Lost in a Far Country

by Thomas L Daniel

  “Yes, I do. And I have some coins.”

  “Good. You can camp pretty much anywhere. My advice is to pick places up on the rocks a bit. Not right on the water’s edge, in case a wind comes up.”

  “Yeah. You know, I think that I might try to find a nice place close by and just stay put. Day paddle out and around. I’m not going anywhere, after all.”

  “Right. That’s what I like to do when I get a couple of days off. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you to boil lake water before you drink it. Beavers carry some sort of parasite, I guess. But I never do. It’s a big lake with lots of water to dilute down whatever the beavers put in it. And there are bears around. Tie a rope to your food pack, sling the end of the rope over a tree branch, and pull your food up above bear height. That way bears can’t get to it.

  “Okay, now. Get in the canoe and I’ll push you off.”

  Jack took his place on the stern seat, and with a push from Andy he was soon gliding across the water. He turned and waved to Andy, who was heading back to the pick-up. He watched as Andy drove off. He had no intention of seeking a nearby campsite. He was headed out, headed for Minnesota. His map told him that his next destination was a portage at the northwest corner of the open southern half of Northern Lights Lake. Then into a region called the Quetico. He had asked Andy about that name. “Comes from Quebec Timber Company. They owned all this land once, or at least the logging rights.”

  Jack had had little camping experience. Cooking hotdogs on a stick over an open fire essentially defined his outdoorsman skills. He was sure of himself, however, and confident that he could manage for a few days of canoeing and camping. Strong arms and back—he had those. What more could be needed? Anything else, any special camping skills, he could figure out, he was sure. Mostly just common sense anyway.

  Settled in his seat at the stern of the canoe, he put his paddle in the water, turned his canoe into the wind, and headed northwest. It was soon evident to him that canoe paddling took effort. And that paddling into this day’s not inconsequential wind took much effort. At first he changed paddling sides every few strokes to keep the canoe on a more-or-less straight course. Soon he realized that ruddering at the end of each stroke would do the same thing, and do it better. He also realized that paddling a canoe was work, hard work when headed into the wind. But he could handle hard work, he was sure.

  The wind blowing into his face, Jack drove his paddle hard and deep into the water. Leaning forward, he put every muscle of his increasingly weary body into propelling the canoe forward. Forward into the northwest wind. Forward into white-capped waves that seemed to build with every passing, fatiguing minute.

  The wind was his enemy, he decided. At the same time, the bright blue sky and warm sunshine were his friends. It was a lovely north woods day. It was the kind of day north woods vacationers rejoice in. Were it not for the wind, it was the kind of day Jack hoped would follow him in his wilderness voyage through the Quetico. In fact, had he not found himself paddling into it, he would have considered the wind refreshing. A welcome north woods breeze. Puffy white clouds overhead. But the wind, the relentless wind, made the exertion of paddling tough. Very tough, nearly unbearable, he thought for a moment before mustering his self-confidence and cocky self-assurance that he could handle the wind and whatever else the weather might bring.

  Vacationers and fishermen mostly have motorboats, Jack mused. Perhaps he should have rented a motorboat instead of a canoe. But he had portages to cross. And he would soon enter no-motors territory. He would be a voyageur, and his transportation would be this canoe. The voyageurs had sought beaver pelts to be sent to Europe for felt production. He would see beaver, he expected, but not hunt them.

  Off to his right a loon called. Then, after a pause, its mate answered from a bit farther ahead of Jack. Those are the birds Canadians put on their two-dollar coins, Jack mused. Overhead a gull hung on the wind. This was the north woods at its enjoyable best, Jack felt. Except for the wind. He and Andy had stowed his pack and the two Duluth packs with his gear from the outfitter as tightly into the bow of the canoe as they could. Also his fishing tackle. Inexperienced as a fisherman, he assumed he could manage the rod, reel, and lures he had picked up at the outfitters. With luck, he might have fresh fish for dinners. Better than dried food. Having all of his gear in the bow helped to balance the canoe—somewhat. His weight was in the stern, however, and he was heavier than his assembled gear. He would have had no trouble setting and maintaining a course, were it not for the wind.

  His map and compass were spread out before him on the bottom of the canoe where he could see them. They allowed him to choose his course. He picked a tall pine tree on the top of a ridge near where he assumed he would find the portage, and he kept his canoe headed for that tree. At least, he tried his best to do so.

  Jack recalled a session at a Boy Scout camp when he was given tutoring in the use of a map and a compass in the wilderness. He had not paid attention then, and he remembered nothing of it now. But he had no concern. There was a short portage ahead, which he had to find. The shoreline looked unbroken to him, but it was there somewhere. He trusted his map, and he assumed he could find the portage when he reached the end of the lake. He could paddle back and forth along the shore looking for it. However, he was not sanguine about the challenge of getting his gear and canoe across the portage. But the map said it was short. Eleven rods, whatever that meant. He could do it.

