Survival in the Wilderness

by Steven Otfinoski

  They continued on their wayward journey for a few more hours, and at about one thirty that afternoon, Kloor spotted something that lifted his spirits.

  “Look, down below!” he cried. “I think I see a house!”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Farrell, peering down at the distant ground.

  “Neither do I,” said Hinton.

  “We’ve passed it,” said Kloor excitedly. “But it was a house. I’m sure of it!”

  Just then they all heard a sound from below.

  “It sounds like a dog barking,” said Hinton. “Where there’s a dog, there are people.”

  “We’ve got to land this thing,” said Farrell.

  “It’s now or never,” said Kloor as he reached for the cord connected to the gas valve. He gave it a sharp tug and listened as the gas in the balloon rushed out with a loud hiss. The balloon plunged toward the earth.

  * * *

  BALLOONING

  People first took to the skies not in airplanes, but balloons. The Montgolfier brothers, two French papermakers, launched the first successful hot-air balloon flight carrying a sheep, a duck, and a rooster in September 1783 at Versailles, the palace of the French king Louis XVI, who witnessed the flight. The flight lasted eight minutes, covered 2 miles (3.2 km), and the balloon reached a height of 3,000 feet (1,000 m) before landing safely. The balloon consisted of a bag made of silk and paper that contained hot air, and a basket below it for the passengers to ride in. A burner below the balloon bag was fueled by straw, chopped wool, and dried horse manure, and provided the heat that made the balloon rise. The balloon would descend when the air in the bag was allowed to cool. A month later, the Montgolfiers launched the first balloon with three human passengers in Paris.

  The other kind of balloon developed around this time was the gas balloon. This balloon was filled with a light gas, such as helium or hydrogen, that lifted it into the air. No heat source was needed. The balloon could be made to ascend by releasing ballast—bags of sand or water— from the basket.

  The first successful balloon flight in the United States was launched from a prison yard in Philadelphia in January 1793. President George Washington witnessed the takeoff. The balloon landed safely in New Jersey.

  Military balloons were used to observe enemy troop movements on both sides in the Civil War (1861–65) and in World War I. Britain used balloon barrages, balloons from which steel cables were suspended, for protection from low-flying enemy planes. These planes were forced to fly above the balloons to avoid being damaged by the cables. After World War I, in the 1920s, the navy used balloons for observing and recording atmospheric and weather conditions, which is what Kloor would have been doing on longer balloon flights.

  Today, ballooning is mostly confined to meteorological and recreational use.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Crash Landing!

  The balloon began its rapid descent into the trees below. The basket and the balloon went their separate ways—the balloon trapped in the trees and the basket falling earthward. The men clung to the basket’s side as it hit the ground hard and then slid a short distance before coming to rest against a fir tree. The three stumbled out onto the snow-covered landscape.

  “Nothing seems broken,” said Hinton, feeling his arms and legs. “Are you all right, Steve?”

  “Just a bit shook up, but okay,” replied Farrell.

  “That makes three of us,” said Kloor.

  They looked around them at a wilderness of forestland. The ground was covered in snow that crunched under their shoes.

  Kloor could see his breath, a tiny cloud of white, puff out from his mouth. Farrell shivered uncontrollably in his wet clothes.

  “Good Lord,” said Hinton in a hoarse whisper. “Where are we?”

  “Wherever we are, we’re in a jam,” muttered Farrell.

  “There’s got to be a settlement nearby,” said Kloor. “We saw a house.”

  “You saw a house,” corrected Farrell.

  “But we all heard the dog barking,” said Hinton. He pointed to the southeast. “It was coming from that direction if I’m not mistaken.”

  “But what if it wasn’t a dog?” reasoned Farrell. “It could have been a wild animal. A wolf.” His words hung in the silence.

  “Let’s not let our imaginations run away with us,” cautioned Hinton. “If we’re going to get out of this mess we’ve got to keep our heads.”

