Lost in the Wild

by Cary Griffith

  After dark, up in the trailhead parking lot, the place is empty—except for Jason’s patient Saturn, still sitting, waiting in the cold and dark.

  After a late supper, BJ Kohlstedt is restless, unable to go to bed—though she is exhausted from the day’s search. She is nagged by a recollection from her recent search management class about statistics on lost people. People with Jason’s experience, fitness level, and background almost never get lost because they fall and hurt themselves. They are too fit. It makes her suspect he may still be out there. Statistically, the Jasons of the world lose themselves by taking a wrong turn and continuing in error. Widen the search area? Reconsider the maps, looking for obvious points to go astray? Finally, she phones Pete Walsh, the current captain of Finland Search and Rescue.

  Coincidentally, this weekend—October 27–28—is one of two weekends a year Pete is required to work. Usually he is laboring Monday through Friday, helping maintain Lutsen Resort. “The oldest resort in Minnesota,” he claims. He has been around long enough so no one questions the assertion.

  Pete was one of Finland Search & Rescue’s charter members. Twenty-five years ago he helped formalize the volunteer squad, and over the years he has spent as much time fund raising and investing in the squad’s equipment as he has in the field. It was he and some fellow volunteers who gutted and refurbished the old emergency vehicle, setting it up with communications equipment, a table, a bunk, and other necessary supplies. It is old, but operational—and just one of the efforts that gives him pride.

  This evening he is just about ready to turn in from a long work weekend at the resort when the phone interrupts him. It is BJ, one of his favorite volunteers. He has heard about a search for someone up on the Pow Wow. Although he has lived on the North Shore his entire life, he’s not that familiar with the old Forest Center or the trails thereabouts.

  “Any luck?” he wonders.

  “Not yet,” BJ says. “They’ve called off the ground search, at least for now.”

  BJ spends a few minutes explaining what they’ve done, bringing him up to date. Then she starts talking about statistics. She explains that she would like to re-open the ground search. She has some ideas, and she thinks this might be a good place to search with dogs. They can call in dogs from Central Lakes and other dog squads around the state. Since Two Harbors has gone back to their garage, the Finland squad could take the lead. She knows Pete worked the weekend and has Monday and Tuesday off. Pete’s fresh. He hasn’t yet set foot in the woods, so he’s an easy sell.

  “Call Van Kekerix and make sure he’s okay with it,” Walsh suggests—though he already knows Steve’s answer. “Make sure dispatch sends out another call for volunteers to meet us there at first light. Just to be sure, I’ll make some calls tonight.”

  Pete Walsh has a list of friends almost as thick as the Finland phone book. And those he doesn’t know personally are at the very least friends of friends, friends of relatives, or relatives of friends.

  This evening, before he turns in and settles down to sleep, Pete Walsh has wrung agreements out of several searchers. They’ll meet him at first light, up in the trailhead parking lot. Some from Finland, Captain Swede Larson and four others from the Silver Bay Squad, and still others coming in from Two Harbors. With any luck they’ll snag a couple of DNR conservation officers—Kipp Duncan out of Two Harbors and Marty Stage out of Babbitt. He’s got a good crew for the morning. Before he turns off his light, he sets his alarm.

  Back at home BJ starts to re-examine all the maps. Van Kekerix thought her idea was excellent, and he asked dispatch to put out another call for volunteers. He also told her to call out the dogs—literally. She would have her people and their dogs’ superb noses. He’d be up, too, later in the morning, when he could spare the time.

  Before Steve Van Kekerix turns in for the evening, he makes a late-night call to the Rasmussens. They’re up. He knew they would be. He tells them the search is starting afresh, and this time they are bringing in dogs. They will find him, he reassures them. He hopes it won’t be recovery, but that’s a thought he keeps to himself. Some of these dogs are trained to smell death. He only tells the Rasmussens about the ones who are trained to find Jason alive.

  Back in bed, before BJ drops off to sleep, she thinks she has an idea of where else to search. And there will be dogs, she knows. The dogs are coming.

