Loose Ends – Part 3
by Swellison
Pocketing his cell, Dean started the Impala, heading for I-93 and Podunk's nearest neighboring town. After twenty minutes of driving through the scenic White Mountains, Dean found the next town over, Franconia. It came with a bonus: Franconia Notch State Park. Whatthehell, Dean thought, pulling into the exit for the state park. He had the whole day to kill. Do something normal and play tourist for a day—surely Sammy'd approve of that.
Ten minutes later, Dean had parked, purchased a ticket, picked up the freebie Flume Gorge brochure, and joined a self-guided group of about twenty tourists, mostly families with a smattering of retirees. "Now Ethan, you keep an eye on Danny," a woman's voice instructed as they started the walk, catching Dean's attention. "Danny, you hold onto your big brother's hand, especially on any stair steps." Dean saw a jean-clad young woman stooping down to talk to her two youngsters.
"Yes, Mom."
"Yes, Mommy."
Dean casually positioned himself at the end of the loose group of tourists, behind the woman and her two tow-headed sons. He judged their ages as around seven and ten and half-smiled, remembering how much trouble seven-year-old Sammy could accidentally stir up. The group walked down a broad dirt path. Wooden planks replaced the dirt path as the trail reached the actual Flume Gorge. The planked path hugged the granite cliffs on one side, with a guardrail between the path and the rushing water of the flume. The guardrail was simple and natural, two long rows of natural wood boards, one at the top serving as a railing and one in the middle of the rail, pierced by thin iron posts every ten feet or so. The views of waterfalls, boulders and other natural wonders were awesome, but the protective railing was too tall for Danny to see over, so the boys stopped frequently, crouching down to get an unobstructed view of the natural wonders. The first time the boys halted they were half-way up a set of twenty stairs. Their mom stopped too, taking a few snapshots and motioning for Dean to go around them on the narrow stairway.
"That's okay, I'm not in any hurry," Dean smiled, raising his voice to be heard over the constant pounding of the so-close-you-could-almost-touch-it rushing waters of the flume. When Danny had his fill of the view, they all resumed their trek up the stairway. As the trail leveled out again, the boys switched over to the other side of the path, eager hands exploring the texture of the exposed granite on the inside of the path, touching wet, dry and occasionally moss-covered parts of the cliffside.
The first picturesque covered bridge was easily crossed. They were high enough above the gorge that the water didn't drown out conversation, and Dean overheard Danny asking his older brother, "But why'd they paint it pink?" A bit later, Danny balked at the second covered bridge, a simpler, much less substantial looking unpainted all-wooden bridge. "I'm not walkin' in that. It's scary."
"Mom, take Danny's other hand," Ethan said, grasping Danny's left hand. "Danny, stay in the middle and you'll be fine."
"We won't let anything happen to you." Danny's mom reached for his hand and the trio stepped towards the Sentinel Pine Bridge. Danny set the pace, slowly walking three abreast through the slightly swaying bridge, Dean trailing a few steps behind. As Dean emerged from the bridge, he saw Ethan turn the little family around to look back at the covered bridge.
"You did it, bro." He heard Ethan say.
"I'm proud of you, Danny." His mom released Danny's hand. "You crossed the Sentinel Pine Bridge, even though you didn't want to."
"What's a sentinel, Mommy?"
"I read about it in the brochure." The mother bent down closer to Danny. "Look underneath the bridge, see that long, thick log?"
"Yep."
Dean found himself pausing to check out the bridge's underside, too.
"That's part of the trunk of a really huge, old pine tree that used to stand not too far from here. The tree was one of the tallest pines in the state, it was almost 175 feet high and the trunk was sixteen feet around. Imagine, if you and Ethan and I held hands and tried to make a circle completely around the tree, we couldn't do it. The Sentinel Pine was bigger around than that. It stood watch over the area until the Great Hurricane of 1938 uprooted it and knocked it down.
"You see Danny, a sentinel keeps watch over an area, protecting it."
"Kinda like Mommy and I keep an eye on you," Ethan added.
Danny's mom rose to her feet. "After the storm, the park used about seventy feet of the Sentinel Pine's trunk to create this covered bridge, spanning the gap in the trail. That's why there's a 1939 carved into the bridge on the front side, it's the year the bridge was made."
"Wow, that's ancient," Ethan commented as they resumed walking on the trail.
"What's a hurricane?" Danny asked.
As the kid's mother started to explain, Dean thought with a pang about Sammy, ceaselessly pestering him with questions about everything. Pain in the ass little brothers.
The rest of the hike was full of pauses for the boys to "ooh" and "ahhh" over more scenic highlights of the path. They arrived back at the visitor's parking lot.