  The two other men agreed. Slowly they began to pick through the contents of the ruined basket, gathering what supplies they thought they could make use of. The basket looked pathetically small, much smaller and more cramped than it had when they were riding carelessly in it through the sky. Hinton grabbed the compass, two packs of cigarettes, and a box of table matches. Farrell picked up his overnight bag and felt the penknife in his pocket. He found a certain comfort in the feel of its hard metal in his hand. Kloor removed the cage that contained the three remaining pigeons. “We can send the birds out for help if we need to,” he said.

  “Or we can eat them,” said Hinton. “We’ve eaten all the sandwiches and there’s nothing else for food. And the coffee’s gone and there’s no water. Why didn’t we think to bring water?”

  Kloor and Farrell had no answer to his question. The men cast one last look at the balloon hanging limply in the branches above and headed through the trees in the direction that they had heard the barking dog.

  Chapter Four

  The First Night

  The men trudged through the forest for several miles, using the compass to lead them in a southeasterly direction.

  The terrain was mostly flat, hardened snow only a few inches deep, but it was icy in spots. Hinton and Farrell followed behind Kloor, stepping into his shoe prints so they wouldn’t have to exert enough energy to break through the snow with their own feet. Within little more than an hour of walking they were exhausted. They were panting now, mouths open, steaming breath shooting out with each exhale. Another hour passed. The light was beginning to fade and the sun sank behind the trees. They found no house, nor the dog they thought they had heard. Not seeing a trace of civilization, they knew they were alone, lost in a vast wilderness that seemed to have no end.

  “We’ll make camp here for the night,” said Kloor.

  Hinton agreed. Farrell, out of breath, merely grunted.

  They gathered rotten tree stumps and fallen trunks for firewood in the growing twilight. Using Farrell’s penknife and their bare hands, they broke up the wood as best they could. Hinton lit the fire with one match, a feat the two other men appreciated. They had only a dozen matches in the box and knew their survival depended on every single one of them.

  They held balls of snow in their hands above the fire. As the snow melted, they drank it. Then Kloor and Farrell settled down around the crackling fire. Suddenly Hinton stood up.

  “Where are you going?” asked Kloor.

  “To look for running water before it gets any darker,” Hinton replied. “If there’s a creek nearby it could empty into a river. And people build homes and settlements along rivers.”

  Kloor was impressed by Hinton’s initiative. This was just the kind of man he’d want along in a fix like this. Kloor wasn’t so sure about Farrell. The older man already showed signs of breaking down physically. He’d have to keep a close eye on him.

  As Hinton tramped through the underbrush, he felt the cold wind slap his face and heard the crunching of his shoes in the hardened snow. His heavy flight suit felt bulky and uncomfortable and he stopped to take it off. He placed the suit on the ground and told himself he’d retrieve it on the way back to camp. Hinton continued on until nearly all the light had bled from the sky, but found no sign of a creek or stream. We’ll keep looking tomorrow, he told himself. Surely there’s got to be a waterway somewhere. He turned and started retracing his steps to the camp. In the growing darkness, though, he couldn’t find the spot where he’d left his flight suit.

  What a fool I was t
o take it off, he thought to himself. It was my best protection from the cold. Now I’ll freeze half to death.

  He was still furious with himself when he returned to camp. Seeing how badly he felt, Kloor and Farrell said little about the flight suit, not wanting to make him feel even worse.

  “Should we kill the pigeons?” said Farrell. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “No,” said Kloor flatly. “Let’s wait until tomorrow. We don’t know how long we’ll have to go without other food.”

  “The Kid’s right,” said Hinton. “Best to go hungry tonight and have something to eat tomorrow.”

  “All right,” said Farrell reluctantly. “We’d better bed down then. You can’t feel hunger when you’re sleeping.”

