You’ve been asking for it, and now you’re gonna get it. This is the last two pages of the quintessential Adirondack thriller, “Belle of Blue Mountain.” You’ll be sorry, too. From now on you’ll have to pay booku bucks to read the book and see Belle on Broadway. This role is Sigourney’s ticket to Tonyville.

Belle’s life flashed before her eyes. She was being rolled under a third time by a fifteen foot Nile crocodile. She was gasping for air in a black marshy dambo in north-western Zambia. Belle was working on the first and only item on her bucket list, which included navigating the Zambezi River, the forth longest river in the world, from its headwaters in Zambia to its mouth in Mozambique and the Indian Ocean. Vegas odds makers gave her a snowball’s chance in Key West.

Moments before the croc attack, she and her pricy Mountainman Native Watercraft 16 had been airlifted into Mwinilunga to begin her 2,200 mile solo paddle. No sooner had the Zambezi Airlines Civil War vintage helicopter crashed through the jungle canopy, then Belle was confronted by a pack of side-striped jackals. To escape, she regurgitated her goat curry lunch and dove into the waiting jaws of the huge croc. Belle distinctly heard the jackals laughing. Composing herself, Belle drew the H&K Fabarm FP6 short-barreled shotgun strapped to her back, shoved it down the crocs throat, and fired one round of number 4 buckshot the length of the ornery reptile’s alimentary canal. The startled croc spit Belle out, pitched over, and sank to the river bottom. He’d be pooping lead for two weeks.

Belle surfaced, inhaled deeply, and glared in the direction of the dumbfounded jackals. As Belle waded ashore, she chambered another round, and poof. The jackals vanished like gale borne flatulence. Belle was back, kicking butt and taking names. And, just in case there was any question about who was queen of this jungle, Belle dispatched an eighty pound Reedbuck for dinner. Africa has no idea who they’re messing with.

The upper Zambezi flows south-west into Angola for about 150 miles. It was the rainy season, and the river overflowed its banks in every direction. The river teemed with dodgy creatures. Belle, a charter member of PETA, was forced to shoot 30 suspicious hippos, including one cute little baby who got just too darn close for comfort. Belle was deeply remorseful for about twenty minutes. Then she plugged a water buffalo because he looked at her cross-eyed. Belle was becoming one with the land. To the endemic wildlife, Belle was forthwith dubbed, the Lion Lady. Very soon, only bull elephants dared expose themselves during daylight.

After ten days of paddling mayhem, Belle made her way through the middle Zambezi. One of life’s great challenges, Victoria Falls, lay in her path. Belle took the challenge head-on. Did she survive? You’ll have to buy the book or see the stage play. Or, you can continue reading and make up your own mindless minds. By day twenty, Belle was cutting through 200 foot perpendicular basalt rock walls, battling her way down the notorious Batoka gorge. Here the river drops 820 feet over 150 miles of boulder strewn rapids. It’s doubtful even Charlie Allnut and Rose Sayer could navigate this treacherous stretch in the African Queen. But, then again, they ain’t Belle of Blue Mountain. Belle was too busy staying alive through the middle Zambezi to kill many animals. And the survivors counted their blessings.

At day 26, Belle floated past Cahora Bassa, only 400 miles from the Indian Ocean. Belle was greeted by a flotilla of locals, who gifted her with a six pack of 2M beer, and wished her well on the final leg of her suicide run. The natives also presented Belle with a crate of rusty WWII German Model 24 Stielhandgranates (potato mashers). They knew all too well what awaited Belle downriver. Gigantic salty crocs and ravenous, twenty foot nurse sharks. The Zambezi would soon be running red with blood. And Belle has but 4.7 liters to her name.

Belle had long ago used up her stores of moldy Wonder Bread and lard. She was reduced to snaring aquatic rodents and pilfering succulent insect larvae. No worries. She enjoyed watching Andrew Zimmern eat sheep testicles on his Travel Channel show, “Bizarre Foods.” As a child, Belle often trampled the Adirondacks in search of pond snails and sugar maple bark. Once, when she was 8 years old, she became lost fishing Big Brook up by Too Long Lake, and ate dirt for five days until she found her way back to Blue Mountain. Needless to say, Belle gained five pounds during her ordeal. There’s a lot of iron in Adirondack dirt.

Predictably, just a few miles from the coast, Belle’s boat was encircled by a school of nurse sharks. Belle was ready and waiting. One after the other, she lobbed potato mashers into the feeding frenzy. The rapacious sharks gulped the free offerings with gusto. Bam, bam, bam, bam. The sharks turned on their pulverized mates, as the river churned red. On queue, off the sandy banks cruised the giant salty crocs, joining the melee. Bam, bam, bam, bam. Belle was giving them all they wanted, and more. It was eat or be eaten. And, Belle loves croc/shark sushi.

Belle, the amiable Adirondack harpist, had found her Shangri-la. Africa was her new Blue Mountain Lake. The spoils went to those with the biggest and baddest arsenal. Her groceries are now all organic, right down to the last Sapelli caterpillar and Dung beetle larvae. Belle of Blue Mountain is now Belle of Cidade de Nacala. She plays plugged-in harp every Friday and Saturday night at the Africa Hotel lounge in Nacala. She’s hoping Paul Case stops in sometime so they can do “Whipping Post” together. Her leisure time is spent blasting spotted hyenas, cheetahs, and migrating eland, just for the hell of it. “But,” Belle foreworns, “Don’t be surprised if you see me at the Tap Room’s Customer Appreciation Day in early May. You can take the girl outta the Adirondacks, but ... . Adeus for now, my friends.