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Chapter One by Adam

We were herded by circumstance onto Spencer Bay. As posted before leaving, we were headed for Lobster Pond, but an updated Maine Gazetteer purchased in the Indian Hills Trading post outside Greenville made it clear there was no access by road. Then we bottomed out in snow and got stuck on the way to a tempting alternate, Blood Pond, and though we proceeded on foot just to see it, there was very little “there” there, so we dug & we dug, chunking in rocks & branches for traction, and generating one limerick:

Mike’s truck’s stuck in icy wheel pits
Tires spinning, like a rock there it sits
But with enough sticks & stones
And thank God no broken bones
We’re finally off again in search of the Ritz

That search took us to one thwarted destination after another, racking up literally hundreds of logging road miles and taking a minor toll on Mike’s undercarriage (one muffler support bracket weld cracked). And as darkness loomed, we chose our final destination (back to the motel of night one was indeed discussed), which would have seemed too near civilization and too “easy” had we spied it earlier in our quest. After one last exciting washout crossing (flanked by many a downed tree, courtesy of ambitious — though possibly lost — beavers) out onto the open expanse of the gravel fields of Spencer Bay we rolled.

It was so clearly a party arena, we almost didn’t stop. Vast, no shelter, barren and open, and certainly devoid of firewood, picked over by the preceding droves. But it was late, the scenery across the lake uplifting, and so we headed for the edge of the woods and threw down anchor, hoping the Greenville football team bus didn’t pull in about midnight.

We did have a few visitors over the next three days, just regular nobodies like us looking for whatever one can find at a lakeshore at the end of a road on a map. They all left us to our privacy after brief inspections. But on the last night, I thought I’d spied a flashlight bobbing along the shore of the campsite north of us, so after dinner, I remarked that I was walking out to the point and set off.

My reconnaissance sortie immediately became a group affair. Whether bored and willing to avail themselves of positively any diversion, or suspicious of my motives, the Three Well-armed Boys set off after me, with Mike trailing. Some dozen yards out front, I heard a weird noise from the middle of the expanse, and stopped.

We all heard it, this gobbling racket borne on the evening winds, which were beginning to pick up steam. Many ducks squabbling, we posited, perhaps at the shut-in pond down the shore. But unable to conjure a positive identification, we kept on out to the point, where we saw no signs of neighbors. The warm winds off the frozen lake weirded us out, though, and then we heard our tarps collapsing in the gathering gusts and hastened back.

Nothing to do but strike the shelter. With dinner over and tomorrow’s departure almost here, it just seemed practical. But afterwards, there was little to do without our makeshift site for “locale”, and the winds were really picking up. And then Michael suggested we go check out The Noise.

Chapter Two by Michael

I continually compared this camping trip to those fall trips with the guys. And this one was a model of efficiency. We arrived in Portland in two hours, had a quick dinner, and were in Greenville by ten. Unheard of for the guys who lollygag everywhere they go. We also had three meals a day, at close to reasonable times – not breakfast at ten, lunch at four and dinner stuffed down after eight.

Sunday was no different. Adamís dinner, boil in a bag Pad Thai (chicken and shrimp for us), bookended Robbyís breakfast of ham, eggs and bacon. But this external regularity had no effect on my internal workings. Which is why, long after dinner, I wandered into the woods in the dark.

As an aside, I think when friends claim they canít camp because they canít do without hot showers and soft beds, what they are really complaining about is the lack of a bathroom. Which might also explain why each boy arrived with several rolls of toilet paper. We might run out of food and water, but weíd never have to resort to dry leaves.

Anyway, single roll in hand, I proceeded into the lampblack forest. I knew I had to go deep into the woods to create my own private privy, but also to be sure I wasnít going to be a target. Target practice was constant, and the path was decorated by hanging, pellet-riddled Pepsi cans. Sometimes the boys would stand up and shoot at those cans; often times, sitting at the picnic table, they would simply spin and fire. With memories of Gilsum, and Robby using his Daisy to plunk the back of the out house I was using, I plodded on.

With flashlight in hand, I wove in and out of thickets, past trees stumps, and over a truly amazing amount of moose, deer and doe poop. It was obvious, without the presence of people, this area was a veritable Mall of America for animals. Although we never saw them at our site, we even awoke on Monday to fresh poop outside our tent.

I felt like a cat in search of the perfect spot, which for me is a downed tree resting horizontally a couple of feet above the ground, against which I would rest my back. I kept walking and thatís when I first heard the noise to which Adam refers. Iíd stop to listen and the noise would get louder. Iíd walk and the sound would diminish. I wasnít really concerned, because I have no forest fears, and I knew it wasnít coming from a panther or a space alien.

However — and this is a big however — you try turning your back in the dark, in the woods, to an unknown sound. And to amplify that however, turn your back and drop your pants down around your ankles. I felt like a prisoner with ankle irons, and pretty soon, if I could force myself to relax, I knew running was going to be damn near impossible.

My position, bare bottom to the noise, was bad enough, but my silence emboldened the whatevers to make even more noise. I had no idea what they were, but the sound was not unlike the ominous music played in most horror movies from the sixties. The dead arise from their graves and the closer they get to the unsuspecting victims the higher that warbling pitch.

When I returned, I didn’t tell anyone about that noise, and it wasn’t until the next night, when the boys and I trailed curious Adam out onto the beach, that we decided it was time to investigate. Remember, this is Monday night, the boys have weathered a frightening thunderstorm, the winds have torn down our tarps and smashed our lantern, and we are all moving as one. I may have been the first to queue up behind Adam, but Matt, Daryl, and Robby with his trusty machete, were instantly at our side.

The Conclusion coming soon… .