Darkness settled over the land. The others waited patiently outside in the cold, shivering. Hours had passed since we went over the falls, and just as I had begun to despair of Joe’s ever recovering, something came over him. He lay back, stared at the white ridge of the tent, and began to recall the events of the day: “And then we had breakfast …” He was still and thoughtful now. “And then Pete caught a fish …” When he paused, I would say, “Yes,” and repeat to him what he had just said, but he did not seem to hear me.
“And then we ate lunch …”
“Yes, yes,” I encouraged, “‘and then we ate lunch,’ yes, yes.”
“And then we continued down the river …” Anxiously, I watched his eyes. They began to dart back and forth, his muscles tensed.
“Yes, yes, ‘and then we continued down the river.’”
“Just a little ripple!” he said, and then propped himself up on his elbows.
“You’re all right now, Joe,” I repeated.
“JUST A LITTLE RIPPLE!” he yelled and began to twist and turn in agony. “JUST A LITTLE RIPPLE!”
“You’re safe now, Joe.”
“GEORGE! PETE! HELP!” he called again, thrashing about uncontrollably, completely oblivious of my presence. Eventually he fell back on the air mattress, exhausted.
Time after time he tried to recall the events of the day: waking in the morning … eating breakfast … packing the canoes … stopping for lunch … Pete catching a fish … eating fish soup … continuing down the river. But when he got to the “little ripple” he would lose contact, grow very agitated, and start thrashing about again. He later wrote,
September 14: This has been the most harrowing day of my life. It started as many others recently: bleak and dismal under a cover of clouds. It was below freezing, and the sand was crunchy and hard from its layer of frost and ice.
Once on the river, the pleasant sandy esker country dropped rapidly behind us. We paddled along, no one saying much of anything. Finally, we pulled into a gravelly bay for lunch. George, Bruce, and I scurried around looking for wood scraps, Art heated a kettle, and Skip and Pete fished from the shore. Almost immediately, Pete latched on to a 17-pound orange-fleshed lake trout and wrestled with him for over 20 minutes.
After a fine lunch of fish chowder, we shoved off again at around 2:30. The weather was still dismal, although the wind had dropped. In a few minutes we heard and saw rapids on the horizon. …
At the top, the rapids looked as though they would be easy going, a few small waves, rocks—nothing serious. We didn’t even haul over to shore to have a look, as we usually did. The river was straight, and we could see both the top and foot of the rough water quite clearly, or we thought we could. We barreled happily along. We bounced over a couple of fair-sized waves and took in a couple of splashes, but I didn’t mind, as I had made an apron of my poncho and remained dry enough. I was looking a few feet in front of the canoe for submerged rocks when suddenly Art shouted, “Paddle!”
I took up the beat, at the same time looking farther ahead to see what it was we were trying to avoid. I was surprised to see two lines of white. I looked at them in helpless fascination. It was too late to pull for shore. Our only hope was to pick what seemed to be the least turbulent spots and head for them. I was not really frightened but had, rather, an empty, sinking, “it’s-all-over-now” feeling. We went over the falls and plunged directly into a four-foot wave. The bow sliced in, and a sheet of foaming green engulfed me. The canoe yawed, slowed. The current caught the canoe once again and plunged it toward the next falls a few hundred feet away. By some miracle, Art straightened the canoe out a little, but we were still slightly broadside as we went over the second falls.
This time the bow didn’t come up. I could feel the canoe begin to roll over under me. The next few seconds telescoped into a vivid recollection of water all around me, foam and clutching currents pulling me along with the canoe, which by this time had rolled bottom up. The foaming roar stopped, the current lessened. Art and I were clinging to the canoe.
The seriousness of our position had not yet fully dawned on us. At first the water didn’t feel uncomfortable. My heavy parka was full of air in between its layers, and I was quite buoyant. Art draped himself over the stern of the canoe and yelled to me to do the same at the bow. Then I saw that Bruce and Skip were in the water too, their canoe also having swamped.
