ELEMENTS OF AN ENIGMA

It was a cold, crisp November morning in the Adirondacks. The steel-grey sky reflected on the glassy surface of the lake, where I sat pensively in my canoe. In this tranquil moment I found myself contemplating the swirls of steam rising from the mug of coffee that warmed my hands. The surrounding silence was gradually disturbed by the familiar sound of a flock of Canada geese, winging their way south on their annual migration to the winter grounds. The v-formation of the flock altered course and I could see them drawing closer, guessing there were more than a hundred geese passing overhead. I once thought the leader of the flock was at the head of the formation, but since learned the bird honking commands was always at the end of the longest tail.

Moments later, the flock disappeared over the trees to the south of the bay, and the cacophony faded away, only to be replaced by another sound I couldn’t quite identify. It was almost like a swarm of bees, a big swarm of bees. As I looked around, scanning the sky above, I saw something moving towards me; as it came closer I identified the source of the sound. It was a drone, a large drone with six rotors appearing to have some object attached. It was heading towards the point where my cottage was situated on the eastern shore of Lake George, in upstate New York. Hmm, I thought, maybe RT got another drone for his real estate ventures and is testing some new video equipment. When the drone went out of view, its sound faded away.

Without a second thought, I opened my pack and unwrapped my still-warm, spiced apple muffin and poured another steamy mug of coffee from my thermos. The call of a solitary loon carried across the water. A moment later, a tranquil silence engulfed me once again. Feeling thankful, I mused, what could be more perfect in this not-so-perfect world?

Paddling for a while, I enjoyed this rare silence, unlike summer months when there is almost non-stop activity on the lake with sailors, sightseers, and water skiers in addition to fishing boats, seaplanes, Seadoos, kayaks, and canoes. I had not yet paddled very far when the silence was again shattered by a loud chainsaw echoing off the mountains. So, I turned around and headed for home. I reached the small dock and pulled up the canoe, hoping the night would be clear and I could float underneath a quiet starry sky, wishing on falling stars.

I walked up the stone steps, following the winding path to my cottage, when up on the deck the scent of smoke from the woodstove hung in the air. Inside, the warmth was welcoming. While unpacking my thermos and snack bag, I noticed something through the French doors that led to the south side of the deck. It called for a closer look. There was a box, but something about it seemed oddly familiar. The black box of premium quality cardboard had a lid tied on with black cording, yet there were no visible labels or symbols anywhere on it. It was nearly a foot long, around eight-inches across and about six-inches deep. Then it came to me, that drone was carrying something of a similar size and I had thought it was some kind of video equipment. But this did not look like any video gear. I tried to listen, but the sound of the chainsaw made it impossible to hear if there was anything within that I should be concerned about. I sat down as my heart rate increased.

My first impulse was to untie the box and look inside. Although quite tempting, I restrained myself and continued to speculate about the myriad of possibilities concerning this most unusual arrival. The mind can play tricks in a situation like this, with the imagination going on a spree. What in the world could it be I pondered, and who may have delivered it to me? I was fairly certain it was not a ticking time-bomb, laundered money, or drugs. Could it be from family, friends, or a client? Maybe someone was just pulling a prank? But one thing was for sure, this was truly out of the ordinary, way out. Thoughts of calling the FBI had crossed my mind, but I nixed that one, and went back inside for my iPhone so I could take a few photos of the mysterious and somewhat ominous looking black box.

Interestingly, the black box in aeronautical lingo records and stores the flight data on most commercial and military aircraft. Only it’s not black at all, but a brilliant Day-Glo orange, making it easier to find if a plane ever goes down.

Still puzzled by the dilemma of what could be in the box, I took photos from all angles, just for the record. As I sat down again, the myth of Pandora came to mind. How does one weigh the risks of venturing into the unknown?

The days were growing shorter and the once vibrant colors of autumn leaves had faded and now covered the ground. Most of the cottages in our lakeside community were now closed up for the winter, and yet someone was still cutting wood. The sound of the chainsaw eventually stopped, and silence returned. I could again think clearly, while waiting for some kind of a sign from the universe to present itself and offer guidance.

I started making a mental list of who may have sent this enigmatic thing and eliminated the names almost as soon as I came up with them. I could only think of one person who had the kind of warped sense of humor that might have been behind this, but Tommy had died years ago, and I missed him. Again, my checklist was back to zero.

