A day later, as the balloonists and the trading post men sat around the fire talking, the big wooden door opened and Erland Vincent came in with his team of Cree.
“Sorry, we did not find your balloon,” said Vincent.
“It was near a house,” said Kloor. “If that’s helpful.”
Vincent laughed. “There is no house in that area,” he said. “What you saw, I’m afraid, was probably a haystack.”
Kloor gulped. The hope of finding the house had kept the men alive. And now it had never existed at all.
Vincent continued, “But the barking dog you heard was there—a husky actually. It was caught in a beaver trap. We let it go and it came back with us.”
“Well then,” said Farrell, with good cheer. “Your search party wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
During the next several days, as Farrell slowly recuperated, Kloor and Hinton enjoyed the simple pleasures of the trading post. They played cards and dominoes with the men at the post, read books, and collaborated on a written account of their ordeal. When Farrell was better, they shared the written account with him.
The next day, the men celebrated Christmas with the Cree and the trading post workers. Each man was given a gift from the trading post Christmas tree. Farrell got a bag full of candy that he vowed not to eat, but would bring back to his sick daughter Emily. Rackham dressed up as Santa Claus in his fur-trimmed overcoat and sealskin boots. Kloor, Hinton, and Farrell combed out strands of rope to make a bigger set of whiskers for him to wear over his beard.
One afternoon before they departed from the post, Kloor wrote a letter to his father. He apologized for causing him worry and pain about his disappearance, but added, “If you can realize how near we were to death and how miraculously we were snatched from death, you would forgive all.”
But, as the men were about to find out, their ordeal was not over yet. When they were strong enough, they would have to travel another 180 miles south through the wilderness on dogsleds to reach the tiny town of Mattice, where the nearest railroad station was located.
This final leg of their journey would prove as challenging as anything they had already experienced.
* * *
THE HUDSON’S BAY COMPANY
The Hudson’s Bay Company, founded in 1670, is the oldest continuously operating commercial venture in North America. Two young French traders in Canada, then the French colony of New France, came up with the idea of a business dealing in animal pelts. When the governor of New France turned down their proposal, the traders took their idea to the English, who were interested. In 1677, Prince Rupert, the cousin of King Charles II of England, took control of the project and granted the company a charter (a written contract to do business).
The Hudson’s Bay Company established itself in the vast region surrounding the body of water it was named for. The company built trading posts and forts throughout the region where anyone— native people and Europeans—could come to trade their animal pelts for guns, knives, and other manufactured goods. The pelts were then shipped to England, where they were used to adorn expensive hats and clothing.
Competition from other fur traders led the company to expand across Canada. By the 1800s, the demand for furs lessened and the company turned its attention to a thriving wholesale business, featuring liquor, canned salmon, coffee, tea, and tobacco.
* * *
Chapter Nine
The Last Leg
Kloor, Farrell, and Hinton left Moose Factory for Mattice on December 28, fourteen days after crashing into the wilderness. But this time they would not be traveling alone. A team of Cree men accompanied them with two sleds, each pulled by four husky dogs. Farrell, whose feet had not fully recovered from frostbite, rode in one of the sleds. Kloor and Hinton, who had been practicing snowshoeing for eleven days at the trading post, were ready to try out their new skill. The men had insulated clothing, a good supply of moose meat for food, and sturdy tents to keep them warm at night.
But despite these supplies, it was a grueling trek. All their practice did not make Kloor and Hinton any more adept at snowshoeing than when they started. They felt clumsy and uncoordinated, and within a short time, they were completely exhausted. The snowshoes felt like heavy weights on their feet. Each step became a mighty effort. Hinton suffered from a stinging attack on the nerves in his legs called mal de racquet by the French Canadians. He managed to tie a piece of rope to the back of each snowshoe and lift it at each step with his hands to help relieve the pain. But there was no relief for their aching legs when, at the end of each day’s journey, they had to climb the steep bank of the river they followed to make camp for the night.