  18

  Bushwhacking the Quetico Woods

  Quetico Provincial Park, Thursday, August 7, 1998

  Every hour and a half Dan Stephens checks his watch, stopping to drink water, rest, and reevaluate his position. At his first stop he stumbles across a patch of arrowroot. Its large spiked leaves flow down to the water’s edge.

  He grabs one of the plants by the base of its stem and pulls it up, as though he’s harvesting radishes. He cuts off the bottom white root, discards the leaves, and swishes the root in water, cleaning off dirt. It looks like a small white carrot. He recollects the taste of a carrot, its gritty sweetness. He hopes the arrowroot measures up.

  He snaps it in half, places the small half in his mouth, and starts chewing. There is an immediate taste of bitterness. He is hungry and hopes it will pass, but after a couple more chews the bitterness intensifies, like the taste of hard, black rubber, and he spits it across the water. He cannot believe people eat this. He wonders if he made a mistake, but the long spiked leaves, wide like arrowheads, reaffirm his choice.

  He is still spitting, trying to get the taste of acrid rubber out of his mouth. He takes a drink of water and swishes. He spits, but the taste has penetrated the inner lining of his mouth. He drinks again, swishes, but the rinse does little to diminish the awful bitterness. He knows some plants are edible at different times of the year. Maybe in the spring, he thinks. He suspects he tried arrowroot at its worst time.

  Throughout the day Stephens pushes his way south in a near-straight line. He uses a navigational technique he recollects from scouting texts: the two-stick method. He finds a straight stick, plants it in the ground so that it points directly into the sun without casting a shadow. Then he waits twenty minutes for the sun to shift. The shadow the stick casts from the sun’s movement points due east. He uses another stick, laying it perpendicular to the shadow, marking the direction south. He takes his bearings along a long line southward, whenever possible marking them against a distant landmark—a crest of hill, or a towering white pine—and then keeps walking, keeping his navigable landmark in sight.

  All morning he repeats the two-stick method. Whenever possible, he hikes the ridges, walking along the rocky outcrops until he is forced to leave them and turn south. Then he crosses another valley of bogs and thick brush. The sharp trees and brush cut his legs. He struggles to make the next ridge, following it south as long as it holds, then repeating his boggy amble.

  Twice he hears a plane in the distance. He suspects they are looking for him. Once in mid-morning a helicopter thunders by within eyeshot. He is on a slightly forested hillside, heading down to cross another section of swamp. He jumps and shouts, waving his arms and his long walking stick in the air. But Dan knows that even if they were right on top of him, he would be difficult to see. It would be better if he were in the middle of the lowland in front of him. But even there the brush is too high and overgrown. His efforts to alert the aircraft are futile, and he reaffirms his belief that the only way out is to continue hiking south.

  He maintains his direction. Now that he has recovered his clarity, his will, he doesn’t make mistakes. He is familiar with the rule of dominant handedness. His right side has always been stronger than his left. He knows how to compensate. He is careful to stop every ninety minutes to take a drink and recheck his position.

  By this reckoning he crosses more lowland swamp and intermittent ridges, trying to keep to the high points, only walking down into the thick brush long enough to make the next ridge.


  By late afternoon he is satisfied with his progress, knows he must find someplace to bed down for the night. The next ridge is a clear promontory, better than the previous night’s site. He struggles up the high escarpment. At its top he is rewarded by an old blueberry patch and another widow-maker birch. A handful of succulent fruit clings to a few remaining bushes. He forages the hillside and devours the meager supper. The berries are sweeter than anything he has ever tasted. He lingers over each tiny berry, savoring its flavor, sucking down its sweetness. He reflects on some of his past meals. Nothing, not the finest restaurants he can recall, hold a candle to the tiny blue berries cradled in his fist.

