Lost in a Far Country

by Thomas L Daniel

  He turned the canoe over on the ground and picked up the front end. As he lifted the end of the canoe, he found it balanced awkwardly with only the tip of the other end on the ground. He lost control of the canoe and it fell to the ground. He went down with it, landing on one knee but not hurting himself. Okay. I can do this. I have to do this. Again he raised the front of the canoe and tried to position himself under it. Again he was unable to keep the canoe balanced. Finally, on the third try, he managed to get the canoe up and himself under it. He steadied his stance and carefully worked himself back to the center of the canoe, where two padded shoulder rests were positioned on a thwart. Struggling, he managed to get the canoe off the ground and resting on his shoulders. There’s a lot of skill involved in this maneuver, he said to himself. More skill than actual strength.

  Slowly and with great caution, Jack started across the portage. With the canoe on his shoulders, he could see only a short distance ahead. He could not see the blazes that marked the trail, but he had little difficulty following it. Good thing I explored this portage first, he thought, and carried the packs over before this canoe.

  Jack was a strong young man. The canoe’s eighty-five-pound weight did not challenge him. But navigating the trail did. He frequently found that he had to back up because he had the front of the canoe on the wrong side of a tree as the trail twisted around rocks. Moreover, the ground beneath him was uneven, more so than he had realized while carrying packs. When he came to the two-by-four canoe rest on a tree beside the trail, he gratefully rested the front of the canoe on it and stepped out. This is tough, he thought to himself. I should have kept out one of my granola bars. I could use one right now.

  Jack spent about ten minutes at the rest point, sitting on a downed tree trunk that many others had probably rested on. Then he returned to the canoe. He lifted it off of its rest and back onto his shoulders. Carefully, he picked his way along the remainder of the portage trail. Reaching the end of the portage where he had placed his packs, he now faced the challenge of putting the canoe down. He dropped the back end of the canoe down until it rested on the ground. Carefully he worked his way forward, continuing to hold the canoe above his head. Then, clumsily, he turned around and swung the canoe to the side. Barely maintaining control, he lowered it to the ground. With a sigh, he said aloud, “I hope I don’t have to do this very often.”

  Jack sat on a rock, resting. Now where do I camp? he thought. There’s no room to camp here. I guess I’ll have to go along the shore and find a place. It’s late enough now, I think, so that I should make camp soon. He lay back on a flat rock surface, bathed in warm sunlight. In a bit, he said to himself.

  Jack roused himself and walked to the water’s edge. To the west, to his left, the shore seemed marshy. There were water lilies in the lake. A male and a female mallard were swimming among the water lilies. Perhaps a quarter-mile away, he could see the entrance to the waterway he had bypassed in portaging. The shore to the east, his right, was the type of shoreline that had increasingly become familiar to him. Rocky bluffs and points. He would have to find a campsite along that shore. Calling up some reserve energy, Jack dragged the canoe halfway into the water. He loaded in his gear, dropped his paddle onto the bottom of the canoe, and climbed in as he pushed off.

  It would be nice, Jack thought, if I could find another beach and campsite like the one on “my island.” He was not to be so fortunate, however. After some exploration, he chose to make camp on a hillside that seemed accessible from the water. He pulled up alongside a large rocky slope running down to the water and climbed out of the canoe. He unloaded his gear and pulled the canoe well up out of the water before turning it over. Back a short distance from the shore, the ground was reasonably level. Blueberry bushes covered the area, and he ate a few of the berries. More after dinner, he thought. Dessert.

  In amongst the trees, Jack found a reasonably level place for his tent. He did his best to clear the space of stones and sticks, put down his plastic ground cloth, and put up his tent. As he had done previously, he carefully ditched his tent, using a rock to scrape a narrow drainage ditch around it. The sky was clear, but he wanted to be prepared for any rainy possibility. He moved his packs away from the lakeshore and placed them on rocks near his tent. Choosing a place for a fire presented some difficulty. He did not want to risk starting a spreading wildfire. On the rocks near the shore, he decided, and he gathered stones to make a fire circle. Finding firewood was not difficult; this site obviously had not seen campers recently, or perhaps ever.