"Did you like the tour, boys?"
"It was awesome, Mom," Ethan answered first.
"Yeah, mommy, but we didn't see the Old Man."
"That's on a different hiking trail, Danny. Besides, we stopped and saw the Old Man of the Mountain from a distance at that scenic overlay on the way here, remember?"
"That's not the same," Danny pouted. "You promised."
Dean saw the mother glance at her watch, then crouch down next to her younger son. "Okay, we can walk the trail to Profile Lake, at the base of the Old Man's mountain. But, Danny, it's still not going to be a close-up view. We'll be twelve hundred feet below the Old Man, looking up. And if it clouds over, we won't be able to see anything. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Mommy. But I still wanna see it."
"Okay." The woman stood up and handed her older son her car keys. "Ethan, go get some more water bottles from the car." Ethan scampered off toward the center of the parking lot, returning shortly, arms laden with water bottles. She slipped them into her large carryall. "Let's go, boys."
Dean watched them walk towards the north end of the parking lot. Traveling around as much as the Winchesters had, he'd seen the Old Man of the Mountain as a distant blur from the Impala a few times, over the years. He knew the Old Man's profile was on the New Hampshire state quarter, recalling one motel stay when he'd been bored and broke, carefully counting and examining his money, down to the last penny. He still had plenty of free time; it was barely past eleven. Dean shrugged and followed the little family towards the new trail and the state's well-known landmark.
Fortunately the clouds held off and forty-five minutes later, Dean stood next to Profile Lake, reading the marker about its nickname—the Old Man's Washbowl. Gazing up at the stern and distant Old Man's face, which the marker pointed out was ruggedly formed by five different layers of granite situated just underneath the top of Cannon Mountain, Dean was reminded of nothing so much as a bearded lumberjack. He almost started humming I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay, but Danny's voice brought him back to the present.
"Wow." The little boy gazed at the huge face, awestruck. "Who put a face on the mountain, Mommy?"
"I think Daniel Webster said it best, Danny. 'Up in the Mountains of New Hampshire, God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men.'"
Ethan commented softly. "Kinda looks like Daddy from those old photos."
The young mother placed her hand lightly on the older boy's shoulder. "Yes, it does, Ethan," she agreed.
Dean reexamined the Old Man's features and easily saw a resemblance to his own dad in the rough, uncompromising visage.
He glanced down at the marker and re-read the information on the naturally-occurring face—forty feet tall by twenty-five feet wide—on the mountain. It was formed thousands of years ago, when the last ice caps receded from North America, leaving many new mountains, rivers and lakes behind. Known by the Native Americans for centuries, The Old Man of the Mountain was officially discovered in 1805. Although it was a true natural wonder, since the 1910's, the Old Man's grip on the mountain's edge had been aided by epoxy and a system of turnbuckles, a device used in quarries to secure rocks
A lot of facts that Sammy would take delight in knowing. Dean quickly banished the thought and returned his gaze to the Old Man jutting out from the mountain in seemingly unsupported natural glory. Rudely interrupted by his stomach rumbling, he quit playing tourist and made his way back to the beginning of the trail and the visitor's parking lot.
Dean settled into the Impala, got back on the highway and drove into Franconia proper, eyes peeled for a bar to grab lunch and, with luck, to hustle some pool. Spotting a likely-looking tavern, he parked and walked inside.
A pleasing mish-mash of the aromas of barbeque, chicken and pizza met Dean as he entered the establishment.
"Be right with you, sir." A perky young brunette greeted him from where she was bussing the booth closest to the door. She smiled, finished clearing the table, and stepped over to Dean, standing by the "Please Wait to be Seated" sign. "Table or a booth?" she asked.
"Booth, please." Dean followed the waitress as she stepped back to the booth she'd just finished cleaning. She motioned for him to sit down, and Dean selected the side of the booth facing the door. He noticed a newspaper tucked under the girl's arm. "Is that the local paper?"
"Yes. D'you wanna read it?"
Dean smiled. "That'd be awesome, thanks." The waitress left the newspaper on his table, and Dean ordered a draft beer and a medium pizza with everything, figuring he'd have plenty of time to peruse the paper in the twenty or so minutes it would take for the pizza to bake. He opened the folded-over paper and started reading the Franconia Sentinel's front-page news. The local lead was a story about a missing hiker, last seen six days ago. Nothing about the neighboring town of Lincoln at all. No news is good news, Dean thought.
Next, he thoroughly scoped out his surroundings, noting the bar's layout. The back room's pool tables were currently deserted; he'd have to stop by later this evening, when the after work crowd drifted in for some fun and games. He needed to find a motel room after lunch. Early May in New Hampshire was too cold to comfortably crash in the Impala overnight.