  While the light is still strong he approaches the birch. The tree is huge—one of the largest he has come across. He revels at his good fortune, sinking his knife into the thick trunk. He cuts off three large coils of waterproof bark, repeating the process from the night before. He crosses over the ridge top. The eastern side is clear, a fitting place to reconnoiter and warm himself in tomorrow’s dawn. Now he re-crosses the crest line, finding an open place where the sun’s last rays will warm him. He scours the hillside for broadleaf. In his forage he hasn’t seen any bear scat. He fashions his makeshift shelter and lies down as the evening darkens.

  Back at the OPP base camp the ERT crew settles in for the evening. They built a large fire pit in front of the crowded cedars. The blaze is an excellent way to keep the bugs at bay. Here the trick is to follow the smoke, to stay just to the side of it so the mosquitoes won’t hound or hinder. The men have hats with netting, and someone had the prescience to pack in suitable refreshment. After dining on pork chops they sit back and enjoy the evening.

  The helicopter rests on the makeshift pad. The tents are set up near the fire. They are all tired from the last twenty-four hours. Most of them have made long bushwhacks through the nearby woods. The dogs rest beside the firelight. There is nothing to do but wait for first light.

  The group is hopeful about tomorrow. They’ve already crossed much of the grid, and by the end of tomorrow they suspect they will have their man. In the close darkness they finish their drinks and plot the morning’s efforts. More of them will turn south. Some will cross the lake and hike further north—just in case. Scott Moore and the pilot will rise at first light and fire up the copter, crisscrossing north and south. They are in the right place to be searching. They are confident that if Dan Stephens is still alive, they will find him.

  In the waning hours of the day Sergeant Lacey makes one last call to Jim and Mary Ann Stephens. Lacey has been true to her word, periodically phoning Dan’s parents with updates. She tells them not to worry, to try to get some sleep. The OPP is on it. They have plenty of men, dogs, and supplies. They are going to find their son. Tomorrow, she says. Tomorrow she is certain their boy will be found.

  Back at the Prairie Portage station, Cathy Antle and Carrie Frechette have been busy with the day’s travelers. They waited until Jerry Wills returned from his copter ride. He informed them about the ERT and the swarm of constables searching the bush. He was hopeful about their search, increasingly confident that his and Tim Jones’s decision to paddle for help had been a good one.

  Tomorrow is Cathy Antle’s day off. She will make the long trip to Sommers in the morning. Sommers is only twenty miles up the road from Ely, where the Scout group is headed and where she needs to go for some badly needed supplies. She will try to hook up with the fathers then, and give them any news of the search and rescue progress.

  The previous day, Joe Mattson and the chaplain had ferried the boys and canoes back to base camp, speeding down the length of Moose Lake in the only section of the Boundary Waters where motorized vehicles were allowed. The Scouts took over one of the camp’s vacant barracks.

  Now Jerry Wills and Tim Jones take the remaining canoe and paddle the distance down Moose Lake to Sommers. Over supper they are happy to be reunited with their troop. In the evening they bed down in the relative ease of the base barracks. They all turn in early, exhausted from their ordeal. Before bed they gather inside the small room, where Jerry Wills leads them in a prayer for their guide, entreating God for his safe passage.

  In the night, on his remote escarpment, Dan Stephens drifts into a troubled sleep. The map dream reappears to him. The familiar yellow-and-blue chart is spread out before him. He searches for the dot signifying “you are here.” But across the wide table he can find nothing. He recollects the northwest-southeast drainage he is traversing, determines—in his dream—to remember the message. And then he slips into a shallow and fitful sleep.

  FOUND

  I had stopped at night, and being unable to make a camp, or kindle a fire, I was endeavoring to reconcile myself to the immediate approach of death which I thought inevitable, when these people unexpectedly found me, and helped me to return to camp.

  JOHN TANNER

  A Narrative of the Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner

  A great thirst is a great joy when quenched in time.

  EDWARD ABBEY

  Desert Solitaire

  19

  Searchers Find a Clue

  Pow Wow Trail region, BWCAW, Monday, October 29, 2001

  By 9:30 am, BJ Kohlstedt is on the phone to the Search and Rescue Dog Associations (SARDA). Central Lakes Search and Rescue, the dog group BJ met in her October seminar, is one group among a half-dozen located throughout the state. None of them resides in Lake County. The call goes out to the network, and several of the statewide groups respond. It will take them time to gear up. According to Carla Leehy at Central Lakes, BJ should expect at least two dog teams, probably more, by 6:00 PM.

