Memoirs of a Money Manager: How I Saved a Life and Perhaps My Own

Looking up I see Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe, standing tall and proud at approximately 15,780 feet. Mont Blanc is a treacherous mountain and hundreds have died, and continue to die, winter and summer, trying to ski and climb its slopes. [1] More people die on Mont Blanc than on any other mountain in Europe. It is not, I am told, a particularly difficult climb. Rather, the combination of numerous mountaineers, unstable glaciers and rocks, and unpredictable weather leads the prepared and skilled as well as the unprepared and less skilled to their demise. Still, it is no cake walk and one must be in good physical condition and, if smart, have a Chamonix guide to lead the way. In the warm days of August, one can hear the frequent thump-thump of helicopters on their way to the mountain to attempt a rescue or recover a dead body, or alternatively, returning from the mountain to the hospital or morgue. While I have walked its slopes at lower elevations, I never summited.

I have visited this small French village for a few weeks nearly every year since 1998 and not once have I considered attempting to climb to the peak. The reason is clear: early on in my mountain climbing/hiking/backpacking days, I realized I did not like being roped up, carrying ice axes or dangling in the air with total dependence on someone else or a small piece of metal hammered into rock. My view was shaped early on by someone who told me, “. . . There are old mountaineers, and bold mountaineers, but no old, bold mountaineers.” When I was young and strong I was not that bold, and now that I am old, I have not the will, the physical endurance nor the skill to try.

Nevertheless, just looking up at this mountain inspires me and brings back many memories. The one I am about to tell you about has never really left my mind even though it happened over 40 years ago. It is the story of a young hiker whose life I almost certainly saved and, while saving it, I probably saved my own. No, it was not in the French Alps, it was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, CIRCA 40 PLUS YEARS AGO

It was late summer and I wanted to get in one last hut-hiking trip in the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire. [2] I did not own a car but had planned a trip with an acquaintance of mine from Boston. I would fly to Boston; he would pick me up at the airport and we would drive to Pinkham Notch [3] where we had reserved a room at the lodge for the night. The following morning we would drive north to the trailhead for Mount Madison, leave the car, and hike up to Madison Spring Hut. [4] We would spend the night and continue on to the Lakes of the Clouds Hut [5] atop Mount Washington, walk down Tuckerman Ravine Trail [6] back to Pinkham Notch, hitch a ride to get his car and, the following morning, drive back to Boston. Everything went as planned until the morning at Madison Spring Hut; my friend awoke with a fever and a very bad headache. He could not go on, so he elected to return to his car with some other hikers and go back to Pinkham Notch, where he would rest up and wait for me to return as planned. Because we had spent some time figuring out what to do, and because I felt obligated to make sure others would see him back to Pinkham Notch, I had gotten a late start leaving Madison Spring Hut and heading to Lakes of the Clouds Hut. I started out alone, but no one was alone for long on these trails because there were, on any given day, probably at least 50 or 60 hikers going between Madison and Mount Washington.

The day looked promising with the warm late-morning sun. I was excited: this was one of my most favorite walks and I felt invigorated. My backpack was a large Kelty pack that I had purchased used in the 1960s while living in California. It was a little heavy at about 60 to 70 pounds, but water, food, extra clothes and rain gear accounted for the extra weight. I carried two one quart canteens, several chocolate bars and a lot of homemade trail mix we called “gorp.” My “gorp,” which stands for “good old raisins and peanuts,” was a mix of nuts, seeds, oatmeal, raisins, and other dried fruits. I also carried several foil packages of dried chicken noodle soup and some tea bags. Between the water, chocolate bars and gorp I could hike, with energy, a long way. I liked hiking in shorts and had two pair, one pair of cotton shorts with many pockets and a pair of swim trunks. In addition, I carried one pair of oversized cotton khaki pants, one cotton sweatshirt, one oversized wool long-sleeved shirt, two T-shirts, two pair of underwear, two pair of wool socks with cotton liners, one pair of hiking boots, and one pair of tennis shoes. I had no sleeping bag or tent since I planned to sleep in the huts where blankets were provided. I did carry a large sheet sewn across the bottom and part way up the side, which saved me from the clammy hut mattresses. I also carried a piece of plastic ground cloth, a standard army surplus five by eight foot poncho, a dense foam pad, a rain resistant coat called a 60/40 jacket, and a pair of rain pants. Finally I had a wool watch cap, a baseball cap with a big “M” for my alma mater, University of Michigan, a toilet kit consisting of a comb, tooth brush and tooth paste all rolled up in a hand towel, and clip-on dark glasses for my eye glasses. I had a few other items of import: a first-aid kit, matches, a map and compass, a small pen-like flashlight, a pocket watch, a small Primus stove with a pan cover, several feet of lightweight parachute cord, a Swiss Army knife, and a loaded .38 revolver. I carried the .38 for years and, except for this trip, never told anyone; it provided some much needed security and comfort, as I will relate. My father gave me the pistol after a very bad incident I experienced while hitchhiking during my early college days. As time went on, my budget grew, the technology improved, and my pack became lighter and lighter.