Pondering his motel options, Dean was vaguely aware that two men strolled past him and sat in the booth behind his. His peripheral vision noted they wore matching jackets and dark pants, some sort of uniform. Dean easily overheard the conversation from the next booth over.
"Shame about that missing hiker. If he was anywhere near the trail, we should'a found him by now."
"Yeah, Ed," rumbled the second man. "I heard Millie say it could be a fraternity prank or something and the kid's not really missing at all."
Dean realized that the men were talking about the missing hiker he'd just read about in the paper. He casually stretched his arm across the top of the booth and glanced over his shoulder, noting that the men both wore sheriff's deputy badges. Terrific. He faced forwards, skimming the newspaper as he continued to eavesdrop.
"Nah, I'm not buying that, Noah," Ed said. "I talked to my nephew, Wilson. You remember Wilson, don't ya? He graduated from State last year and he knew the Keppler boy slightly. Local boy from Madbury and a seasoned hiker. Not the type to wander off on his own. Kid's hiking buddies said the same thing, when they reported him missing.
"Wilson also pointed out to me that it's the wrong season for fraternity hijinks. The frats rush during the fall, not the springtime."
"Didn't Keppler's pals say they'd just planned an overnight hike, to clear their heads before finals?" The first voice—Dean identified it as Noah's—asked.
"The mountains can be pretty unforgiving," Ed said gravely. "We can't forget that five experienced mountain climbers lost their lives in the White Mountains back in '99."
"Different circumstances there, Ed. That was winter, and the top of Bald Mountain. This Keppler kid wasn't mountain climbing, just hikin' with his buddies."
"So where is he, now?"
"I dunno. It's been two-three years since a black bear's been sighted near any of the trails, but—"
"The mountains can be unforgiving." Ed reiterated, closing the subject. "Hi Katie," he said as the brunette waitress joined them. "What d'you recommend for lunch today?"
Dean finished reading the paper and stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, coming in contact with the brochures from his recent visit to the state park. He skimmed the first information pamphlet idly then straightened in the booth as he came across the phrase "old-growth forest". Huh. Somehow, even after viewing the mix of young and mature sugar maple, beech, birch and spruce trees from parts of Franconia Notch's trails, he'd failed to grasp the fact that he was looking at old-growth forest. Off the top of his head, he could name ten different supernaturals that favored old-growth forests. Maybe Keppler met up with something far more dangerous than a black bear.
Katie appeared, placing a steaming pizza on a large stoneware trivet in front of Dean, the handle pointed inwards. "Be careful, it's hot," she cautioned. "I'll be right back with your beer."
Dean nodded, gazing approvingly at the almost deep-dish thick pizza liberally supplied with chunks of sausage, mushroom, ham, pepperoni, peppers, olives and onions, on top of a cheese and tomato paste base. He manfully refrained from eating it until the waitress returned with his beer, giving the pizza time to fractionally cool. He lifted the first piece, carefully biting its tip, savoring the taste of all its toppings. Mmmmm. Pizza heaven.
Mulling over the missing hiker, Dean gobbled down pizza slices and beer, not stopping until both were gone. His waitress stopped by to clear the table. "Would you like some dessert, sir?"
"What d'you recommend?"
"The blueberry pie is very good—and we're known for our carrot cake all the way to Concord."
Carrot cake—one of Sammy's favorite desserts, being made with vegetables and all. "Ah, I'll take a piece of blueberry pie." Dean ordered quickly.
"Gotcha. D'you want some coffee with that?"
"Yes, please." Dean watched the waitress as she sauntered towards the bar, then put his mind back on business. Hearing the deputies' comments and reading the paper had cemented his instincts: he had a hunt, right here in Franconia Notch State Park. Even Dad respected Dean's instincts—well, more like he bemoaned Sam's lack of hunter's instincts "like ours", but— there was a hunt here. Dean felt sure of it. And even if he was wrong, he was an excellent tracker—as good as, if not better than, Franconia's search and rescue squads. If anyone could find Keppler, it was him.
The enticing smells of warm blueberry pie and steaming coffee brought Dean out of his reverie as the waitress set his dessert on the table. "Let me know if you need anything else, sir." Katie smiled and left the table.
Dean picked up a fork and dug into the warm, whipped cream-topped slice of pie. He needed to research the area's history, and get more information on exactly how and where Keppler had disappeared. Oh, great. Gonna spend the afternoon researching. Sammy'd get a kick out of this—me, spending his birthday trapped in a library.
*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*
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