-covered nine months out of the year. It is big game country, where the wildlife is present, but not always seen. This evening I have walked down to the river from the nearby Balsams Zen Center, where I work and live. I am here because I want to be alone. I am tired of all the travelers with their repetitive questions and meaningless demands.

  The atmosphere is intoxicating. Far across the river, there is a vertical rock cliff with beautiful, purple-hazed mountains in the background. In front of the rock precipice, the maple and birch forest emit the dense green glow of summer growth far into the approaching twilight. An occasional clump of white birch grows next to the river that never ceases flowing with its constant babbling and quiet roar.

  The sun is about to set, and the blue sky is beginning to lose its color. The clouds appear to be on fire, as they start to turn a brilliant orange and red. The last rays of the day, turn the rocky mountain crags, to a beautiful burnt orange. Further east, there are more mountains, where the forested slopes pick up the warm hues from the setting sun. The thick, green, conifer forest of the higher elevations has now turned to an intense yellow ocher, contrasting sharply with the deep blue of the eastern sky.

  From where I stand, the riverbank is sandy and without much vegetation, but elsewhere, there are numerous clumps of alder, covering both sides of the river. It has been a hot, summer day, but finally the heavily forested land is cooling off.

  I revel in the serenity of the place, as my thoughts drift peacefully towards an altered state of awareness. So much so, that I barely notice that the sun has dipped beneath the mountain tops or that the first evening stars have pierced through the velvet blanket of darkness, which is beginning to cover the eastern horizon. Gradually, my eyes adjust to the nightfall.

  Just upstream there is a small mountain stream that runs into the river. A small metal bridge spans this waterway to support the two-lane, paved road, which follows the river upstream for many miles.

  I am meditating as to how fortunate I am to live in such a beautiful place. I am grooving on the soft sound of water running smoothly over the rocks, and perhaps in my most enlightened moments, I am experiencing some greater awareness of the spirit of the river,

  All of these spiritual thoughts get scattered to the four winds, when I spot them walking under the bridge, and towards my place on the river, where I am standing alone. At first, they appear like apparitions in the waning light, but unfortunately, they are very real and very near.

  There are four of them. They are walking single file, on all fours, with their heads held high. It is too late to run or try to get away, so my only hope is to freeze…..praying to the Almighty, that they turn around or just go away.......but they don’t. They continue in my direction, like I don’t even exist.

  I am terrified, knowing that any sudden movement on my part could really do me in. Still, they keep coming, so I hold my breath, and hope that they take me for a tree or a statue.

  They are skunks and they pass only inches in front of my feet. From my precarious viewpoint, I can easily see that there are two adults in front, and two young ones bringing up the rear. I come to the conclusion that they must be a momma and a poppa out for an evening stroll with their young offspring.

  The little stinkers silently pass in front of me and keep heading downriver. A great feeling of relief passes throughout my mind and body, as they continue their downstream journey. Two feet, four feet and now they are ten feet away and at last I can breathe again. Twenty feet, and I starts to relax, for they are almost out of range, if they should so decide to release their most potent, biological weapons.

  I can tell that they are headed towards the new, the popular riverside campgrounds, situated just a quarter mile downstream, along the beautiful, wilderness highway that crosses the mountain divide and then drops down into the town of Loon Valley. Tourists drive through here by the dozens and many camp overnight along the scenic river in order to enjoy the recreational benefits of the cascading river. They will also probably poke their little black noses in all the garbage cans, to see what these busy places have to offer. The campground gets quite crowded during the summertime, and the pickings might be good.

  Now, that I have seen these creatures close up and have been spared their odorous wrath, I share a certain admiration for the striped marauders. Like most of the other animals that live here, they are just trying to eke out a simple existence in this harsh mountain land.

  I hope that they avoid the poisonous traps that the rangers have left out for them, and that they find their way back home safely.

  The End

  In The Ancient Lands of the Pemigewasset

  Jake Collier and Chip Larch drove all the way from Jack Kerouac's hometown of Lowell, Mass. to Osceola, New Hampshire, where they stopped in at a local convenience store to buy some Mishmash cranberry juice and freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Dorothy Pumpernickel waited on the two young men and like she does with all her customers, she tried her best to start up a conversation.

  “Are you guys visiting the Pemigewasset for the day?”

  “Definitely,” said Jake. “This is one of my favorite places.”

  “I'm just along for the ride,” said Chip, as he lowered his sunglasses and stared at the elder storekeeper with his bloodshot pair of peepers.

  “You two look like hikers. …. Am I correct?”

  “For sure,” replied Chip. “Except I don't know much hiking we're going to accomplish today. Our original goal was the top of Kancamagus Mountain, but it's almost noon and we ain't even found the trailhead yet.”

  “I don't think ole Chief Kancamagus will mind if there're two less hikers on the summit today,” said Dorothy.

  “I agree,” said Chip. “90 degrees is just too damn hot to be trudging up a mosquito infested pile of rocks.”

  “Sounds like a good day for a dip in the Kancamagus River,” said Dorothy.

  “Actually, I was thinking of taking a short walk along Pemmican Cliffs,” said Jake. “Then taking a plunge into the raging river.”

  “Just don't take your plunge from the top of the cliffs,” said Dorothy.

  “Who do you think we are? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” snapped Chip.

  �
�Who knows what you kids do in your spare time?' said Dorothy. “But since you here, you might as well know about the legend of Chief Kancamagus.”

  “Chief who,” asked Jake.

  “You mountain climbers – so busy trucking up and down the summits that you don't even take a minute to learn about the local legends.”

  “I'm all ears,” said Jake.

  “Me too,” said Chip.

  “Well, Chief Kancamagus and his people use to spend their summers right here on the banks of the Swift River.”

  “What kind of ride did they have,” cracked Chip.

  “OK, Wise guys. You wanna hear the story or not.”

  “Don't listen to my buddy. He's just a useless wiseguy.”

  “Please continue,” said Chip. “Jake will kill me if he doesn't get to hear the rest of the story.”

  “Well anyway,” said Dorothy.....“The Pemigewasset use to spend their summers in these parts to fish, hunt and collect berries. Then the settlers moved in and after a few battles, the Indians were forced to relocate to a reserve in Quebec. The old chief organized a last ditch effort to drive the new immigrants out, but there were just too many. In fact, Chief Kancamagus died in an armed conflict right near this very spot and it is said that his ghost still haunts the very place where he died.”

  “That's a cool story,” said Jake.

  “Let me finish,” said Dorothy.

  “Go