I have described my load because on this hike, my gear saved our bacon, so to speak. Some of my hiking “friends” of those days laughed at my thorough preparation, but they were so pack-weight conscious that they would cut two inches off their toothbrushes to reduce weight. They also wanted a drink of water when their canteens were empty and a handful of gorp when their vigor waned in the late afternoon.

The day got off to a seemingly good start, but about an hour out from Madison Spring Hut I felt sick with acute stomach pain and diarrhea. This was a problem I was so used to, that I frequently carried a roll of toilet paper when I traveled. Over 30 years later I would discover I had celiac disease and gluten intolerance; no wheat, rye or barley. What had I had for lunch the previous day? Maybe sandwiches? For dinner, maybe pasta? For breakfast, maybe French toast? Frankly I cannot remember, but any or all of the above would, I now know, make me sick. But it is precisely the sickness that led me to the young hiker.

It was mid-afternoon as I made my third trip down the mountain off the trail to relieve myself. I was in a hurry because the day had turned from sunny to cloudy and it looked increasingly like a bad storm was going to hit before I would reach Lakes of the Clouds Hut. I was about 50 feet off the trail and, just as I lowered my pack, I thought I heard a whimpering sound. Standing still, I listened for a few minutes and there was no doubt: someone or something was close by, but it seemed impossible to tell in what direction. In addition, the wind had picked up and it was starting to thunder, albeit a long ways away.

“Hello,” I shouted.

Nothing. The whimpering stopped. I decided, after relieving myself, to walk down the mountain a ways, all the time shouting. The mountainside was filled with boulders and rock rubble; the tree line was a long way down. All the time I walked I was thinking; should I try to make the hut at Lakes of the Clouds or head for the tree line and make shelter for the night. The storm appeared to be coming on fast and it was getting colder; all my training said to head for the trees and make camp. I could no longer hear any noise. Perhaps it had been an animal.

I headed down the mountain for the tree line. About five minutes later I walked around a couple of boulders and heard this weak whimpering sound again, but louder now. I turned around and there, in a small crevice between the two boulders, huddled a young blond-haired boy with no boots, no socks, no shirt and no pack that I could see. He sat hunched over, his arms folded across his chest. “My God,” I thought, “he is hypothermic.” Although I had read about this condition, I had never, at that point in my mountain travels, seen it. In later years I would rescue two other young men, but this was my first experience actually seeing someone hypothermic. [7]

I approached cautiously, speaking softly; “my name is Wes, can I help you?” No response. I moved within a couple of feet.

I repeated, “Can I help you?” Suddenly he swung at me with his fist. I caught a glint of something shiny protruding between his fingers as he screamed:

“Get away! Leave me alone!” I barely escaped being cut.

I was in shock. “He” was a she! Flailing at me like a wild animal was an adolescent “boy” with breasts. To protect her anonymity, I will call her Katy.