  With his campsite organized, Jack found a cup and set about picking himself blueberries with which to end his evening meal. He chose a spaghetti dinner from among the freeze-dried foods he had purchased from the Nolalu outfitter. He noted, however, that it was one of only two remaining dinners in his food pack. Well, he thought, only half of this tonight. Two more nights, he supposed. Maybe even three. Tight rations from here on.

  He ate his supper sitting on a rock and looking out over the water. He was on a bay, ending in woods to his right, open to more water on the left. The shore across from him was no more than a half mile across the water, he judged. A loon called to its mate, hauntingly. The ducks he had noticed earlier were diving for food in the lily pads to his left. In the west over the bay’s outlet to open water, a spectacular sunset was developing. Such evening grandeur seemed to be a frequent thing in the north woods, he observed. Only rarely in Ohio—if ever. Certainly nothing as dramatic as this one he was enjoying tonight. He tossed a stone into the water, then another. His meal finished, he cleaned up his cookware and poured water on the smoldering fire. He inspected his campsite. All looked in order. He would sleep well tonight. He would sleep off the muscle strains and fatigue of the portage.

  As he sat watching the evening unfold, Jack found himself once again thinking about his home and his life at home. I get some of the blame, he thought. Maybe a lot of it. Simply saying that his mother was an alcoholic and his father a miser did not do anything to make things better. He must move on from that to actually doing something. Marilyn had reported to him that his mother had stopped drinking. He must help her do what she could to stay sober. To stay away from the inescapably available, ever-present wine bottle. Maybe get her to AA. There had to be more things he could do. Maybe he could get his mother involved in his life somehow. She was and would continue to be his mother, after all. She had raised him and supported him in his life. Maybe he could now support her and help her find something in her life other than a wine bottle. Maybe he could get her reading again; she once was an avid reader and a member of the Madison Library Book Club. Marilyn had encountered her in the Madison library.

  His thoughts turned to his father. Maybe he could convince him that a better education would really have value—monetary value—and approach his desire for more education in a way that his dad could understand. To his father, he realized, a prosperous winery was a major achievement. In fact, it was. He could, should, acknowledge that and agree with it. But it was not what he wanted. Maybe he could make Walter understand that Jack’s road to success would be different from the one he had followed. That Jack’s would be paved with education. With books, not wine bottles. Maybe, maybe, maybe…. And why don’t I see if I can get Dad to go to an Indians game with me this summer? And take Marilyn; she likes baseball. Or maybe the minor league Lake Erie Captains. I can make our family life better. And I can get Edward involved, too. He cares about our family, I’m sure.

  Distancing myself from my family was not, is not, a good solution. This runaway adventure of mine has been a mistake. It’s up to me to correct that mistake, to make my family life right again. I should get closer to my family, not farther from it. Just because I don’t want to make a career of it does not mean that I should not be involved with the winery. There’s lots I can do there—cheerfully. If I don’t, he’ll probably hire someone else, and that would just increase the gap between us. The closer I get to my dad, the more I’ll be involved with
his life, including the winery, the more likely he’ll be to become involved with mine. I shouldn’t be fighting with him about where I might go to college. I should make him understand—on his terms—why the best college education I can get is what I should do. Even if it leads to something other than his winery.

  Jack’s reverie continued. Fall is coming. A new school year. I like school. And football games with Marilyn. An athlete and a track star, Jack had not taken up football. He enjoyed watching the game, however. And cheering for his school’s team.

  The sun set spectacularly, as it seemed to do every night. Then soon, darkness of night rose up out of the horizon on the west and out of the trees across the water to the north. One by one stars appeared overhead. Once again Jack recognized the Big and Little Dippers and the North Star—the extent of his knowledge of astronomy. Fingers of light streaked up out of the northern horizon. Northern lights. As before, northern lights on Northern Lights Lake.

