Lost in the Wild

by Cary Griffith

  “The portage is down the shoreline, behind that tree,” Wills points.

  “I heard,” Tim answers.

  “Why don’t you take my canoe, and get the rest of the crew over into Bell. I’ll stay here with Justin, and we’ll wait for Dan on this end.”

  Tim is more than happy to leave the ominous swamp. In spite of his repellent he is waving away bugs. It takes them less than a minute to get into the canoe and start off down the shoreline.

  Once at the portage, they unload their gear and ferry it across. By now they are an experienced team. They cross the narrow spit of land in fewer than fifteen minutes. On the way over the portage there is no sign of Dan. At the other side, staring out over Bell Lake, they peer down the shoreline in both directions, looking for any movement through the brush, listening. There is nothing.

  They wait at the edge of Bell, trying to stay clear of the bugs. In spite of Dan’s bizarre disappearance, they are still enjoying the beauty of the day. Some of the Scouts pass time by casting lures into the blue waters. They are certain at any moment Dan will come traipsing over the portage, and they will scoot onto Bell and find somewhere to lunch.

  But after almost an hour there is no word from the other side, and still no sign of Dan.

  Tim sends Matt back across the portage to find out what’s keeping the others. In fifteen minutes Matt returns and says Dan still hasn’t shown up, that they will wait a little longer, that Mr. Wills says they should hold tight.

  Tim sighs, annoyed by the temporary inconvenience. He still feels certain Dan is finding his way through the woods, and it will only be a matter of time before he appears on Bell’s thickly wooded shoreline, somewhere down along south of them, he guesses. He and his son Shawn get into a canoe and paddle along Bell’s southern shoreline. They whistle and call, hoping Dan will hear them. They skirt the shoreline a hundred yards before turning and starting back.

  For the first hour Jerry Wills and Justin waited near the edge of the trees, occasionally calling, trying to rest in the mid-day sun. After a while, they decide to explore the dark grove of cedars, bend into the narrow shadows, yelling Dan’s name. But there is nothing. A little later, they push twenty yards into the cedars, well out of view of the shoreline. But the air is thick and heavy, and in seconds they are surrounded by a pestilential storm. That, and the unusual darkness of the swamp, drives them back to the lake.

  They continue calling. For more than an hour they stay near the shore, their shouts and whistle blows periodically breaking the afternoon’s light breeze. But there is no sign of Dan Stephens. No answer. He has walked into the woods and disappeared.

  Matt returns from over the portage, and now the two young Scouts suggest they hike in farther. But Jerry Wills reasons that if their inimitable Georgian guide walked just one minute into those woods and got lost, or worse—attacked by a bear, cougar, or wolves—their own chances of survival are slim.

  In the end he decides to venture in far enough to retrieve Dan’s canoe. He pushes in a wide semicircle, branching out from the point of Dan’s departure, making a deeper and deeper sweep through the trees. He calls back to Matt and Justin near the shoreline, making sure he remains within earshot, careful to keep that connection between them. First his circle arches ten yards. Then he doubles back deeper. Finally, about forty yards into the woods, he sees the pointed stern of Dan’s canoe hanging out of cedar boughs like a shining silver star.

  Finding Dan’s canoe heartens Jerry. Dan’s gear tub rests on the ground beneath his canoe. It is a plastic tub in which Dan keeps his food, clothes, down bag, journal—everything but the tent, which is shared with others in the group.

  Jerry Wills calls out for Dan, but again there is no response. The bugs are swarming. He looks up at the canoe and knows he is going to need help getting it down. He calls to the tallest Scout to follow his voice in, and together they pull the canoe out of the branches, gather Dan’s plastic gear tub, and return to the shoreline.

  “He’s got to be near Bell,” Jerry thinks, out loud. It is a sentiment the others share. They decide to paddle to the portage and cross over.

  About the time Jerry and his two Scouts come over the portage, Tim and Shawn are returning from their fourth paddle down the Bell Lake shoreline. There has been no sign of Dan.