What to do? We were exposed on the side of the mountain with a storm on its way. Think. I had to assess. I needed to get warm clothes on her and shelter from the oncoming storm for both of us. She needed something warm to drink, some soup. But the shelter had to come first and it had to be here, not at the tree line. Looking at Katy, crouching in the crevice like a cornered animal, gave me an idea. Just maybe she would respond, as animals do, to food. Setting down my pack, I took out a Mounds chocolate bar, opened it up, and taking out one piece made a point of eating it. Then I set the remaining piece down about three feet away from her.

I turned my back on her, thinking that if I could find a couple of larger boulders close enough together to support my poncho, I could fashion a shelter. I dimly remembered seeing something like that back the way I came. Quickly, I lifted my pack and began to backtrack.

“Help me; don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

I turned around to find her standing, begging.

I walked back. “Don’t try to cut me,” I said.

She held up a Swiss army knife, carefully folded the cork screw into the knife, and slipped it into her pocket. I was astounded to see her stuffing the Mounds wrapper into her pocket too; even in her condition she was practicing the backpacker’s creed to “carry out what you carry in.” It was only then that I really focused on her condition. Her face was bruised, as was much of her body. She had what looked like rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Looking at her bare feet, I saw that she had been sitting on her hiking boots. These were not just any boots; they were “Limmers.”

“Your boots are Limmers,” I said. “We need to get you into some warm cloths.”

While she was not really delirious, she was also not completely coherent. My mention of her Limmer boots seemed to awaken something inside her and she smiled. Despite the fact that all my training said to build the shelter now, I decided to get some cloths on her. I quickly opened my pack and pulled out some socks, a T-shirt, the sweatshirt and the rain jacket. She did not know what to do, so I helped dress her.

“Put on your Limmers,” I ordered.

I found my old Limmer boots

Amazingly, she did. I lifted my pack, gently took her hand, and started walking in the direction I remembered seeing the potential for shelter. The lightning and thunder drew closer as as the wind became stronger and colder.. I guessed we had 30 minutes or maybe a little more before the mountain storm unleashed its fury. She looked scared. I knew she couldn’t be too hypothermic if she was anxious about the weather. Or perhaps it was not the weather. She was practically naked when I found her, a paradoxical symptom of advanced hypothermia. I was confused about her condition, but stayed focused on finding shelter, and then there it was. The site was better than I remembered; there was an area about three feet wide, four high and eight to ten feet deep between two boulders butted up against another slightly smaller boulder, as if the smaller boulder had rolled down the mountain side and lodged itself against the two larger ones.

I put down my pack and unstrapped my poncho from the top. Opening up the poncho I started picking up rocks to hold the poncho on the boulders to act as a roof. At first she seemed confused that we had stopped walking, but once I started she got the idea and started bringing me big rocks. She was not only strong, she was going to be okay. I think we overdid it; that poncho was not going anywhere. It was going to be a tight squeeze in our makeshift shelter. I lay down the plastic ground cover and the foam pad and pulled more clothes from my pack. I had her take off her boots and put on my khaki pants, which were too long by a foot, and a pair of my wool socks before putting her boots back on her feet. She now had all the clothes I could spare if I was also to stay warm. I pulled the rain pants over my shorts and put on my wool shirt. I gave her my watch cap and I put on the baseball cap. She stared at my cap in the oddest way.

Throughout this entire process, she did not say a word; between the wind and thunder I am not sure I could have heard her anyway. The rain arrived; thunder reverberated off the boulders and lightning flashed all around us. We were not perfectly dry, as water dripped through the head-hole in the poncho and came down at our feet through a crack in the boulder. I filled one of my nearly empty canteens.

I lost track of time, but it had to be late afternoon.

It seemed to rain for an eternity; I wanted to heat some water and make soup but I did not think I could keep the stove going. I gave her a little water; she took it. Next, I pulled out another Mounds chocolate bar. She wolfed it down. Finally, I offered her the gorp, which made her grin.

“Gorp,” she said. “Did you make it?”

“Yes,” I replied.