  After the portage, he would go on farther, across Northern Lights Lake—Trafalgar Bay, the map named that part of the lake—before again portaging into Saganaga Lake. That would be more difficult, he believed. But he would manage. Perhaps he would camp at the first portage. There should be space for his tent there, he thought. He needed rest. He needed respite from the headwind. Jack thought of himself as fit and strong. He was strong; he was fit. But the unrelenting wind was also strong, a strong opponent.

  The wind strengthened. It caught his hat, lifted it from his head, and sent it sailing across the white-capped water. There was no turning back for the hat, Jack realized. The wind had grown and become more threatening with every passing moment since Andy had helped him into the water. He had eaten some fruit and a candy bar for lunch back at the point where Andy had launched him on his journey. And GORP. Andy had told him that GORP meant “good old raisins and peanuts.” That’s what it was: raisins and peanuts. At Andy’s suggestion, he had purchased some M&Ms and added them to his GORP. And, he had been told, GORP was for snacking, for energy. He needed energy now. Perhaps he should have saved some and not eaten the day’s allotment at lunch. But he could not pause to eat GORP now. Not in this wind.

  There was no turning back safely; in fact, there was no safe turning of any sort. Keeping the canoe’s bow into the wind took all of the strength Jack could muster. Jack was certain that if the wind caught the canoe and turned it broadside, disaster would follow. He would have to keep going without rest to reach the far shore and the portage.

  He might have gotten an earlier start and set out across the open water early before the wind came up. But getting up early was not part of his planned agenda. Nor of Andy’s, he supposed. He was headed home, but there was time—time did not matter at this point—and he saw no reason not to enjoy his trip through the Ontario Quetico and Minnesota Boundary Waters. Enjoyment for him did not include being in a hurry. But in the coming days he would try to get his paddling done early, before the wind came up.

  Stroke after stroke. Ruddering at the end of each stroke to keep the canoe’s bow headed upwind, he paddled. His back and arms ached. He was becoming increasingly concerned that he might not be able to sustain the needed effort long enough to reach the safety of the shore ahead at the first portage.

  A towering escarpment loomed ahead on the shore to his left. It might provide shelter and protection from the wind. Jack decided to try to rest at its base and recover somewhat before pushing on to find a place where he could pull up onto shore. But reaching the escarpment
would be difficult. He would have to turn his canoe toward the shore, letting the wind catch it broadside. Perhaps if he managed to paddle beyond the targeted resting place, he could turn and head back to it. He would need to make the turn quickly, he thought, and hoped he could manage to do so in the wind. He dropped down off the canoe’s seat onto his knees on his life jacket. He could put more of his body into each stroke from that position. Leaning forward, head down, he pushed on.

  He heard it before he saw it. He looked up. There ahead, northwest of him, loomed an angry-looking black cloud. Lightning flashed in it. And rain pelted down from it. “Shit. I’m going to get wet,” Jack said aloud, “and soon. God damn it! I hope I can make the shelter of that rock cliff.” Then the rain hit. Hard and cold. With the storm, the wind became fierce. It seemed to blow in all directions. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed simultaneously. The storm brought darkness, and Jack could no longer see the shore. He struggled hard to keep the canoe’s bow pointed into the wind.

  I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to turn to that rocky cliff. I can’t keep this up any longer. But he did keep it up. Stroke after painful stroke, he paddled into the wind. It was a struggle, a battle against this hostile force of nature. The shore came into view; its cliffs soared dramatically. Suddenly lightning struck a spruce tree at the top of the cliff. It burst into flames. That’s going to start a forest fire, Jack thought. But the drenching rain extinguished the blaze.

  Wind-whipped, white-capped waves lashed the base of the cliffs. There was no beach. Rocks, only rocks. Not a friendly place to take shelter. He wondered what might have happened if he had been there when the storm broke upon him. Not good, he thought.

  Suddenly he lost control of the canoe. The wind caught the bow of the canoe and swung it to the left. Shit! he said to himself. This sets me up to smash into that rocky cliff.

  Jack put his paddle deep into the water on the left-hand, sheltered side of the canoe, leaning into the paddle to put all his weight and strength into his stroke to turn the canoe into the wind. The canoe tipped and went over, capsizing to the left. Jack found himself in the water, the paddle in his hand. The canoe was upside down. It seemed to bounce in the waves, but then it righted itself. Full of water, it floated low, its gunwales just above the surface. Hanging onto the paddle, he swam to it. He tried to climb into the canoe, but he failed. Not knowing where he was and unable to see a shore, he clung to one of the canoe’s gunwales. He was cold, shivering. He put the paddle into the canoe, freeing up both hands to grip the canoe. This water-logged canoe was his only hope to avoid drowning. He had to hang on to it.

  Should he swim to shore? Could he? He was a reasonably competent swimmer, he knew, but his boots would handicap him. He thought about trying to get out of his boots. Then he might be able to swim. In this stormy water? Maybe, maybe not. And where to? He had no idea where there was a shore to which he could swim. Certainly not the storm-washed cliffs. And how could he continue his journey without boots? Not an option. His boots would stay with him, full of water. He would have to entrust his life to the water-logged canoe. There was no other choice.