After a few days, they ran into their first blizzard. Fat flakes fell like confetti from a white sky, driven into their faces by blasting wind. Visibility fell to near zero and they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces, let alone the trail ahead. At times Hinton and Kloor would cry out to one another or to Farrell on the sled and follow the answering voices to find their way back to the others.
A couple of times, one of them wandered blindly away from the main party and would have been lost in the blizzard if not for one of their Cree companions, who found the lost man, took him by the hand, and brought him back to the trail. One morning the snow was falling so thickly that they had to give up after just one hour and set up camp again. They had no sooner struggled through one blizzard when they ran headlong into a second . . . and then a third, all within the first week.
But the snow wasn’t all they had to deal with. Temperatures reached as low as –30 degrees Fahrenheit. The men kept nearly every inch of their bodies covered with clothing, gloves, and hats to prevent frostbite. But their noses remained exposed and became frostbitten. It got so cold at times that moisture from their breath froze to their eyelids. The thongs that bound Kloor’s and Hinton’s snowshoes to their ankles froze and shortened, causing their feet to cramp and blister.
As terrible as the blizzard conditions were, the men could be grateful for one thing. They hadn’t had to face the driving snow when they were on their own after the balloon crash. If they had wandered into a blizzard, they probably never would have found the sled tracks. Never run into Tom Marks. Never made it to the trading post. They would have died alone in the wilderness.
Their current path was mostly unbroken and covered in frozen snow. Kloor and Hinton had to take their turns going ahead of the dogs to tramp it down at best they could. In some spots the trail was thick with slush and it caked on their snowshoes, making them heavier than ever. At times the two men had to stop and clean off the slush with hands trembling from the freezing cold.
“This is hopeless,” muttered Hinton to Kloor, struggling to be heard above the shrieking wind. “We can’t go on like this.”
“I know,” said Kloor. “We’ll never make it this way.”
One of the Cree, running alongside them, saw their predicament and knew they had had enough. He motioned to the second sled, behind the one that Farrell rode in. “Get in,” he said. “Let the dogs do the work.”
Kloor feared their weight would be too much for the dogs to pull, but the Cree insisted. So the two men hopped onto the sled and removed the snowshoes from their feet.
“Thank God,” said Hinton. “I couldn’t have gone another fifty yards with those things on my feet. It’s torture.”
“Yes,” agreed Kloor. “Now we can sit back and enjoy the ride.”
But their enjoyment didn’t last long. The sled began to slow down and the dogs seemed to be struggling. “I knew we were too much weight for the sled,” said Kloor.
“No,” said the Cree who ran alongside the sled. “It’s not you. The ice is freezing on the sled’s runners. That’s what’s slowing us down.” He called to two of his companions and the three of them got behind the sled and pushed to help the dogs. Three other Cree did the same on the other sled, which carried Farrell.
Kloor and Hinton were grateful to the Cree for their experience, fo
rtitude, and goodwill in such difficult conditions. But by the end of the next day, it was clear that the strain of the journey was taking its toll on everyone. The Cree men were huffing and puffing and slowing their pace in the face of the unrelenting snow and cold. During a rest stop, Kloor and Hinton saw the Cree leader say something to one of his companions. Then this man and a second man started running back down the trail toward Moose Factory.
Hinton exchanged tense looks with Kloor. What was happening? Were their guides giving up and abandoning them in the wilderness? Hinton felt he had to know the truth one way or the other.
“Why are they going back?” he asked the Cree leader.
The Cree’s face broke into a wide, reassuring grin. “To get fresh dogs,” he replied. “We’ll never make it to Mattice with these poor huskies. They need a rest. Just like we do.” Kloor and Hinton breathed a collective sigh of relief. Without these resourceful men, they would have no hope of ever making it to Mattice.