She was in much better shape now; she was going to pull through. Frankly, I was greatly relieved. If she had been in an advanced stage of hypothermia, I do not think I could have saved her. When I first saw her, she was shivering but now she shivered very little. I however, was shivering and feeling the cold in my legs. My chest was cold and my hands were stiff. I made a mental note to add wool mittens to my gear. As I lay there, I pondered what would have happened had I not found her. Would I have been foolish enough to push on through the storm to Lakes of the Clouds Hut? It was, I guessed, only a couple hours’ walk away. Certainly, I had done it many times, but no one should walk on an exposed ridge trail during a lightning storm. No, I thought, I would have been forced off the mountain to take shelter, probably at the tree line.

I saved her life, of that I was sure, but just maybe, she saved me from my “macho” self.

She was exhausted and, finally, fell into a fitful sleep; I dozed on and off on the cold, uncomfortable ground. Although we were wedged in snugly between the rocks I was really cold.

I could not stop thinking about what had happened to this poor girl. She was not, as I initially thought, some casual day hiker who had gotten lost and, becoming hypothermic, thrown off her clothes. First, she was not that far gone. Second, she was wearing well-used Limmer boots. Only serious White Mountain hikers knew about Limmer boots, much less owned a pair. Third, although she could have gotten the scratches and bruises from running through the woods in a panic and falling down, the rope burns suggested something much more sinister. She had been tied up, probably beaten and perhaps much worse.

Through the evening, the storm seemed to slacken and then came on again with even greater ferocity, although not that much rain. By 3 a.m., the storm seemed to have passed; the rain was very light and the sky seemed lighter. I dug out my stove and made soup, first for her, then for myself. She said nothing and seemed appreciative, but stared at me and my hat. She went back to sleep and, thankfully, so did I.

I awoke with a start. It was daylight and not early. She had one hand clamped over my mouth and, in her other hand, the Swiss army knife with the corkscrew protruding between her fingers. “My God,” I thought, “I was wrong; she is delirious.” Then, as if seeing my fear, she set the knife down and put her index finger to her lips signaling me to be quiet. As I nodded my understanding, I heard boisterous male voices. They seemed right above us but I thought they might be on the trail between the huts. Nevertheless, seeing her terror, and certain that something terribly violent had happened to her, I pulled the gun sack out of my pack. I decided not to take any chances. I showed her the gun and she looked relieved. Shortly thereafter we heard more voices, this time male and female. I whispered that they were on the trail and we were at least 100 feet from the trail and completely hidden from view. She grew pale again and trembled.

“They are down there,” she said, “in the woods. They will be coming for me; they want to kill me. Please let’s go. My car is at Pinkham.”

I did not ask who “they” were. I simply started packing the gear. She decided to wear the sweatshirt and asked for my baseball cap. She could pass for a young boy with her breasts camouflaged under the sweatshirt. She was short, about five feet or so, and very muscular. Before I knew it, she had my Kelty on her back and was scrambling up the mountain to the trail. She had gone through some terrible ordeal and was scared crazy. Despite the adrenaline, her strength was impressive. My admiration grew. This was one tough woman.

We decided to head towards Lakes of the Clouds Hut, but in order to avoid people we would skirt the hut itself and head straight for Tuckerman Ravine Trail and on down to Pinkham Notch. I thought there was a quicker trail but did not know it; besides, we were both familiar with Tuckerman. When we ran into other hikers, we simply nodded and kept going. We lived on my remaining chocolate bars and the gorp. I reclaimed my pack, but she insisted on carrying it part of the time and, in fact, carried it the entire distance from the ranger station near Tuckerman Ravine to Pinkham Notch. It was the end of the trip and frankly I was flagging.

We arrived at Pinkham before dinner time and went straight to her car. She wanted to get clothes from the trunk and take a shower. I would purchase tickets for dinner and see if we could get a room at the lodge. If not, we would head for North Conway.

As we approached her car at the far end of the now mostly empty parking lot, I pondered how she would get into her car given that she had no pack and had presumably fled her captors without her car keys. When we got there she asked me to turn around.

“Well,” she said, quite apologetically, “I hid an extra car key and I like to think it is secret. I mean I trust you but I really do not know you.”