Thoughts of past adventures and exploits with my old friend started flooding my mind’s eye with uncanny clarity: the off-season trip to Yellowstone, where we soaked in the soothing waters of Huckleberry Hot Springs amidst the falling snow.

Our time traveling experiences of reenacting 18th-Century French and Indian War events in Chablis, Canada, Crown Point, and Ticonderoga, were fully immersive adventures steeped in history. Listening to stories around the campfires, savoring delicious period cuisine, and imbibing home-brewed ales were among some of those special moments I will always treasure.

There was the time we set our sights on the Olympics in the mid-80’s, bobsledding on the course in Lake Placid. We began training with Olympians, sliding on our old, restored Navy team sled. Although we didn’t quite make the cut, we accumulated a lifetime’s worth of thrill rides and indelible memories.

Realizing I was getting sucked into a nostalgic vortex, I snapped out of it. It was time to make a decision. I heard an owl hoot in the distance, and took it as a sign. The elegant black cording on the box was tied in a neat bow, like it was a gift. I prepared to unwrap the enigma, reaching for the cord, as I took a deep breath.

What am I doing? I thought. Get the phone and record this, I told myself. I picked up the end of the cord again, the phone’s camera was recording in slo-mo as I pulled the string. Suddenly, the top flew up, at least three-feet in the air, and I almost dropped my phone. My pulse was pounding, thinking somebody really does have a warped sense of humor. I could have had a heart attack! The lid had landed upside down, a few feet away, and it had four springs attached, one in each corner. Inside, there was a parchment envelope on top of a silvery, metal box with more cording around it, enabling it to be lifted out easily.

The sturdy metal container was similar to a safe-deposit box that required a key to open it. It weighed a few pounds and when I turned it over, there was no indication of anything loose inside. Within the envelope there was no key, only a single folded sheet of parchment paper containing this cryptic message: “You will have what you were looking for, when you find the Lost Arrow.”

Chills went up my spine and I felt totally electrified while deciphering the note. No one else in the world would likely be able to decode the cryptic message or know where to look for the Lost Arrow. But I knew immediately who was behind this, (or so I thought) and what I had to do. I went to get my old metal detector, to see if it was still in working condition.

I stopped dead in my tracks. What was I thinking? I had just been so caught up in nostalgic notions, I had momentarily forgotten that Tommy was no longer with us, and had passed away in May of 2013, at a VA hospital in Brooklyn. There was only an informal service for him, which I was unable to attend. Apparently, his ashes were scattered in the woods behind his historic home in White Plains.

So who could have sent this mystery for me to unravel? Whoever did, had to know about the lost arrow and where to look for it. Tommy and I had enjoyed our rock climbing ventures in the Adirondacks, and we each carried an array of ropes and other gear to enable us to climb safely. I had an assortment of “Lost Arrow” pitons made by the Chouinard Iron Works in California. During one of our climbs in the “Chimney” on Anthony’s Nose, I lost one of my large pitons; now it was truly a “lost arrow.” Back then, we both spent some time looking for the piton, but had no luck finding it. And I never tried locating it with a metal detector. But was about to…

The detector was in the closet and as expected, the battery had been removed long ago. Fortunately there were a few 9-volt batteries on hand. I installed one, and turned the switch. The light came on and the unit beeped; I adjusted the dial and moved the sensor over the floor. It sounded when it was around six-inches over the square-cut nails I used to fasten down the pine planks. It was good to go.

I brought the box and its contents in from the deck, still thinking about the clever message it enclosed. It was before noon and there was plenty of time to hike up to the Chimney. I got my pack and some equipment together, including a head lamp, trowel, a few energy bars, and a bottle of water.

I laced up my hiking boots, strapped the detector onto the backpack and grabbed a hiking stick before heading out the door. The sky was still grey and it was cold enough for snow flurries. The hike up to the Chimney would take less than half-an-hour. I felt quite excited, wondering if I would really be able to find the old lost arrow. I walked along the lakeshore path, heading north towards Record Mountain and Anthony’s Nose. It had been more than thirty years since I last set foot in the Chimney, which was now visible in the distance. When at the rock face of the cliff, I walked into the three-foot wide fissure. It was warmer in there at this time of year and quite the opposite in summer. I got the detector off my pack, turned it on and started sweeping back and forth, moving up the incline and further in. The floor was covered with leaves and was rather slippery. A few feet further the detector started to beep. I zeroed in on my target, brushed away the thick layer of leaves, and found an old crushed beer can. Shit! It really bothers me how some people can treat the environment as a dumping ground. I picked it up and bagged it. I had nearly reached the end of the Chimney and continued sweeping. Nothing. . .