  They lay down on pine tree boughs to stay dry and tried to sleep. Kloor curled up by the fire. Farrell and Hinton stayed close together for warmth. Farrell tried to protect and warm Hinton, who no longer had his flight suit, but it was useless. The bitter chill spread through their bodies like a virus. They lay awake all night, listening to the wind, lost in dark thoughts of what lay ahead of them.

  The three men arose to a cold dawn. They threw more wood onto the fire and together eyed the pigeons in their cage.

  “I think it’s time to eat them,” said Farrell, licking his lips. “We’ve got no other food and I’m starving.”

  “So am I,” said Kloor. “But if we kill them we’ll have no way of sending messages for help.”

  “What good will that do if we starve to death in the meantime?” countered Farrell. “I say we eat them now.”

  “Hold on,” reasoned Hinton. “We’re all hungry but we can’t eat them all at once. Who knows how long we’ll have to live on pigeon meat? I say kill and eat only one of them now.”

  “That means a mouthful or two at most for each of us,” complained Farrell. “That won’t fill our stomachs.”

  “It’ll have to do,” said Kloor. “We’ve got to make them last as long as possible.”

  Farrell made no further fuss and agreed to do the grisly work of killing one of the pigeons by twisting its neck. Kloor plucked the feathers and Hinton roasted the carcass over the open fire.

  Once the bird was cooked, each man ate a mouthful or two of pigeon meat. They all felt guilty. After all, these intelligent birds were meant for better things than being eaten for breakfast. But the men’s stomachs overruled their consciences.

  After finishing the meager meal, they prepared to melt more snow for water. Suddenly, Hinton pointed to a hole in the ground.

  “Look!” he cried. “This hole in the earth is filled with water.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to drink?” asked Farrell.

  “I don’t see why not,” reasoned Kloor. “It should be as fresh as the water from the snow.”

  Hinton cupped his hands and brought some of the water to his lips.

  “It tastes a bit brackish, but it’s not bad,” he said.

  The men took turns drinking, grateful that water, at least, would not be one of their concerns. They all knew that dehydration could kill them faster than starvation.

  * * *

  MOOSE LICKS

  The holes containing water the men found are called moose licks or mineral licks and are caused by either mineral springs or swamps. Moose and other animals gather to drink at the licks. In many parts of Canada, where (unbeknownst to them) the men were, hunters will also gather at the licks to find moose. Some licks have been around for generations, but in years of severe drought, the licks dry up and disappear.

  * * *

  With breakfast over, the men broke camp and headed east, Hinton taking the lead. Half an hour later, Hinton stopped abruptly. For the first time since the barking dog, he heard something beneath the sound of the wind. It was a soft but persistent murmur. As he moved forward the sound gradually became louder, vying with the rush of wind for his attention.

  “Where are you running to?” gasped Farrell, rushing after Hinton.

  “Don’t you hear it?” Hinton cried.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Kloor. “I hear it too! Come on!”

  The three ran clumsily onward. Hinton got to it first. He looked at the blue stream beneath his feet and turned back to the others, grinning. “A creek!” he cried.

  Chapter Five

  Desperate Measures

  Kloor and Farrell caught up to Hinton and they cried for joy at the marvelous sight of the running water, rushing clean and pure over a bed of stone.

  “Water never looked so good to me,” said Farrell.

  “Me, neither,” said Kloor.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” cried Hinton.

  They all knelt down on the damp bank of the creek, cupped their hands, and dipped them into the clear, cold stream. For several minutes they drank their fill.

  “I feel whole again,” said Farrell, sitting back on the bank. “I think I could walk all day to find where this creek leads.”

  “Hopefully it will lead us to a river and people,” said Kloor.

  “God willing, it will,” said Hinton, rising to his feet and stretching his limbs.

  As they resumed their march, Kloor could see that Farrell, despite his hearty words, was soon breathing heavily again and lagging behind. Kloor tried not to get too far ahead of the older man, but he was anxious to keep moving. Their survival depended on finding shelter.