I must admit I was, considering the events, more than a little amused.

Turning around I remarked, “I understand, but I will tell you where my father always taught me to hide the key when we went hunting. He would tie a long black cord to it and place it on the top of the passenger side front tire.”

She gasped, and then very matter-of-factly said, “…why the cord?”

“Well, I suppose, so when it fell on the other side of the tire he could find it, but I am really not sure.”

“You can turn around now,” she said. She held up a key on a black cord. We were standing at the front right side of her car. Nothing more was said.

The lodge had rooms and we settled my gear into a four-bunk room; she took the top bunk and I the bottom. I reorganized my gear while she showered and dressed. Her clothing continued to deemphasize her female body. We went straight to dinner and sat at the end of one of the far tables. After dinner I wanted a shower but she was afraid to be alone in the room, so I walked her to the car and returned to the room to take a shower; the showers on the floors were communal but separate for men and women. After taking my shower, I was to return to the car and usher her back to our room. I honestly did not expect the car to be there and I would have understood if it were not; but it was. She was dozing and I woke her; we were both exhausted and, upon returning to the room went to sleep immediately.

I was awakened by loud male voices in our room, and then, upon discovering we were there, hushed conversation as they shed packs, clothes and headed for the bathroom. As soon as they left, Katy was climbing into my bunk and shaking with fear.

“It’s them,” she sobbed.

“Who,” I replied, knowing full well she was referring to her tormentors.

“It’s them, it’s them.”

“Describe them,” I said. I had gotten a good look as they had exited the room into the lighted hallway. One was tall, one short. One was blond, one with red hair. Both were young.

“Both were tall, maybe six feet, strong. They had dark complexion, dark hair.” She said.

“Not them,” I said. “One is much shorter than the other and has red hair.”

I did not sleep well that night. I like to spread out and the bunk beds were not designed for two; she wrapped her arms around me like I was a log and she slept like one. It amazed me that she could feel so scared one minute and seemingly so safe the next. But exhaustion finally won out and the only thing I remembered was the two guys quietly packing their gear and leaving, presumably to get an early start on the trail. I fell back asleep and awoke with her sobbing on my shoulders. Strangely, I started to cry too. To this day I am not sure why, but her pain was so real that I felt it. This is when I got the rest her story, or at least part of it. I will not relate all of it, but you can read between the lines. She told me some of her story in the lodge, and some on the trail; I’ve reordered those snippets into chronological order.. I may very well have certain facts wrong but substantially it is correct as I remember it.

She was born in Boston but soon thereafter the family had moved to California where her father worked as an engineer. He had gone to University of Michigan and that is why she identified with my cap; it made her feel she could trust me. Her mother died of cancer when she was young and she was an only child. Her father moved them back to Boston so he could raise her with the help of the grandparents. Her father was a big hiker and they spent many weekends and vacations backpacking in the “Whites.” She had gotten her “Limmers” for her sixteenth birthday; the fact that I knew they were Limmers made her feel that I was trustworthy.

At the time, she was 19 and about to enter her sophomore year in college somewhere in Boston. She and a girlfriend and the girlfriend’s boyfriend had driven up to Pinkham Notch in her car. There they met another couple and early the following morning drove around to the trailhead for the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail; they planned to hike to the top of Mount Washington and then down to Pinkham Notch all in one day. About mid-morning her girlfriend fell and twisted or broke her ankle. As they sat there trying to figure out what to do, two tall male hikers with heavy packs came up the trail. They fashioned a stretcher using one of their ponchos and offered to help carry her down to the trailhead, which they did. At that point, the two couples decided to stick together. Katy was so bummed about losing out on her last hike before returning to college that she jumped at the chance to go back up the mountain. The two guys were planning on going to Lakes of the Clouds Hut that night and then on to Madison Springs Hut the next day. She could join them to Lakes of the Clouds and then go on to Pinkham.