* * *
DOGSLEDDING
Dogsleds had been a main means of transportation and communication in the Far North for a thousand years before Kloor and his companions used them to travel to Mattice. Native peoples like the Inuit were the first to use dogs to pull sleds across the frozen wasteland. The Russian explorers and traders who came to Alaska in the 1700s paired the dogs side by side and added a lead dog who would carry out the human sled driver’s commands. Since then, dogsleds have been the main means of carrying everything from firewood to mail in remote places where there are no roads. Alaskan huskies are the primary breed trained as sled dogs, and their strength, determination, and courage is legendary. Probably the most famous sled dog is Balto. In 1925, serum from Seattle, Washington, was desperately needed to end a diphtheria outbreak in Nome, Alaska. Twenty teams of sled dogs carried the medicine 674 miles (1,085 km) over six days to Nome. Balto led the dogs in the last leg of the difficult trek. A statue of Balto stands on a rock in New York’s Central Park. In 1995 an animated movie about the thrilling rescue, Balto, was released.
* * *
On a frigid January day, Kloor noted his twenty-third birthday. When they made camp for the night, despite the bitter conditions, the Cree managed to bake a small cake out of flour and eggs. Hinton found a nub of a wax candle, stuck it in the cake, and lit the candle with his last match. They all sang “Happy Birthday” in a ragged chorus and drank cups of hot tea. Tears fell from Kloor’s eyes.
“A birthday’s nothing to be sad about, Kid,” said Farrell.
“I was just thinking how close I’ve come in the last few weeks to not making it to twenty-three,” Kloor said, his voice growing hoarse.
Hinton patted him on the shoulder. “Make a wish and blow out the candle,” he said.
Kloor did. No one asked what he wished for. They all knew it could be only one thing—to reach Mattice alive. Then they all devoured the cake.
Farrell, still hungry, eyed the candy in his Christmas bag.
“Go ahead and eat one,” said Hinton.
“No,” said Farrell. “They’re for Sis. I won’t touch them.” He fingered the tiny British flag, another memento in the bag for his sick daughter, and then closed it. He had made his own wish that night—that Sis would have fully recovered from the scarlet fever.
Kloor’s wish, at least, came true. On January 11, 1921, after fifteen days on the trail, the small party straggled into Mattice.
Although the three lost balloonists didn’t know it, their disappearance had caused a major stir back in the States. The fact that Hinton was a celebrated pilot from his transatlantic flight a few years earlier drew the nation’s attention. Newspapers around the nation took notice of the missing balloon. The Rockaway Air Station had received word that the men and balloon had been seen flying over Wells, New York, on the evening of December 13. Naval officials at the station held out hope that the balloon had come down in an isolated region and that the men were alive. Their worst fears were that the balloon had been caught in a tree and that the men were unable to get down from it. The navy sent messages to its ships and naval stations to be on the lookout for the missing men. Army planes flew daily out of Albany searching for them in the Adirondacks.
Now word of their miraculous rescue in Canada had reached Mattice. The tiny community was overflowing with reporters, photographers, and newsreel cameramen from the United States and Canada. They were all eager to see the three men and interview them about their adventure.
The navy had issued an order that the three men were to share no details about their experience publicly until they had handed in an official report. This didn’t deter the reporters, though, who swarmed each member of the party as he came in.
Kloor arrived in town first, at about two fifteen p.m. His first words to the reporters who met him were “I feel fine. We’re all right. All I ask is that I get to a fire.” He was soon followed by Hinton. Farrell, well behind them, didn’t get in for another half hour. And that was what quickly led to trouble.
Chapter Ten
A Falling-Out
Navy officials hustled Kloor and Hinton into a private railcar belonging to the superintendent of the Canadian National Railway. Here they could be interviewed about their experiences before talking to the press. Farrell, however, was waylaid by reporters who whisked him into the cabin of the local Hudson’s Bay Company’s clerk with the promise of hot tea and a meal. They told Farrell that they already knew about some of their ordeal from letters Hinton had written to his wife from Moose Factory. They had been published in the newspaper the New York World.