The next thing I knew, George and Pete were paddling furiously by us in the red canoe, heading for shore. I watched them as they leaped out, dumped their packs, and headed back toward us. Packs were floating all around us. Art was holding onto the canoe with one arm and my pack and his 86-pound camera box with the other. I saw Art’s pack floating off in another direction and swam a few yards after it, but by this time my parka was soaked, so I came back to the canoe. I told Art in a dry, disinterested voice that we had just pulled a damned-fool stunt and that this would likely be the end for us. He assured me through chattering teeth that this was not the case and that, although it would be hard, we would pull through in good shape.
George and Pete went after our packs first. To our horror, as George struggled to haul my soaked pack into the canoe, he lost his balance and toppled overboard. George almost overturned the canoe trying to haul himself out of the water. That would have put all six of us in the water. None of us could have got out. Finally Pete paddled to shore, dragging George along. They dumped the water out and came back. This time they managed to drag Bruce and Skip to a small rocky island and leave them there.
By now I was almost completely paralyzed by the cold water. I couldn’t swim. I couldn’t move. Bruce and Skip on the island began shouting, “Hurry up.”
Joe’s remembrance of events at this point becomes inaccurate. Skip and Bruce were not yelling “Hurry up!” They were standing facing each other and yelling, “Hit me! Hit me!” to try to get their circulation going again. It was Joe, still in the icy water, who was yelling, “Hurry up! Hurry up!”
After lunch, Peter and I had followed Art and Joe down the river and over the falls. Like Joe, I had that “it’s-all-over-now” feeling as the bow shot over the first ledge. The wall of green water at the foot of the first cascade hit me so hard that I felt motionless. Instead of being swept over the next ledge, it felt as if the bottom of the river was rising up. Coming to my senses, I yelled, “Keep paddling! Keep paddling!” and propelled the canoe full speed over the second falls.
Before the second wave crashed down on my head, I raised my paddle high, braced my knees under the gunwales, and speared the wall of blue water. As the water engulfed me, I pulled up with all my strength and lifted the bow into the air. The wave washed the entire length of the canoe and sloshed out the stern behind Peter. With gunwales awash, we sped over the third cascade and down through the rapids below. We passed Art and Joe, clinging to their overturned canoe, then crossed the basin to the nearest dry land, unloaded, and emptied the water.
Peter and I hurried back to rescue the others, but on the way we came across Bruce’s pack. I grabbed the leather straps, leaned the canoe down to the water and, using the gunwale as a fulcrum, threw my weight back and flipped the pack aboard. It was a dangerous maneuver.
The next pack we came to was Joe’s; it was bigger and heavier than the others and had been floating in the water longer than Bruce’s. In retrospect, we should have rescued the men first and the packs later, but without food, tents, sleeping bags, fishing gear, and rifles, we would not survive long in any event, so Peter and I, on our way back to Art and Joe, picked up the packs that were still floating. It was a mistake. I could bend my fingers, but they were frozen, swollen, and without feeling. I forced the gunwale of the canoe down to the surface of the water, then threw my weight backward in order to flip the heavy pack aboard, but my swollen, numb fingers could not hold the slippery, ice-coated straps, and the pack remained in the water while I was propelled backward by the force of my effort to lift it aboard. I reached for the thwart to keep myself
from falling but succeeded only in bringing the canoe up toward me. As a wave of green water poured over the gunwale into the canoe, I released my hold of the thwart, kicked out, righted the canoe, and did a backward somersault into the water. Five of us were now immersed in the freezing water. Two of the canoes were floating upside down; the third was full of water. The provisions on which our survival depended had either sunk in the rapids or were being carried downstream by the current. The lives of every member of the expedition now depended on the youngest of us, Peter Franck.
As I clung to the side of our canoe, Peter urged me to swim. There was an island in the basin not far away, but our progress was very slow. I kicked until I lost all feeling in my legs, and then they dragged uselessly behind me, weighted down by my heavy army boots. I held on to the bow with my left arm and tried to swim on my back with my right, but it seemed we were getting nowhere.