  There is a touch of worry, maybe even apprehension, in the quiet way Mr. Wills and Mr. Jones bend over the map. They note where Dan went into the woods. It is an area where the two shorelines curve away from each other. Due south of his entry point there is nothing but woods and marsh. But they know Dan Stephens wouldn’t hike south. If he did, losing the sun in the understory, he could easily correct his direction as soon as he found some open space among the trees.

  But even if Dan took a rounded course through the trees, he should have appeared somewhere along the Bell Lake shoreline.

  By now the afternoon is getting on. The two fathers peer at the map, trying to figure out their next move. The unwritten rule in the Quetico is to locate and claim a campsite by 4:00 PM. It is not always observed, but under the circumstances both fathers believe their troop could use a break. They still haven’t eaten, and it’s late enough to settle down for the day, find someplace close where they can keep an eye out for Dan—when he finally comes crashing through those trees. Then if they have to return and continue searching, there will still be plenty of daylight.

  They peer at the map. Bell is a beautiful, long, clear stretch of water. Solid red dots indicate campsites. According to the map, midway down Bell’s northwestern shoreline there should be a space among the trees. They are not quite at a vantage point where they can see it, but it should be a relatively short paddle.

  The fathers decide to ferry their Scouts and supplies to the mid-lake site, set up camp, have an early dinner—everyone is starving—and if Dan still hasn’t appeared, Jerry and a couple of the other Scouts will return and look for him.

  They are all still certain of Dan’s eventual reappearance. For now it is a momentary glitch in an otherwise remarkable trip. But as the Scouts and fathers cross Bell Lake in the afternoon sun, they wonder what happened to their guide.

  BUSHWHACKING

  Thought can also intrude when you’re walking in the woods. Say you’re walking through a tamarack bog, sphagnum moss at your feet, a trail cutting through it. . . .

  You’re hiking through this forest at a leisurely pace. But ten or fifteen minutes later, you realize that the forest has changed. Now you’re in an upland forest of ash, oak, and hickory. . . .

  You look back down the trail. You don’t see any conifers. You didn’t notice the change. You realize you were talking to yourself about something, thinking about something. And you can’t remember what it was you were talking or thinking about.

  PAUL REZENDES

  The Wild Within: Adventures in Nature and Animal Teachings

  5

  First Camp

  The trail toward Lake Insula, BWCAW, late afternoon, October 22, 2001

  For the next hour, Jason Rasmussen hikes the old trail moving north toward Lake Insula. The sky has turned overcast. He still has plenty of light, but the sun is hidden beneath cloud cover. He walks almost due north, believing he’s heading to the northwest, about to encounter the Pose Lake spur and its campsite. Around five o’clock he starts searching for the site. The path narrows to an overgrown game trail, sometimes indiscernible through the trees. After a few paces it reappears, and he keeps to it, searching for the spur.

  Finally tired, ready to set up camp, Jason decides he’s close enough, and starts searching for the first suitable place to pitch his tent. To the side of the overgrown trail he notices a small opening in the trees, with an old fire ring beside it. A few paces ahead the site runs down into a narrow bog. He sees patches of water along the bog’s surface, some of it creek-like, though it appears still in the
dusk. According to the Hiking Minnesota map the campsite should be overlooking Pose Lake. Clearly, this isn’t a lake.

  Actually, it is Ahmoo Creek. At this juncture, the creek is a faint seepage through a low spit of land. Further upstream it is wide and clear, a geographic anomaly that might convince you to take a second, closer look at your map. But here it doesn’t look to be much more than the back reaches of another dammed-up beaver pond. And Jason is weary. Thankful for the old campsite—which indicates he is still on the trail—he sets down his pack.

  His back feels sore, but good. Where the padded straps rode across his shoulders he feels a pleasant, muscular tension. Relieved of the heavy pack he suddenly feels light, with more than enough energy to set up camp. He finds a wide, flat space just big enough for his tent. He crosses it, checking for low spots, root spurs, or rocks. He finds a couple of small, knobby rocks and kicks them aside, smoothing the ground in preparation for his tent. Then he unpacks, spreads the tent across the groomed surface, extends and inserts the interlocking poles.

