We were backpacking in the Sandwich Range of the White Mountains, sweating our way up a pebbly pitch of the Bennett Street Trail, when the categorical scent of cigarette smoke wafted through the steamy forest and piqued our ex-smoker noses. Bizarre. Aside from the distant yapping of a dog, we hadn’t seen or heard any indication of other people. The cigarette smoke seemed like an ominous warning of some unseen evil, straight out of a horror movie.
The smoker turned out to be an older man in his late 40s-early 50s, resting just above the steep section of the trail at a four-way intersection. He had extinguished his cigarette before we saw him and was peeling off slices of a fat, dried sausage with a knife as we approached.
We exchanged friendly greetings. Mr. P took out the map and the man asked,” Are you headed to Sandwich Dome or the shelter?”
“The shelter,” Mr. P answered.
“That’s where I’m headed too. I think it’s that way,” the man said, pointing.
Mr. P verified this on the map and we continued on out way. “See you there” the man said.
I waited until we walked for 5 minutes and I said, “He was creepy. He looked exactly like the murderer from The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.”
Mr. P considered this. “Yes, he did a bit.”
“I bet if we said we were going to Sandwich Dome, he would have followed us there, too. I’m not going to be able to sleep if we have to sleep next to that guy,” I said.
“Maybe we can bum a cigarette from him before he murders us in our sleep,” Mr. P said.
We made it to the Flat Mountain Pond Shelter in about an hour. There were already four men on the shelter platform, so we decided to take a nearby established camping site with a fire pit. I busied myself collecting dry wood for an anti-bear-and-bug campfire as Mr. P set up the tent. About 10 minutes into our activities, the smoker came by. “Is there space on the shelter?” he asked. We told him it was too crowded for us, but probably enough space for him. After we set up camp…
Sticks
More Sticks
We headed to Flat Mountain Pond to wash off the day’s sweat with an evening swim. I removed my boots and socks while Mr. P stripped down to his boxer shorts. Yo-ow!
Time for a Bath, Perhaps
Suddenly the smoker sat down next to me on the beach. “There are leeches in this lake,” he told us. “You can see them.”
“Oh yeah?” Mr. P said, crestfallen. We recently watched Stand By Me (part of Mr. P’s American cultural education, as taught by me) and the leech scene in the swamp totally freaked him out. We peered into the clear lake water and observed a small, light-colored slug-like animal circling a rock.
“Okay, I’ll go in quickly for my bath,” Mr. P decided. I waded in up to my ankles while intently monitoring my feet. I dunked my bandanna and squeezed fresh water on my head several times.
“Creepy,” I said to the smoker. “The leeches. Thanks for the warning.”
“Sure,” he said. “You know, not all leeches will attach themselves to humans, but still.”
“Yeah,” I said, assenting my squeamishness towards exposure to blood-sucking parasites.
When Mr. P came ashore, I checked his body for leeches. I could have teased and pretended to pick one off, but the smoker was still on the shore, fiddling with a CamelBak. “All clear,” I told him, and we sat on the shore and stared at the lake with longing and peace. And we never saw him smoke another cigarette, leaving me to wonder if the mysterious smoker was still out in the woods, lighting up in between increments of elevation gain.
Leech Lake