  Pete Walsh acts as incident commander, stationed in the Finland Search and Rescue communications vehicle. At times BJ shares the center, or heads out to make another foray into the woods. There are several paired parties making numerous excursions throughout the area—both nearby and much farther up the trail.

  Kipp Duncan and Marty Stage, DNR conservation officers, have both heard the radio chatter and added their own legs to the effort. They are sent off south on the trail, motoring over the old path on ATVs. The airplane is back up. Nick Milkovich and pilot Dean Lee are crisscrossing the region.

  The previous night’s thermal search turned up nothing. The Transportation Department’s chopper pilot assures Van Kekerix that if Jason was alive and giving off heat, breathing, or stumbling through the cold terrain, his heat signature would give off a glow as distinct as a camp lantern. They would have found him. When Van Kekerix makes the call to update the Rasmussens, he leaves out the pilot’s certitude. “If he’s hunkered down in some kind of shelter,” Steve suggests, “he’s probably not giving off much of a thermal signature. At least not something you can easily see from that high.” Before signing off he reminds the Rasmussens the dogs are coming.

  At 11:30 the plane takes a low swing over the northwestern corner of Isabella Lake. Nick Milkovich thinks he sees something. In the warmer weather the heavy accumulation of wet snow has begun to melt so that in patches the ground is now clear. The woods are wet and muddy.

  Milkovich and Lee take another spin over the area and spot a small orange swatch near the lakeshore. It looks like a piece of tent. Jason, they know, had an orange tent fly. They hone in on the coordinates, circling the spot long enough to get firm GPS readings. Then they radio the location to base camp and tell BJ and Pete Walsh they think they have something.

  For three days, an intensive air and ground search has come up empty. Suddenly they may have their first clue. The location doesn’t make any sense, but the orange color draws them like a beacon. Pete and BJ re-route the two conservation officers. They send them north on the ATVs to a close point on the trail. Then the two COs turn into the woods on foot.

  From the air the region looks impenetrable. The simplest approach appears to be by boat. Pete and BJ also dispatch a runabout
. The boat leaves at the same time as the COs. In the wake of excitement generated by their first potential clue, the two teams race toward the orange swatch.

  Down in the Cities, Ken Anderson gets a call. One of the dog teams has asked for his assistance. Ken is president of Emergency Support Services (ESS), a company he established to teach rescue skills to volunteer and civic groups. Because Ken is familiar with search and rescue and knows how to work with dogs, he is more than happy to head north.

  Ken calls his friend Jeff Hasse, another experienced rescue person and dog handler. Jeff works as a paramedic in Chanhassen, but he often goes out with canine units on search and rescue, or recovery. Jeff is president of Midwest Technical Rescue Training Associates (MTRTA), a company he founded to teach rescue skills to groups like Lake County Search and Rescue and the dog teams.

  Over the last few years Ken and Jeff have come to understand and rely on each other’s strengths. Jeff is a paramedic with excellent climbing, field, and communications experience. Ken is a master cartographer with a laptop and a load of radio gear. Together these two have teamed up to work on a variety of searches, with dogs and without, as ground-pounders or in leadership positions.

  Jeff is at work when he gets the call at 1:00 PM. He has to find someone to take his shift, but he’s in. They haven’t been told much about the effort—only that it has been ongoing, and this is the fourth day. Together, they pack their copious gear into the back of Ken’s reinforced pickup. They start out of the Cities around dinnertime, heading north, Ken’s truck riding low from the weight.

  Back near Isabella Lake, the pilots report the orange swatch, and everyone in the field takes a collective breath. Then radio chatter swells to a cacophony. Once the COs and a boat are dispatched, the other ground-pounders continue their current searches, but they keep an inquisitive ear bent toward their radios.