Although her friends pleaded with her not to go, she decided to continue anyway. She and the two guys headed back up the trail. The guys had left their packs hidden a ways from the trail and when they reached the spot where her friend had hurt her ankle they went off to get their packs. She went with them. On finding their packs, they sat down to drink some water. It was then she got alarmed; they started speaking in a foreign language. Suddenly they grabbed Katy and quickly gagged her and tied her hands. Although she was strong and fought like hell, she was no match. They proceeded to move farther away from the trail and threatened her if she did not walk along. After a considerable distance, they arrived at a well-used campsite next to a brook. They hobbled her legs at the ankles with twine, tied her to a tree and proceeded to make camp, setting up a tent and getting out food and a stove. They seemed familiar with their surroundings.

That night they stripped her clothes off, placed her face down on a poncho and, tying her spread-eagle between four trees, raped her. She spent the entire night and all the next day tied up in that position as they ate, talked and abused her. She was given water but little food. The second night it threatened rain and got cold, and perhaps thinking she might go hypothermic, they untied her and brought her into the tent. There they threatened her, beat and raped her some more; finally they hobbled her legs and, tying her wrists, decided she should stay in the tent. Late in the night she woke them, told them she needed to get a tampon because she was starting her period and was about to bleed all over their tent. This was true, and not a ruse. They were half asleep but they untied her legs to let her retrieve a tampon from her pack; as she fished it out, she felt her Swiss Army knife. That is when she made her decision; she would flee or die trying. Quickly, cutting her wrist bindings, she slipped on a pair of shorts and her Limmers. Before she could get a shirt, a flashlight went on in the tent. She stepped behind some trees and, when they called out, she made an excuse. She started walking straight up the mountain; first slowly and deliberately and then running as best she could. By the time they discovered she was gone, she was out of reach; she walked all night, always heading up the mountain, knowing that sooner or later she would hit the Madison Springs to Mt. Washington trail. At dawn, she collapsed exhausted into the crevice where I found her.

FROM PINKHAM TO LOGAN AIRPORT

The ride from Pinkham back to Boston’s Logan Airport was uneventful and filled with miles of silence and then discussion of her ordeal. Our morning cry and her telling the horrible story of captivity and escape seemed to provide a great relief to her. I asked her if she wished to go to the state police; she pondered it for quite a while and finally decided “no.” I pointed out that this would mean that her attackers could prey on future victims. That thought seemed to weigh very heavily on her but I did not pursue it any further. I asked if she wished me to talk with her father on the phone, but again she said “no.” She would drop me off at the airport and go home to her apartment, arrange to see a doctor and then call her Dad after she had a medical report. Jeez, I thought, how clinical. She had just been tied up, held captive, raped, escaped and nearly died on the mountain and she was talking so damn matter-of-fact; I guess I was annoyed. I wrote down my address and phone number and, as we pulled into the lot in front of the Eastern Shuttle I handed it to her.

“Call me when you feel like it,” I said.

I really expected her to give me her contact information in return but she did not. I exited the car and pulled my Kelty from the trunk. Closing the trunk, she grabbed my arm, hugged me and sobbed a “thank you.” I must admit I felt weepy too. So she was not so clinical after all. I knew despite her strong face, she had to be traumatized and would be for years; I sure as hell was and I only heard the story.

“May I have your Michigan cap?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said as I dug it out of my pack.

I positioned the hat on her head, gave her a quick hug, lifted the Kelty to my back and headed to the terminal; as I got to the terminal door, I turned around to wave but she had driven away. I felt sad, like I had lost something. It was, and still is, difficult to describe the feeling I had. It was not a romantic attraction, for although I had developed a deep admiration and affection for her, as people in a crisis frequently do, it was something different. She was, I thought, a remarkable woman. As traumatic as the experience was for her, I got the impression that she would be a survivor.

I never saw Katy again but I did hear from her. Several months later, in the winter, I believe, I received a thank you call. She had never returned to college in Boston. She had called her father almost immediately and he had flown back the next day. Together they had taken almost three weeks to drive back to California, stopping to visit a few national parks. She was in group therapy with women who had been raped; it was helpful, she thought, because it seemed like a safe place to tell her story; they had encouraged her to call me. She planned on going back to school in California in the spring. She and her father were already planning a few hikes around Yosemite and Tahoe.

