It looked as though if I continued to the west, towards Watertown on Route 3, I could get near a possible third location mentioned in some emails between George and his minions. I liked the looks of this one because a gas station at nearby Bear Lake had sold the same, non-local, guy new truck tires on two separate occasions, both for cash, and filled numerous propane tanks for him every week or two, also for cash. After checking out the spot near Bear Lake, I would loop around south, and head homewards via Old Forge (on Route 28), where there was a nice confluence of open/empty space and a few instances of large cash payments that were enough to make me suspicious, all pointing to a space a few miles north of Old Forge.
At this point, I noticed that I was stiff and cold and straining to see in the failing afternoon light; Hope was twitching in her sleep, thinking about squirrels, or maybe those rednecks we'd seen earlier in the day. I stood up, and made enough noise doing it to wake Hope, so we took a little walk around the perimeter of our camp, straightening stuff and hanging a bear-bag, before getting ready for bed.
I had laid her fleece blanket (folded and scrunched into a nest of sorts, I'm not a beast) below my hammock, and climbed into bed above Hope. For a while I could hear her turning around and then whimpering a bit as the sound and light finished the change from day to night. She stood up and bumped my butt with her nose and gave a little woof up at me. I looked over the edge and started to ask her if she wanted to join me, (making the 'up' gesture) and before I got the words out, she was on top of me, making happy noises and turning around in dog circles. I reached down and groped around for her fleece, laid it on top of her, and we fell asleep like that. The only downside was that the pressure on my mid-section hastened my late-night pee wake-up call (an issue with hammock-camping anyway)... we managed to settle back down again for a few hours after that, with me reading, using Hope for a bookrest.
Wanakena, 4:22a.m., 9/13/2012
It was going to be dark for a while, but both Hope and I woke up agitated, and couldn't get back to sleep, so I made some oatmeal for myself, and kibble with some gravy (thanks again to the miracle of leftover hot water) for Hope. We both enjoyed our breakfasts, watching the light from the sliver of moon dance on the rippling water, thanks to some bird or beast ruffling the otherwise smooth surface of the little pond, which seemed to lack a name on all of my maps. I broke camp while giving Hope the chance to explore off-lead a bit, and was paid off with a big splash and some barking as she surprised and upset and then swam after a duck for thirty yards towards the center of the pond. Neither Hope nor the duck seemed to take it too seriously, and a good time was had by all. Hope came back up and had shaken or rolled off most of the water by the time I was ready to hike out to the car, aided by my headlamp.
Dry Timber Lake, 6:14a.m., 9/13/2012
Hope and I left Wanakena in out rearview mirror long before sunrise, topped up and grabbed some appropriate road food at the Nice ‘n Easy gas station and grocery store in Star Lake, a few miles further to the west, and were exploring the back roads south of Fine, NY as the sun peeked and then crept over some of the shorter trees. Hope snored and farted in the passenger seat next to me as we drove, waking up every once in a while, over a bump or when I would reach over to stroke her back. Although her system had not yet adjusted to the rigors of road food, she seemed to be handling the trip pretty well, so far.
I didn't often get this far west in the Park, and I could feel the difference, in the types of trees that grew, and the lights on the horizon (from Fort Drum I suppose), and the sensation of 'edge'; we were about to fall off the rim of the Park and into a more civilized world. I was eager to turn around and get back into the woods, but needed to check out this set of solid coordinates.
We bumped and bounced our way to a narrow track that should have lead back to Dry Timber Lake, but it was blocked about 75 yards down by the ubiquitous fallen tree. I had to back and pull a W-turn to get out of the cul-de-sac, and felt oddly exposed while engaged in the forward and back movement in the Element. Hope woke, either from the starting and stopping motion, or by picking up on my tension; she stood and looked out the window and gave a single woof at the woods before curling back up into a ball.
