Excerpt of An Uncertain Grave by Cathy Strasser

The body of a fully clad young woman was found on Mt. Lafayette at eleven AM on Monday, May 30th. Its finding was due more to Kenny Brainerd’s colossal ineptitude rather than any skilled search effort. Kenny had arrived in Lincoln, New Hampshire, on Sunday afternoon to follow his new hobby of ‘peak bagging’- climbing as many three thousand foot mountains as possible during his week’s vacation. He’d targeted the Presidentials in Franconia Notch State Park for his initial assault. To prepare for this trip, Kenny spent exhaustive hours researching proper hiking gear. He studied the REI, EMS, and LL Bean catalogues. He joined climbers’ chat groups and posted questions. By the time he arrived in Lincoln, he was equipped with the most advanced state-of-the art gear available. He had a backpack with a built-in water bladder so he could hydrate as he hiked. He had a fleece-lined gore-tex jacket that was windproof, waterproof, and warm down to twenty degrees. He had custom made hiking boots and moisture wicking socks. He’d wavered between purchasing a walking stick or trekking poles but – after some surreptitious sessions in front of his bedroom mirror – he had decided on the polished, hand-carved, iron tipped walking stick favored by professional Himalayan Mountain Guides. “My goal is thirty peaks by my thirty-third birthday,” Kenny told his skeptical co-workers. “If I do five during this vacation week and one a week for the rest of the summer, I should reach my goal, no sweat.” Kenny researched hotels to call ‘home base’ with equal care. The Mountain Glen Hotel wasn’t the newest hotel in Lincoln, and it didn’t have hot tubs, a four star restaurant, or a game room; but it did have something that trumped all these other amenities. It had Kurt Pelletier. Kurt, whose craggy face could have been a prototype for the famous “Old Man” of Franconia Notch, had led guide services in the White Mountains for over forty years before going into the hotel business. He’d headed the search and rescue team out of Lincoln for so long that it was simply known as Kurt’s Crew. And he gave twice yearly, sold-out classes on survival in the wild. Kenny thought his hotel had to be where all the serious ’baggers parked their packs, and the place to rub elbows with the best, so that’s where he headed. Monday morning he sat in the dining room finishing his breakfast – a sustaining meal of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and home fries, suitable fare for a major hike – and attempting to engage Kurt in conversation. “I’m going to start with Mt. Lafayette today,” he said, pushing wisps of brown hair off his forehead with pudgy fingers. “I figure that’ll be a good warm-up. Next I’ll do some of the smaller Presidentials and end up with the big one, Mt Washington, by the end of the week.” Kenny waited for a response, pushing his lower lip out when none came. “I was thinking I’d go up the Falling Waters trail. The Old Bridle Path sounds like it might be clogged with amateurs,” he tried. This time he got an answer. Kurt turned away from his reservation book and finally looked in Kenny’s direction. “Mmm. The Falling Waters goes straight up, with very few switchbacks. If you’re really looking for a warm-up, the Bridle Path might be a better idea. And you won’t see too much traffic up there on a Monday.” Kenny nodded, considering. “You might be right. If that’s your recommendation then that’s where I’ll go.” “At least you’ll have a chance of reaching the summit on that trail. How about the weather?” Missing the sarcasm in the older man’s voice, Kenny glanced out the window at the bright sunshine. “What do you mean? It’s gorgeous out.” “Yeah, down here. But that trail is up in the Notch, and the weather there is very unpredictable. And it’s been an unusually cold spring this year with frost a couple of nights a week. You might even find patches of snow in the higher elevations. Make sure you bring warm clothing: pants, jacket, a hat, and gloves.” Kenny glanced down at his Cool-max T-shirt and fast drying shorts. He was sweating slightly in the sun coming through the window. “I’m trying to travel light. It’s going to be hot enough with my pack on.” Kurt frowned. “I’ve been up on that mountain when its seventy-five degrees at the base, but above the tree-line it’s a sleet storm. A little extra weight can make the difference between safety and hypothermia.” Nodding thoughtfully, Kenny speared the last of his home fries. “Good point.” Privately, he decided Kurt sounded more like a mother hen than a seasoned adventurer. Talking about sleet at the end of May! It seemed that the old man was past it, and spent his energy imagining disasters that would never happen. “Well, I’m wasting the best part of the day. Time to strap on my pack and get moving.” Giving Kurt a forced smile, Kenny moved toward the door. He missed Kurt’s comment to a passing waitress. “That fool has no idea what he’s getting into. Hopefully he’ll make it through this week without needing a rescue.”