  It feels good to be setting up camp. He marvels at his shelter’s simple design. There are no difficult stakes, no directions to pore over. There are only so many ways you can extend and insert the poles. He settles the bright orange tent fly over the top of the tent, fastening its edges to the main poles. Throughout the afternoon the sky has thickened, and now there’s a chance of rain. He is glad to have the fly—something that will keep him dry and warm. As he steps away, the tent looks taut and open. He has to tie out its sides with some green and red nylon twine. Now it looks ready for habitation.

  Jason forages the nearby woods for firewood. He has brought a small portable saw he uses to size down good chunks of dead wood. It takes less than twenty minutes to stack a reasonable pile of seasoned kindling near the old fire pit. It is starting to get dark.

  Jason returns to his pack. He’s hungry. He extracts the WhisperLite cook stove and one bottle of white gas. He should have plenty of stove gas for his brief three nights in the woods, but he still wants to be careful in its use. He unpacks everything and sets up his camp pot with water so once the stove flame is lit he can balance it on the delicate tripod. He finds a perfect, flat stone on which to place the stove. Then he pumps the gas bottle, letting a little gas out into the collection ring beneath the burner. He builds up pressure before he lights it. There is a whoosh as the highly combustible gas ignites and burns. He turns the release valve, letting out the pressurized gas until he hears the blue flame hiss and take hold.

  While his water heats, he gathers dead grass and leaves from the edge of his campsite. He places them in the bottom of his fire pit. Then he lays small twigs and branches on top, leaving plenty of air to let the fire breathe. It takes only one click of his parents’ charcoal lighter. When the flame is thick and rising, he lays on larger sticks.

  The fire is warm in the gloaming. It brings a satisfying crackly light to the end of the day. He feeds the yellow flame with larger pieces of wood.

  The sky darkens. Since it is overcast, it is difficult to pinpoint the exact location of the setting sun. Besides, Jason is too busy over his stove. He waits until the water starts to bubble, then pours in the freeze-dried sweet-and-sour chicken—one of his favorites.

  He waits, watching it steam and bubble, stirring the glutinous mass with his fork. The smell is intoxicating. He stirs and lifts the fork out, careful to bring up some of the mixture on his tines, watching it steam. He blows on it, but cannot help himself. Before it is completely cooled he sticks the hot fork into his mouth.

  “Chrise,” he says, his tongue stinging from the heat. “Jesus Chrise.” But the tang of the sauce and the bit of not completely hydrated chicken tastes better than he expected. His mouth waters.

  After dinner and cleanup he adds more logs to his fire. Then he hoists his supplies over a nearby tree branch, well off the ground and out of reach of whatever critters might happen upon them. Probably raccoon, this time of year. But he guesses bears might still be roaming the fall woods. Bears would be attracted to the aroma of sweet-and-sour chicken.

  Then he recalls the patches of snow on the ground. He cannot remember, but he thinks he has read somewhere that bears are usually in their dens by late October. Anyway, he is willing to tell himself the recollection is fact—he will sleep better tonight, and he’s tired.

  He tries to remember a time he has felt so satisfied. He recalls a line from a Robert Frost poem: “These woods are lovely, dark and deep.”

  He tries to resurrect the rest of the poem, but can only recall fragments: “to stop without a farmhouse near . . . the darkest evening of the year.” And then he recalls the last two lines:

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  He looks around. It is almost dark. He feeds the rest of his pile of logs into the fire and watches as they catch and burn, sending the blaze higher. He stares at his watch, barely able to read its face in the firelight. He reaches up, pressing its Indiglo button, and the watch face comes alive. It is almost 8:00 PM. He cannot remember being this tired, and he knows he is going to sleep well.