On our drive out, I saw a pickup truck in the distance that rang a bell, possibly the hard-eyed rednecks from the previous day. I took a random turn at speed and raced down the dirt track and around a turn so that whoever it was wouldn't get a chance (or another chance) to see me and Hope up close and personal.
I did another W-turn after rounding a few bends, and sat facing back the way that we had come from for a full ten minutes, talking to Hope, rubbing her ears, trying to calm one of us down (hard to say which). I had visions of armed legions of rednecks coming down my side road, blocking my escape with their truck(s) and dumping Hope and me into shallow graves. I strained my ears for the sound of a truck engine coming closer, and for a minute could hear the dull growl of a diesel engine, and crackle of gravel under a heavy vehicle, but then it faded again, as they continued on their way to the meth-camp (or fishing spot or family barbeque or swimmin' hole... who knows?). I felt OK marking that spot down on my map as 'positive' for meth-camp status. I drove too fast on the way back out to Route 3.
Old Forge, 10:08a.m., 9/13/2012
Hope and I pointed the truck south from Fine, and headed down Route 812 to Lowville and Boonville, before looping back north on Route 28 towards Old Forge. We stopped in Old Forge for breakfast at the Five Corners Café , and to make a few follow-up phone calls (including one to Frank to tell him that I was making progress), before heading up to explore the backcountry north of Old Forge.
I'd had an interesting conversation with a tow-truck operator who had helped to jack/tow a trailer back up onto a dirt road between Cranberry Pond and Woods Lake. I'd also talked to a guy working at Old Forge Hardware, who'd had a cash customer for multiple grill-sized propane tanks every week since snowmelt, and more recently for hundreds of dollars of cold-weather clothing. It seemed likely, at least to me, that George had another meth-camp up in the woods north of Old Forge.
I pointed the Element out of town on Big Moose Road, and once I got up within a few miles of where the tow-truck had helped pull the trailer out of a ditch, I began taking random turns, trying to wander in circles that generally took me back towards (and around) Cranberry Pond and Woods Lake. I stopped towards noon up at Big Burnt Lake (a slight detour from my back road looping) to go for a swim and do some fishing. I hung a hammock near the water and, after getting a few bites and catching a snack for Hope, took a nap. I tied Hope's long lead to one of the trees that my hammock was hung from, and she eventually settled underneath me, dreaming of something that made her twitch and cry a bit.
Eventually, we struggled out of nap-mode, and spent a few more hours, unsuccessfully, exploring the woods and roads north of Old Forge, looking for signs of the missing meth-camp. I found some great paddling-trip access points, and determined to explore the connected series of lakes and rivers and reservoirs up there before snow flew, but never did see anything that confirmed my hunch that George had set up one of his production labs in the area. I was headed back down through a slightly different network of tiny tracks and jeep trails than we'd taken on the way in, when Hope and I took a blind turn in the road and passed those same cold-eyed rednecks in their pickup for what must have been one too many times. I thought that I saw a second of recognition in the passenger's eyes as they drove past. It was confirmed a second later in my rearview, when I saw the brake lights flare, the truck skid into a turn, back up and maneuver through a 180 degree turn on the blessedly narrow track prior to chasing me (and Hope) down.
North of Old Forge, 3:22p.m., 9/13/2012
I stomped hard on the gas and felt the Element strain against the gravel road, spitting a few stones before gripping and accelerating down the road. I could see the bad guys' truck in my rearview as it completed a 17-point turn and came after me (I took a microsecond to appreciate having the kind of li
fe that allowed me to use the words 'bad guy' and mean it, before coming to my senses), I had a significant lead on the truck, but two things occurred to me with the kind of perfect clarity that one achieves only after fucking up. First, I had admitted to them that something was up by shifting into getaway mode and stomping on my gas. Second, I was driving fast down a road that quite likely ended before long because they had a tree down to stop vehicles (like... mine). I couldn't do anything to change either of those facts by slowing down, so I kept my foot pressed to the floor until the truck began to shimmy on the roadbed surface at just under 80mph. I tried to think about what I was going to do when I ran out of road, or they caught up to us, but I kept coming up with negatives: no cell-service, no road out (but this one), no caltrops, no cops, no gun, no wings.