Farrell couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had been Hinton who suggested they work together on their story. But he had gone back on his promise and shared details of their adventure with his wife and the media. Even worse, the reporters informed him that in his letters, Hinton had portrayed Farrell in a bad light. He shared details about Farrell’s inability to go on and his wanting the other two to leave him behind. Upset, exhausted, and confused, Farrell began to tell his version of their ordeal to the reporters. He was almost finished when Hinton entered the cabin. Hinton looked around at the eager faces of the reporters and at Farrell and knew at once what was happening.
“Come on, Steve,” he said. “You need to come with me. The navy has a nice lunch waiting for us in a railcar. Let’s go.”
Farrell didn’t move. He simply glared at Hinton, his eyes on fire.
“Get out, you rat!” Farrell cried.
Hinton ignored his outburst. He drew closer to Farrell and spoke in a low voice. “These men are taking down every word you say and it will all be printed,” he said.
“Get away from me, you double-crosser!” said Farrell. “I know why you don’t want me to speak to them.”
Hinton put a hand on Farrell’s shoulder and Farrell pushed it away. Then Farrell pulled back one arm and shot his fist out, hitting Hinton on the jaw. The reporters gasped as Hinton fell to the floor. He lay there for a few seconds, in a daze. Several reporters grabbed Farrell to prevent him from attacking Hinton again. Others urged Hinton to leave to avoid further trouble. Hinton got to his feet, looked at his old friend, and left without uttering another word.
Kloor could see something was very wrong as soon as Hinton returned to the railroad car.
“It’s finished,” said Hinton.
“What?” asked Kloor, speaking in a whisper so the navy officials present wouldn’t hear.
“Steve’s spilled the beans,” replied Hinton. “He’s told the reporters all about what happened. Good luck trying to sell our written account now.”
One of the naval officers stepped up to them. “Where is Lieutenant Farrell?” he asked. “We don’t want to start lunch without him.”
Hinton was about to make an excuse for Farrell’s absence when the door opened and Farrell walked in. He apologized for keeping them waiting and shook hands with Kloor, but refused to even look at Hinton.
The lunch was a tense affair for the three men. Kloor sat b
etween Farrell and Hinton, which kept the peace, but once they left the railcar, the arguing continued.
“He betrayed us,” said Farrell to Kloor. “You should be as angry at him as I am.”
“Maybe I did say too much to my wife,” admitted Hinton. “But I definitely told her not to say anything to the newspapers. She did that on her own.”
Farrell wasn’t satisfied. “Then what about those things you said about me—that I didn’t want to go on, that I gave up. That I wanted you to leave me behind.”
Hinton and Kloor exchanged knowing looks. They both knew the truth, a truth that Farrell would prefer not to remember. But Hinton knew he had to make peace with his colleague, especially with the whole world watching.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” he said. “I exaggerated what happened. I didn’t mean to make you look bad. And everything I said in that letter I said in confidence.”
“And now it’s splashed across the front page of the New York World,” insisted Farrell. “You’ve ruined my good name! That’s what you’ve done!”
“Look, both of you,” said Kloor, playing the mediator, “it’s not too late to set things straight. We’ve got to face those reporters again before we catch the train for Toronto in the morning. Let’s patch things up right now by shaking hands.”
The two men eyed each other cautiously. Then Hinton reached out a hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Farrell did the same.
The next evening the three men met reporters before catching the train for Toronto. Kloor read a prepared statement, explaining that the quarrel between Hinton and Farrell was “the outcome of overwrought minds brought on by the hardships and grueling struggles that had to be endured on the trip over the trail to Mattice . . . Such petty quarrels as may have occurred will not lessen our affection for one another.” For his part, Hinton admitted that he had exaggerated his descriptions of Farrell in his letters to his wife.
Survival in the Wilderness Page 4