“And, oh, by the way, we are also coming east in August for a hiking and camping trip in the Whites.”

I was waiting for an invitation but she said nothing. I would have bet my baseball cap, if I still had it, that they would not come unprepared.

Quite obviously my conversations with Katy are my best recollection; I could not possibly remember the words said forty years ago. Certain words and events are accurate. Her Limmer boots were real, important to her and an indicator to me that she was not a casual hiker. Three things, I think, led her to trust me. One, I knew about Limmers; two, I made my own gorp and; three, I wore a a baseball cap from her father’s alma mater, the University of Michigan. But I still believe the initial offer of a chocolate bar was the key to her willingness to accept my assistance; she was an experienced hiker and knew she was in trouble and close to the edge. She had to trust someone.

All the cases of her understandable fear of males actually happened, as did her surprise that my dad had taught me to hide the car keys on top of the passenger tire just like her father had taught her. I felt sad that we never kept in touch, but I fully understood that I would remind her of the awful experience. I also know that somewhere in the world my baseball cap sits in a place of honor.

FAST FORWARD TO THE PRESENT… September 18th, 2012, I had a dream; the following news report is a highly embellished transcription of that dream. What follows is pure fiction.

Dateline: September 19, 1971, Twin Mountain, New Hampshire.

Troop F, of the New Hampshire State Police, working with White Mountain National Park forest rangers in the Mount Washington area, are searching for possible clues and witnesses to what appears to be a double assassination of two men camped over a half mile off the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail. The Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail is a steep difficult ascent, but the shortest distance to the Mount Washington peak from the west.

The two bodies were found over Labor Day by a Berlin, New Hampshire couple when their dog ran off the trail and would not return. Upon finding their dog, they also discovered an apparently old and well-used campsite and the two partially decomposed bodies. They marked the trees with blazes on the way back to the trail and descended the mountain to call the police. A spokesman for the state police said the investigation is proceeding but they do not expect to apprehend the assassins.

“It was clearly a professional job. The men have been identified as Eastern European commercial attaches with diplomatic immunity based out of New York. Robbery was ruled out as a motive because over $9,000 in cash, expensive camping gear and two loaded Russian-made Makarov 9mm pistols were found at the site. The men had clearly been tortured, having been found naked and bound spread-eagle over logs. Both men had been first shot in the knee caps and then shot twice in the back of the head at close range. No shell casings were found but ballistics indicates that there were two highly skilled professional shooters.

Dateline: September 21, 1971, North Conway, New Hampshire

The White Mountains double murder of two diplomats has gotten more complicated with the discovery of a shallow grave near their campsite. The grave is believed to contain the body of a young woman hiker reported missing in August of 1969. Other graves may be nearby, so the K-9 Unit of the Special Operations Bureau of the New Hampshire State Police is also now on the scene.

In searching the area, the troopers also discovered another campsite. The troopers now believe the assassins had waited, hidden from view at this second campsite, for their victims.

WHY DID I DREAM THIS?

Why did I have this dream? My theory is that two things have happened in the last two weeks. First, my waking and sleeping brain became possessed with finally putting down on paper Katy’s story. Once I started, I became driven. I wrote several hours a day; I edited, added and deleted. I removed the graphic horror. I remembered new things. I cried all over again for her. I am unable to read my memoir out loud without choking up. All the memories of those few hours on the mountain came rushing back.

At the same time, I like many others here in the French Alps, have been fascinated by a September 5th, 2012 multiple murder near a campsite close to Lake Annecy. [9] While it is too early to determine the motive for the killings it seems to be the work of one, or possibly two professional killers. Three of five family members were shot dead. The father, an Iraqi engineer living in Great Britain, his wife and mother-in-law were murdered in their vehicle. Two young daughters survived, one by hiding on the car floor in the back seat and the other beaten and perhaps left for dead. The fourth person killed was a French cyclist that apparently witnessed the killings.