I looked over at Hope, who had woken up when we started speeding up and bouncing exponentially more. She whined and got wide-eyed in fear, something I hadn't seen in days from her; I knew exactly how she felt. I had been treating this like a vacation, ignoring the fact (again) that these were dangerous people, capable of doing whatever they felt necessary to safeguard their money and livelihood and freedom. I flicked my eyes to the rearview for a second, and was uselessly angry that the following truck was noticeably closer than it had been ten seconds ago. They had a faster truck or a better driver, it didn't matter which, but I could feel my breath hitching and see my eyes clouding with angry tears at the unfairness of it. I was happy and safe and healthy and enjoying my road-trip with Hope. I didn't want another Justin and Barry session, and I really didn't want Hope getting hurt or abandoned out here.
Like a switch had flipped, I suddenly got angry (an extreme rarity in my life). I felt the useless fear and edginess recede, and the adrenalin flooding my heart and limbs and brain seemed now to steady my hands on the wheel. It brought a quiet clarity to my thoughts, and a focus to my vision that hadn't been present a moment before; this was the way that my endocrine system was supposed to work when in crisis. My options and choices weren't any better than they had been a minute ago, but I could look at them more clearly now that I wasn't going to waste what time I had left (before the literal end of the road) crying or whining about it.
I grabbed the map I'd printed out of the area with my right hand, and held it up at 12 o’clock above the steering wheel to check it out, and remind myself of the physical layout of the road ahead of me. We would reach a transition to public, then private, then public land again in about two miles. It seemed likely (given the presence of the truck currently chasing me) that one of the upcoming transitions would be blocked by a big tree. Before the likely blockade, about a mile away from us (in roughly 43 seconds my brain chimed in, unbidden), there was a 90 degree turn off to the left leading to a tiny boat-launch and fishing access point onto some tiny pond that I couldn't see the name of at the moment (which bothered me more than it should have, given the givens). If I took that turn, I crossed a bridge over a little creek, made one more turn, and then entered the slight widening of the road that would serve as parking lot for the boat-launch. I had an idea, and so accelerated beyond the speed that I felt safe driving on this road in the blind hope of getting around the turns with a few seconds to give my bare-bones plan a prayer of working.
I roared into the left hand turn, showering the side of the road with gravel and banging the side of the Element into support rails of the bridge; shedding speed so fast that I almost stalled as I downshifted to try and gain back some speed and time before the chase-truck caught up. I limped around the next turn, and down the last stretch of road into the parking lot before the boat ramp and water of Mud Lake (I was as disappointed as you to find out the name of the pond from a sign at the top of the parking lot as I sped by). I skidded to a stop, flung the door open, and ten seconds later, the other truck slowed to a stop at the top end of the parking lot.
They were stopped at an angle, so that their truck blocked the whole width of the way out of the parking lot, passenger side closer to the water; their growling diesel was much noisier than the Element's purring engine. I hoped that the open driver's side door and lack of my head visible in the rear window would lead them to believe that I had run into the woods; as, indeed, I had very badly wanted to do. After the longest five seconds of my life, I heard a door open and feet hit the ground and start walking across the thirty or so yards towards where I was parked.
“We just wanna talk, come on outta the woods and we can settle this without any hassle... we just wanna know who you're working for, and what they want.” It was entirely possible that he was telling the truth, but I wouldn't have any of the right answers for him, nor could I convincingly make them up.