Turning around, heading south towards the opening, I continued the sweep back to where I started, then went a little further. I was about to pack it up, until hearing a faint signal. The layer of leaves was thinner here; underneath was more gravel and stone left over from the Ice Age. I brushed away the leaves and yet the signal was still quite faint. I took my trowel and started to dig into the gravel to find the source.

Disappointingly, it was a pop-top, maybe it was from the crushed can. I felt crushed too. I went to get my hiking stick where it had been left, leaning against the west wall. I waved the sensor over the only spot that hadn’t been swept. Upon hearing a strong signal, I lit up like the light on the unit and brushed away the leaves. Nothing was there, yet the signal was still quite strong, so I started digging. The compacted gravel impeded progress. About six-inches down I hit something solid; with the point of the trowel I carefully scraped away more gravel, until the object could be pried up. I found a copper cylinder covered with beeswax. It was around eight-inches long, an inch-and-a-half wide, and sealed at both ends. Its contents were well packed. As I held the precious object in my hand, I was in a state of disbelief. Possibly this could solve the enigma! I stowed it in my pack, gathered up my gear, and headed for home, while trying to imagine what I would find within.

Back at the cottage, it took a while to remove one of the end caps. Finally I did, pulling out a heavy object wrapped in a soft chamois. It was the lost arrow! Attached to it, with black cording, was a brass key. My heart was racing, my mind spinning, as I inserted the key into the silvery box and turned it. The lid opened and revealed a layer of black velvet. Beneath, nestled in the midst of the blackness, was something I never expected to find, yet was now before me. I picked up the object as tears began to fall. The ancient, elegant, thin gold bar was stamped with French Insignias, Royal Hallmarks, weight, and other numerals; it was dated 1749.

Instinctively, I removed the velvet-wrapped block of foam and found a card. The inscription read: “I congratulate you on your progress and would imagine you have a few questions, which I would be pleased to answer personally. When you are ready, call this number xxx-xxx-xxxx. A car will pick you up exactly eight hours from the time of your message. Bring what you wish.”

I enjoyed a bowl of savory stew and fresh bread for supper before packing a small bag of essentials and change of clothes. Laptop and camera bag were ready for departure at 8AM. I made the call at midnight, but couldn’t sleep, as thoughts swirled around in a mysterious whirlpool. Eventually, I drifted into dream space. I awoke early, had a light breakfast, collected my things and locked up the cottage.

Precisely at 8AM, a white BMW SUV pulled up the driveway. The driver greeted me, opened the door, stowed my bags, and I climbed in. On the main road we headed north towards Ticonderoga, eight miles further we reached Airport Road and soon arrived at the airfield, where a small Lear Jet was waiting. The pilots welcomed me aboard and went through the safety drill as I settled into my comfortable seat. Staring out the window in disbelief, I had to pinch myself to see if I was still dreaming. Once airborne, we headed south at low altitude over Lake George to its southern end. I could see into the depths where other secrets lay hidden. The captain announced the flight time to our destination would be approximately three hours. Where we were bound was yet another mystery. Soon, we were soaring above the clouds. When the seatbelt sign went off, I helped myself to coffee and croissants from the plane’s pantry. I was still processing the events of the last 24-hours and never would have imagined being where I was now.

I took the gold bar out of my pocket, wondering if it was from the wreck my dad told me about back in the 60’s. He was hired to photograph divers searching for a French gunboat that sunk in a storm en-route to Ticonderoga during the French and Indian War. The bateau was laden with cannons, munitions, and a large shipment of gold. According to official records, the craft sunk off French Point, but nothing was ever reported to have been recovered. His story made a deep impression.

I closed my eyes and drifted off. Upon awaking, the monitor showed our flight path, now off the east coast over the Atlantic. With 20-minutes to go, my anticipation increased. Thirsty for answers, I drank a small bottle of water, which helped. The plane had started its descent and I could see the Bahamas below. The captain advised: fasten seatbelts and prepare for landing. The gear then lowered as palm trees came into view. Beyond, the blue Caribbean stretched out to the horizon.

The landing was smooth, the aircraft slowed, and came to a stop. We were not at any airport, only an airstrip on what seemed to be a small, private island. The captain appeared, welcoming me to Conch Island, as he opened the door. What happened next, is classified. . .

-Jon H. Davis

November 17, 2022

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