I decided that I would have to remove my clothes if I were to be of any help to Peter. When I unzipped my jacket, the icy water flooded in, causing the muscles in my chest to constrict. I could not breathe. Desperately, I pulled my chest out of the water and, once again, nearly tipped the canoe. Climbing aboard was out of the question. I fell back and tried to swim again until I could no longer lift my arm. I was clearly more of a hindrance to Peter than a help.
I had always imagined myself performing a self-sacrificing act at the moment of truth, so I let go of the canoe to enable Peter to reach the island, empty the water, and rescue the others. My heavy army boots dragged me down, and the icy water closed over my head.
Looking death in the face, I changed my mind. Being a hero was one thing, but dying was something else. I decided I was not the self-sacrificing type. I fought my way back to the surface, recovered my grip on the gunwale, and swam again until exhaustion and cold overwhelmed me.
“Keep swimming! Keep swimming!” Peter urged. I looked at him; he was so close, yet a universe away. His eyes were filled with terror, not looking at me, but staring at something ahead. I turned and saw the island moving away from us; we were being swept downstream, away from its safety. I made a final effort, but my legs were totally useless and my right arm nearly so. I resolved again that there was no hope for me, so, to enable Peter to regain control of the canoe and save himself, I let go of the bow a second time and sank to the bottom of the river. Miraculously, as the current quickened, the bottom of the river came closer to the surface to meet me.
“I can touch! I can touch!” I yelled in ecstasy, my head emerging from the water. I held the canoe against the force of the current, and we worked our way toward the island, but as my body came out of the water I stumbled and fell. I had no feeling in my legs. I crawled.
After emptying the canoe, Peter assisted me back onto the bow seat and handed me my paddle. I had no feeling in my fingers and dropped it. He picked it up and handed it to me again. I dropped it again. I may have been unable to feel my fingers, but I could see them; the third time Peter handed me my paddle, I stared at my fingers and willed them to grip it with all their strength. I threw my shoulders forward and watched my arms, dangling like leather straps, follow. I had lost all coordination, but not strength. When I saw the blade strike the water, I swung my shoulders back and saw the canoe surge ahead. The more I paddled, the more control I gained over my arms. Soon I was a help to Peter, but the wind continued to blow through my open jacket, turn my shirt to ice, and drain the warmth from my body.
At first, Peter headed toward the gray canoe where Art still clung to the stern and Joe to the bow. Art and Joe had been in the water longest and should have been rescued first, but we heard other voices calling, “George, Pete, help!”
The green canoe, with Skip clinging to the stern and Bruce to the bow, was being swept out of the basin down the river. “George! Pete! Help!” Peter and I turned away from Art and Joe and headed downstream to rescue Skip and Bruce first.
They were clinging to their overturned canoe, and as we approached, I could see that they were dazed. I told them repeatedly to hold onto the stern of our canoe behind Peter. After my failed attempt to rescue Joe’s pack, I knew better than to try to get Skip’s and Bruce’s semifrozen bodies aboard. While Skip held on to both the stern of the red canoe and the bow of the green canoe, Peter and I dragged them to a second island. They crawled out, stood facing each other, and yelled, “Hit me! Hit me!” but their arms dangled ineffectively.
Peter turned our red canoe up against the current to go back for Art and Joe, who by this time were in very bad shape. Too many minutes had elapsed; they were only semiconscious. I gave them the same instruction I had given Bruce and Skip. Art let go of the gray canoe and held onto our gunwale behind Peter, but with his other hand he held onto his camera chest. Joe, likewise, grabbed onto our red canoe, but he continued to hold on to his gray canoe as he had seen Skip do. Their instincts told them to hold on to as much as possible, but under the circumstances, it was a mistake, slowing our progress against the current even further. Joe’s account continues:
My mind became fogged. …We got nowhere, although George and Pete paddled like fiends. I lost my grip on Pete’s gunwale and shouted for him to come back or I would drown. He quickly stopped paddling. I grabbed onto the red canoe again.
The next thing I remember, my feet were scraping over the rocks near shore. I took one or two steps, using every single remaining ounce of strength I had, then collapsed unconscious on the rock and moss ashore.