I reached down and patted Hope, then sat up, shifting into reverse as I did so. I had waited to do this until now because I thought the reverse indicator light might give him a hint, even subconsciously, that I was there and I wanted to jealously guard every possible advantage. I stomped the gas to the floor and tried to keep the Element aimed at the front of their truck as all of the wheels struggled to grab and maintain traction on the gravel of the parking lot. The passenger who had been walking my way jumped to the side after shooting at the back of the Element looming in his vision. I could see the driver, unprepared for this option, take too long to come to a decision before scrambling to get his truck into reverse. I ran the right rear side of the Element into their truck at a hair over 20mph, crunching in their radiator partway, pushing them back off of the roadway into the parking lot drainage ditch, and moving them out of my way (all in all, a better outcome than I had any right to hope for). I jammed the shifter into first for a half second to pull forward a couple of feet, hoping not to be hung up from the collision, and then reversed down the road until the bridge turn, at which point I swung the wheel down to the left, shifted back into first, and roared across the bridge and away; my engine whining from the high RPMs.
I pulled over a half mile down the road, at the first big, dead, and leaning tree I saw standing next to the road. I listened for pursuit, heard none, and jumped out to grab the tow rope out of the back. I stole a page out of their book, threw the rope around a branch about twelve feet up (years of bear-bagging finally paying off!), tied it to the trailer hitch (which I'd never used before today) in a way that seemed sure to be bad for the Element, and pulled the tree down across the road. It cracked and creaked, and on the second pull the whole rear end of my Element lifted off of the ground, but on the third try, the tree came crashing down across the road. Given the thick stems and limbs and trunk, I was sure that their truck, even in good shape (which I didn't think it was) couldn't drive across. I cut the tow-rope in a couple of places with my knife (so they couldn’t use it to free themselves), threw the pieces I could grab into the back, and drove off cackling like a madman; Hope sitting in my lap, whining and kissing my face and peeing a little bit (don’t worry, Hope, I second those emotions!).
Old Forge, 4:18p.m., 9/13/2012
I kept checking for reception on my cell phone. I was almost all the way in town and on my way to the Public Library (which I'd stopped at to steal WiFi on occasion) before I was able to connect and dial Frank. I pulled into the parking lot, the only space available was reserved for people with a handicap sticker, so I pulled into that slot (I'd move if someone else came, but for now, my need was significant). I grabbed and powered up my laptop while his phone was ringing.
“FRANK! I'll be done talking in two minutes. As soon as I'm done call your guys at the State Police or DEA with the coordinates I'm about to send you via email. I got attacked in the woods just now by some of the drug dealers, but I got away, so now they know that I know. It's possible that they think I'm a competitor, but you should still get your guys to hit all of the places that I send you coordinates for as soon as is humanly possible. The bad guys that I ran into probably won't be able to call their drug-lab phone-tree for a couple of hours, but no more than that. FUCK! ... sorry.” I was rattled and trying to keep calm enough to give h
im all he needed to know to get busy catching bad guys.
“Tyler, are you sure...?” He started to interrupt.
“Frank, shut the fuck up and listen. The first three sets of coordinates are 100%. The one I refer to as site A is just a bit outside of Tupper, and can be approached in only two directions so you can bottle them in with cars. Site B has so many roads going in and out that if you can possibly get a helicopter you should use it for site B to supplement cars. Site C has only one access point, so it can be hit hard and fast, by your sloppiest team. Site D is the weakest set of coordinates; being the spot where the red truck guys attacked me, but it should be within a mile of the coordinates; if you can bottle up the roads north of Old Forge, all around that set of coords, it should work.” I stopped to breathe, and Frank jumped in before I could start up again.
“Tyler, calm down, slow down, there's no way I'm gonna remember all of this, and we need to get this right.”
“You're right Frank... let me finish talking through it, and I'll send a copy of everything to your email... ok?”
“Good... go on.”
“I think that there are three to five more meth-labs, but we don't have time to find them, so you have to go with what I'm sending, and you can try to squeeze more info out of the guys you catch. I have some ideas, but nothing concrete. I'll send rough coordinates for those ones, but they're essentially guesses at this point, although I'm pretty sure they're out there... within a mile or five of the rough coordinates I’ll send.”
Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) Page 20