Expedition Adirondack (Open)

[Desmond Vinson]

It had been a long, long drive from New York City to the base of Iroquois Peak, and Milton Harding was glad to finally get out of his battered old Subaru and stretch his legs. All around him birds chirped in the trees and small animals shifted in the bushes. It was peaceful, peaceful and quiet, just the sort of place he needed to spend a little time. The story of the Trinity Slasher wasn't getting any less grim, and it weighed heavily on the young reporter. He'd talked to so many tearful relatives, seen in person so many grisly scenes, that he needed to get outside and think for a while.

There was no way his editor was going to let him have time off just to go for a hike, so he'd had to sell it a different way. He'd brought his camera and his laptop in a good-sized backpack; while he was up here, he was going to write another story. It wouldn't be about hiking or fishing or logging or all the problems the mountains were experiencing; there were too many of those already. Instead, he was going to call it Expedition Adirondack: On the Trail of the Flying Head. For once, he was going after something that really interested him, a bit of mythology from a long-lost people.

According to legend, the Flying Head had been created to punish a nameless tribe for the crime of butchering their elders in a disagreement. It was a giant human head with the wings of a bat and the talons of an eagle, and had supposedly harassed the Mohawk and Iroquois long after the tribe that caused it to be born died out. Milton had done his research, and now it was time for a little field work. He was going to head up into the mountains where the Flying Head was said to lurk, take some photos, and write his story in the peace and quiet that only nature could provide.

He'd been told not to go alone, but bringing someone would destroy the silence and solitude, and he was more than prepared for anything that came his way. A taser and a can of bear spray hung from his belt, and he wore a headlamp since it was starting to get dark. Besides, he was an experienced hiker and backpacker. What could possibly go wrong? Whistling softly to himself, he locked his car and started up the trail. He wanted to get some photos taken before the light was gone.

[Desmond Vinson]

For someone who hadn't hiked in a while, the ascent was difficult. Milton had backpacked in the Rockies and dealt with slopes much steeper, but after so much time sitting behind a desk or the wheel of a car he was a little out of shape. He didn't let himself pause to catch his breath, lest the point of all the exercise be lost. He would have to make sure he got out and walked more regularly when he got back; the shooting range where he spent time every weekend was a useful place, but it wasn't far away and didn't exactly provide much in the way of physical strain unless he counted the recoil.

Though not employed as a photographer, Milton had taken photography classes in college, and possessed both a talent for and enjoyment of that modern art form. He pulled his camera out of his backpack and paused now and again on the trail, remaining totally silent save for his breathing while he waited for nature to resume its frenzied activity around him. When it did he snapped a few pictures, disrupting it all again, and then moved slowly on. The light was fading fast, and soon he gave up on the camera and switched on his headlamp, its bright LEDs illuminating the path before him.

After about four hours of hiking, Milton decided that he was as isolated as he needed to be. He sat with his back against an old log, listening to the crickets chirping all around him along with the calls of the late night birds, and pulled out his laptop. He typed as the words came to him, stopping to watch and listen to his surroundings whenever he felt he needed inspiration. Sitting there, leaning against the downed corpse of a hundred-year old tree with a month-old computer perched on his knees, he looked the very picture of the paradox of the modern age.

It took him another three hours to finish the story, by which point he was very tired. He'd slept in late that morning, but not as late as he would've like because he had to leave time for the drive. He hadn't brought a tent, and camping above 4,000 feet was forbidden anyway; he was just going to have to walk back down. Saving his story and stowing his laptop, he levered himself to his feet and began the slow descent back to his car. The night breeze tugged at his clothes and whispered past his ears, almost as though trying to warn him of what was to come, but he didn't understand. It came anyway.