  He notices a slight breeze high up in the branches. He wonders if it presages rain. Otherwise he is completely without worry, happy to be here, warmed by his fire, just about ready to turn in. Finally, he stands up and walks over to the edge of the brush. He pees on the lower boughs of a young black spruce. The acrid odor of the urine-drenched tree drifts up, wafts away from his tent.

  Within fifteen minutes he is tucked into the warm cocoon of his down bag. It is cold at first. Now his body warms its new environs. He marvels at the beauty of deep woods. Outside, the fire has reached its peak and is starting to diminish. The shadows still dance along the nearer trees and against the green tent opening.

  So far it has been a wonderful journey. He was not able to find the Pose Lake spur and the campsite overlooking the lake, but it must be very close. He suspects he may have passed the spur, continuing to hike west. He is surprised by how thin and barely discernible parts of the trail have been. And there are no markings.

  He has more than enough food. He could live like this for well over a week and not lose a pound. He is warm and dry, and feels secure in the profound quiet, the only sound the slow hiss and crackle of burning wood. He listens, trying to hear something else. The wind soughs through the branches.

  He wonders if others who have come this way have felt this good. It’s the woods. He smiles, recalling Thoreau’s epigraph: it’s “the tonic of the wilderness.” Of course they felt good.

  He is very tired. His lids are closing, and he is nearly asleep.

  Who could have walked through such a day, through these woods, and not felt this good?

  Then he falls asleep.

  6

  The Scream

  Bell Lake environs, Quetico Provincial Park, Wednesday evening, August 5, 1998

  Dan Stephens’s eyes flicker. His head throbs, but a wave of nausea sends him back to unconsciousness. He reawakens, tries to sit up. For several minutes the pain forces him prone.

  He is jammed into a low wedge of rocks. When he opens his eyes, he sees a huge boulder towering over him. The sky is clear. He is disoriented, but guesses it is mid-afternoon.

  After several minutes he manages to sit upright. A second wave of nausea sweeps over his stomach and chest. He rests on his elbow, waiting for the sickness to subside. His head throbs. There is a dull ringing in his ears. Everything sounds muted and muffled. When he touches his head, he feels a lump the size of a loon’s egg.

  He must have fallen and struck the rock. He is uncertain of his whereabouts. He recalls his Tennessee friends, but he is unclear about his location, where they are, where he was headed, or what happened.

  From under a thick fog, reason struggles to reassert itself. He calls, but the meager vocalization
only intensifies his head-throbbing. And there is no response. Dan struggles out of his low clutch of rocks. He leans against a large boulder, uncertain and disoriented, trying to get hold of himself. Even if he was clear about the purpose of his search, its timing and direction, a return to the shoreline would reveal nothing but tracks. His troop is over a mile away, searching for the campsite on Bell Lake. But he is far from lucid, and his perspective is muddled.

  When his head pain subsides he remembers the cloverleaf pattern he uses to locate portage trails. He is thinking clearly enough to recall a simple modification. He can launch out and make a large wheel pattern through the trees, look for his friends. He will walk straight in one direction for a minute. He has his watch. He will find a marker and then walk out from that position until he recovers his friends and their supplies, or stumbles across a familiar trail or lake.

  He feels lightheaded, almost drunk. But there is none of the pleasant feeling of inebriation. Instead he feels temporary fits of clarity bounded by long lapses in judgment. He has persistent nausea and a jackhammer head.

  He starts pushing through the trees. The trees give way to low brush and boggy marsh. He stumbles through the marsh, recovering his legs, and manages a relatively straight path for almost fifteen seconds. Unfortunately, he moves away from the lake, almost due south, deeper into the brush, in the exact opposite direction from no-name lake, its shoreline, and his Chattanooga friends.

  He tries to stay focused, but his peripheral vision picks up a spot of yellow in a patch of sunlight. He is drawn to its vibrant color. It is a wild black-eyed Susan, unusual for these woods. He leans over to consider it. He is struck by its symmetry and design. He pauses, kneels to take a closer look. It might be good to rest a minute. He feels dizzy, his stomach roiling.