I crawled onto the island alongside Art and Joe. None of us had sufficient feeling in our legs to walk. Peter urged me to get back into the canoe to pick up Bruce and Skip downstream. I told him to go without me. Bruce’s pack, the one Peter and I had plucked out of the water before I had fallen in, was the only pack on the island. I pulled out the sleeping bag and dragged it over to Art and Joe. Joe was lying delirious on the tundra. Art knelt, his hands fumbling with the zipper on his moosehide jacket, and asked, “What do you want me to do?” It was obvious that he was helpless.
“Get undressed and get in this sleeping bag with me,” I commanded, ripping the buttons off my shirt. I lacked the coordination to undo a button, but not the strength to rip my shirt off. I managed to undress down to my sodden long underwear, which clung to my skin as the wind turned it to ice. To get out of the wind, I crawled into the sleeping bag and left Art outside to die.
I passed in and out of consciousness. In my first dream, I was walking through the sunny woods of New Hampshire near my family’s home. In the second, I was sitting by the fire in Zaidee’s apartment in New York City, and in the third dream, I was a young boy, sick in bed. My mother was bringing me food.
Contrary to popular belief, freezing is not a pleasant way to die. One does not simply “fall asleep.” During waves of consciousness, my mind raced over the possibility of building a fire, of finding food, but I knew it was impossible. My legs were kicking uncontrollably against the frozen gravel. To conserve heat around my vital organs, my body seemed to be closing down the extremities, and even if I had been able to move, there was no help on the island but Bruce’s wet pack and two other delirious men.
I imagined the Canadian Air Force miraculously rescuing us, or Inuit hunters finding us, but we had not seen any other human beings for the better part of three months. It was absurd to suppose that someone would appear in the next three minutes. I thought about death. I imagined a one-line obituary in the New York Times: “George James Grinnell, age 22, died September 14, 1955, on a damned-fool expedition to the Arctic.”
Was it really a damned-fool expedition? Strangely enough, I still did not think so. Even though I believed there was no chance of survival, I was glad to have come. I preferred to die in the true reality to which Art had taken us than to go on living in the false one I had left behind.
The pain was excruciating. As Oscar Wilde said, “I do not mind dying, but I do not want to be there when it happens.” I was desperate to pass out, go crazy, to escape from the pain in any way possible. I tho
ught about God, but God was not real to me. The pain was real.
My dreams were a relief. Each time I woke from a dream, the immediate sensation of cold was ecstatically pleasurable. Having passed out in the hopes of a quick death, it was a pleasant surprise to find myself still alive. The dreams of happier times revived my will to live, and my brain would race through the possibilities of rescue until the futility of it dispelled all hope, and my ecstasy became agony once more. I longed only to escape again into insanity.
Peter had taken the red canoe downstream to pick up Skip and Bruce. On the way back he secured Art’s pack and recovered the sack of driftwood, which we had carried in the red canoe. Peter was the only man on the expedition to always carry matches in a waterproof container. Ironically, he was also the only man that day who did not get wet. He started a fire, and, with the help of Skip and Bruce, managed to get Art undressed and into his sleeping bag. They also stripped Joe down to his wet long johns and shoved him into Bruce’s sleeping bag with me. I was in the midst of my third dream, hearing my mother call out as she carried food up to me, a child of about five, sick in bed. “George, George, are you all right?” I thought this strange because my mother had always called me Jim.
“George! George! Are you all right?” It was Skip’s voice, and as I awakened from the dream, I was extremely glad to hear it. My despair turned to hope until I remembered: I left Art out in the cold. Like Lord Jim, I had saved myself. Again, reality seemed too much for me. I wanted to escape back into insanity, death, or—better yet—back into that pleasant dreamworld from which I had been so rudely awakened.
Joe’s foot hit me in the face. “We’re putting Joe in with you,” Skip said. Joe’s delirious kicking and thrashing reminded me that he was far closer to death than I was. I began rubbing him down. He remained delirious, but in attempting to help him, I was able to focus my attention on his agonies rather than on my own, and we both slowly became warmer.
Death on the Barrens Page 15