  Once again, with the darkness of a north woods night approaching, he said to himself, This entire caper—running away—was a mistake. Marilyn had said that running from problems was never a solution. Jack was now ready to accept that. His mother would also have also told him that running from problems never worked. Or so she would have said at a time in the past when she wasn’t running away into a wine bottle herself. He could do things to help restore family life to the Stavitches, he thought. It would take time, and both his father and mother would say there was no need for changes. Especially now that his mother had stopped drinking. But there was a need. There was a need that went beyond wine bottles and penury. And Jack could make things happen, could make changes happen. He wasn’t completely sure what or how, but things could be made better. And he could do, would do, some of the better-making. Content that he was now homeward bound, Jack knew in his heart that abandoning his family had been a mistake. Jack looked forward to rejoining his family and his life at home.

  He stood up, tossed a final stone into the water, and headed for his tent.

  11. Northward

  Jack crawled out of his sleeping bag and tent. Another sunny day, he hoped. And very little wind, although he thought it likely that wind, north wind, would develop during the day. If his experience during the past days of his journey was to be representative of his entire trip, then he certainly would face more north wind. Hopefully, no further storms. Wind, however, had become a dominant force of nature and a force that seemed directed at him. But I have done enough penance, he thought. I don’t need more. Maybe the wind would be gentler and kinder this day. He looked out across the water. Mist was rising off the lake; the scene seemed magical to him.

  With his bar of Ivory soap in hand, Jack went into the water and bathed. It was cold, but refreshing. He swam out a short distance, turned, and swam back to the shore. Climbing out onto the rocks, he ran his hands over his body to brush off water as best he could. “I sure could use a nice, large bath towel,” he said aloud.

  Once again, breakfast consisted of instant oatmeal and coffee. Having eaten, he extinguished his small breakfast fire, thoroughly soaking the rocky ground upon which he had made it. He took down his tent and packed it and his cook gear into their Duluth pack. Feeling that he was now a master camper—if that was the proper terminology—he righted his canoe, put the end into the water, and secured the Duluth packs and his personal pack at the front of it. Feeling proud of his increasing north woods camping skills, he pushed off into the water, into the rising mist. Sheltered in a bay, he found himself paddling in calm water. He headed west toward what he assumed would be the mouth of the bay and more open water, passing the water lilies he had noted the previous evening. Two ducks were again swimming among the lilies, diving repeatedly. Mallards, he thought. The same familiar ducks that frequented Ohio ponds and lakes.

  Without a map, Jack did not know where he was. He did believe that his route forward should be northward until he found a waterway westward to Saganaga Lake. Lacking a compass, he had only the sun to mark directions, and without a watch he could only know those in general terms. It was apparent, however, that crossing the portage had put him into this bay where he had camped and from which he must find his way forward. And forward meant northward. For now, however, it meant paddling to the west. No other route was open to him. Rounding a small island, he faced channels to both his left and right. Straight ahead, only a rocky cliff. Somewhere left or right there would be a channel to the west, which he needed to find. He thought he probably would have to cross more open water in the northern part of Northern Lights Lake to reach his ongoing route. At least that was so if his memory was correct. However, he was not completely sure in which direction open water lay.

  Okay, Jack said to himself, I probably want to turn right. But I’m not totally sure, and I can’t be sure until I explore a bit more to the left. So that’s what I’ll do first. Keeping to the relatively sheltered shore across from the bay in which he had camped, he turned left—south, he surmised—and paddled along the shore. After no more than what he thought was about a half hour the waterway divided. He kept to the western arm, continuing along the shore. It soon became apparent that he was in a blind-ended bay. This is not the way to Saganaga Lake, Jack said to himself. I need to go back.