  By mid-morning Farrell came to a dead stop. “I can’t walk another step in these flying shoes,” he said. “They’re worn out.” He yanked them off his feet, pulled his dress shoes from his overnight bag, and put them on. Farrell left his bag dangling on a tree branch.

  “You’re not going to leave it there, are you?” asked Hinton.

  “Why not?” replied Farrell. “There’s nothing in it now that I need. And it was weighing me down.”

  They hiked onward through the afternoon. Then darkness again descended over the forest. “We’ll camp here beside the creek,” said Kloor. Hinton estimated they had covered a good eight miles that day. They built another fire but decided not to eat the other pigeons yet. Then they lay down around the crackling fire, hungry, shivering from the cold, and ill-prepared to face another sleepless night.

  The fourth day of their ordeal dawned bright and seemed to bring new hope to the three men. Although they had no clear idea where they were, they held on to the belief that the creek would lead them to a town. Civilization and its comforts might lie just around the bend or past the next stand of trees. Following Farrell’s example, Kloor and Hinton left their worn-out flying shoes by the campfire and put on their sturdier dress shoes.

  Then they began to walk. By late morning, Farrell was exhausted and they stopped for a rest. Hinton built a fire. They cooked and ate the second pigeon, and chewed on some caribou moss they pulled up from the ground. It wasn’t very nourishing, but along with the pigeon it took away their hunger pangs for a while.

  When the sun was directly overhead, they resumed their trek. They hadn’t gotten very far when Farrell collapsed. Kloor and Hinton rushed to help him, but Farrell pushed Hinton away.

  “It’s no use,” Farrell said hoarsely. “I can’t go on.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Hinton. “Of course you can.”

  “No,” replied Farrell abruptly. “You should go on without me.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Kloor. “We couldn’t leave you behind.”

  But Farrell refused to listen. He dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a dirty wad of bills, and thrust it at Hinton.

  “What’s this?” asked Hinton.

  “It’s ninety-four dollars,” said Farrell. “It’s all the money I brought with me. You keep it. If anyone gets through, you will.”

  Hinton took the cash, not wanting to upset Farrell any further. But together with Kloor, he reached out to lift the older man to his feet.

  “Come on, Steve,” said Hinton. “You can do it.”

  “No, I can’t,” Farrell mumbled feebly. “I’m finished. Leave
me here. Save yourselves.”

  But the other two men ignored his protests. They propped him up on both sides. Farrell was too weak to resist, and for a while they lumbered along, until Farrell was able to walk on his own again. And so they continued their grim march beside the creek.

  Again Farrell began to slow down and drag behind. Hinton and Kloor turned to each other and spoke in hushed voices so Farrell couldn’t hear them.

  “He may be right, you know,” said Hinton. “He may not be able to go on much longer.”

  “What will we do?” asked Kloor. “We can’t just leave him behind.”

  “We could if we found a safe place for him to wait for us. Then when we find help, we can come back for him.”

  Kloor shook his head. “How long do you think he would last out here alone? What if a wild animal attacked him?”

  “He’s got his penknife,” said Hinton.

  “Big help,” Kloor scoffed. “He couldn’t defend himself much with that little knife. If he died out here from an animal attack or exposure, we’d never forgive ourselves.”

  “You’re right,” said Hinton after a moment’s thought. “We’ll have to either make it out of here alive together or—”

  “Die together,” finished Kloor.

  Farrell came up behind them. “What are you two chattering on about?” he asked.

  “Nothing really,” said Hinton. “Steve, why don’t you take off that flying suit. It’s weighing you down, isn’t it?”

  Farrell admitted it was and took off the bulky suit, leaving him in his long-john underwear. It was a risky trade-off. While he could move more freely, he was more exposed to the bitter cold. Hinton thought he had the answer. He picked up the flying suit from the frozen ground and carefully wrapped it around Farrell.