  Retracing his route, Jack decided against exploring the other arm of the south-reaching waterway. He continued retracing his route and reached the spot where he had left the bay in which he had camped. He paddled on, passing two small islands, now hesitantly confident—or at least hopeful—that he would soon enter the open water of the northern part of Northern Lights Lake. He thought that he would find passage westward somewhere along the shore that stretched ahead on his left. But he had no idea of how far that might be, and he had already been canoeing for much of the morning.

  He entered a bay, hoping it might continue on to the west. It ended where a small stream tumbled into the lake. He was about to turn back, when he noticed a beaver swimming in the water. It had a branch in its mouth and was pulling it across the bay. It dove under the surface as it approached what appeared to be a mound of sticks and branches at the water’s edge. “That’s a beaver lodge,” Jack said aloud. “Cool!” Jack pulled his paddle out of the water and sat quietly, the canoe motionless. Presently the beaver emerged and swam across the bay, apparently unmindful of Jack and his canoe. It climbed up onto the shore. Jack watched while it put its mouth to the base of a small aspen sapling and felled it. The beaver cut a branch from the downed tree and took it to its lodge, once again diving under water with it. “It’s storing saplings and branches as food for the winter,” Jack surmised.

  Sitting quietly in his canoe, Jack watched the beaver make another sortie to retrieve another aspen branch. I guess I should move on, he said to himself. Quietly and slowly he paddled out of the bay and turned north once more. Shortly, he rounded another point and entered another bay, a shallow one. A gravel beach was visible at the head of the bay. Lunch time, Jack said to himself, and there’s a good place for lunch. He found his three remaining granola bars and his dwindling supply of GORP. Okay, he said to himself. Short rations from here on. I already know that. One granola bar and one handful of GORP. That will be lunch today—and tomorrow and every day from now on, I guess, for as long as my food supply lasts. And some lake water. But I should be able to reach Minnesota in just one more day, maybe, I hope.

  Lunch finished, Jack walked up and down the beach. He found a flat stone and threw it to skip on the surface of the lake. Three hops. I can do better than that, he thought. He found another flat stone, bent low, and threw it across the water in as flat an arc as he could manage. Gratifyingly, it skipped eight times before finally sinking.

  Back in his canoe, he continued his northward journey. To his right there was open water. Its presence reassured him that he was progressing along the western shore of the large northern part of Northern Lights Lake. He knew, remembered from his map, that his route to Saganaga Lake would begin from this western shore
of the northern half of Northern Lights Lake. And, having made the portage, he was confident he was now in that northern half.

  Out in the lake there were wind-whipped waves with whitecaps. But the shore along which he traveled was sheltered and relatively calm. The shore was rocky, but he encountered small beaches at intervals. Most of them were set in small bays and seemed to represent the outlets for streams. Water lilies were common in areas where the water was shallow. Trees along the shore and running down to the water were mostly evergreens. Spruce and cedar, Jack thought, although he was less than certain about that. Some of the trees reached out across the water before curving up. Anchored in the ground, they seemed to aspire to the sky.

  He heard a loon call. Another answered. Looking out into the open water, Jack saw the two loons. One of them dove. Jack waited for what seemed a long, long time before the loon reemerged some fifty feet from its original position. It called to its mate once more.

  Jack entered a narrow waterway that seemed to promise a route westward. This is it, he hoped. Disappointingly, it ended in shallow water and a small creek. I know there is a way through somewhere, Jack said to himself. I do miss my map. Then he spotted a loon nestled down in weeds on the shore. Wow! he said to himself. That’s a female loon on a nest. He made one paddle stroke forward, and then allowed the canoe to drift quietly close to the nest. The loon did not move, nor did he as he watched the motionless bird. Then, after some time had passed, he turned back out to continue traveling north along the shore.

  Without his watch, Jack did not know what time it was. And without his compass as well as the watch, he could not rely on the position of the sun to indicate the time. But he felt sure that it was now afternoon, probably midafternoon, maybe late afternoon. The north shore, or what he assumed was the north shore, seemed to be getting closer. Soon he must find the way onward.