  He clung to the canoe. He could no longer see the cliffs, as the wind-driven waves pushed him out into the lake. Water washed over his head. He was cold and wet and exhausted, but he managed to continue hanging onto the canoe. How long? he wondered. How long have I been in the water? How long will I have to hang on? Can I do it? I don’t want to die. Please. Northern Lights Lake was a big lake, he knew. Where will I wind up?

  Time passed. Minutes? Hours? He had no idea. My watch is shot, he thought.

  He shook his head, suddenly alert. Had he been dozing? It seemed to him that the wind was less of a threat. And it had stopped raining, he thought. But it was hard to be sure, for he was wet, wet all over, and cold, very cold. And the wind continued to blow. Waves continued to buffet him and the canoe. But he still clung tightly to the canoe. He had no other choice.

  Then he felt ground beneath his feet. The wind pushed him and the canoe onto a gravelly shore, a small beach. Wet, cold, and exhausted, Jack crawled up the beach and tossed the canoe paddle ahead onto the land. He managed to pull the empty stern of the canoe several feet onto the shore. He found a rope and tied the canoe to a tree. Then he collapsed, prone on a flat rock surface.

  At that moment, the sun came out.

  9. Island

  Jack pulled himself up onto his elbows. Then he rolled over and sat up. Where was he, he wondered, and how long had he been here? And where was here, anyway? He looked at his watch. The water level inside the crystal stretched from quarter past the hour to a similar point before the hour. “Shit,” he said aloud. He slipped the watch off his wrist and threw it into the lake. His cell phone followed it into the water.

  He struggled to his feet. “I hurt. I’m sore all over,” he muttered. He walked farther onto dry land and found that he was on an island. A small island, about one hundred yards across, he thought. Maybe not even that large.

  He had landed on a small beach. Gravel, rather than sand. To either side there were large boulders. Easily climbed upon. “I could dry out things on those rocks,” he said aloud. Behind the beach area, the ground sloped gently upward. The remains of a stone fire circle indicated that others had camped on the island, but it did not look recently used. Two large logs had been dragged into position to provide seating around the fire circle. Well, he thought, I could have landed in a much worse spot.

  “We were all sea-swallow’d, though some cast again…. Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come is your and my discharge.” Shakespeare’s lines from The Tempest pushed their way to the fore of Jack’s brain. Jeez, Jack mused, I thought I had long ago forgotten reading that in English class. But it sure fits my situation now. And I’d better get to it.

  Jack went back to the canoe. His two large Duluth packs and his personal pack had survived. They, and his fishing tackle box and rod, and the axe and Coleman camp stove supplied by the outfitter had been placed in the bow, where their weight might help to balance the canoe. Somehow he’d had the sense to tie the packs to the thwarts. One at a time, he carried the two Duluth packs, water dripping from them, onto dry land—or what would have been dry land if it had not rained so hard, he thought. Similarly, he retrieved his personal pack. The fishing tackle box, the rod, the axe, and the camp stove were nowhere to be seen. Lost in the lake when the canoe overturned, apparently. Oh well, Jack thought, I probably wouldn’t have caught any fish anyway, and I can cook over a fire, I guess. Then he took hold of the gunwale on one side of the canoe. Mustering all of the strength of his fatigued body, he tipped the canoe and poured water out of it onto the gravel beach, first a little, then more. With the canoe mostly empty, he pulled it further up onto the shore until it was completely out of the water. He turned it over.

  Jack sat on log and took off his water-soaked boots. Then he stripped off the rest of his water-soaked clothes. There were bruises up and down his sides and arms. He poured the water out of his boots. Then he put the wet boots back on his feet. They were cold, but he thought he should not try to walk barefoot on the pebbly, spruce needle–strewn ground. He spread out his clothes on bushes. “Looks like I’ll be here, at least tonight,” he said aloud. “I better make camp. But first I need to put on something warm.” He picked up his pack. “Christ! Everything is gonna be wet.” In fact, all of his clothes were wet, some dripping water, some simply wet. Nothing in his pack was dry. He found his fleece-lined Gore-tex jacket. It was wet, but he put it on. I’m wet and can’t get any wetter, he thought. Maybe the jacket will at least keep out the wind. He wrung water out of his clothes, twisting them tightly and then shaking them out. The wettest of them—including his Marilyn-purchased pants—he hung on bushes. Also his underwear, socks, and shirt. His Levi’s from his pack seemed to him to pose a major challenge. Would they ever dry? He spread them out on bushes beside his pants. Other clothes he stuffed back into the pack to be dealt with in the morning.

&nbs
p; He found his tent in one of the Duluth packs. It also was wet, but when he spread it out, the inside seemed mostly dry. He dragged it to a bit of level ground. He assembled the aluminum frame and tied the tent to it. He pounded in the stakes using a rock. He found his sleeping bag. It was wet, but the inside felt dry when he put his arm into it. He put it into the tent. He had a rubber pad that fit under the sleeping pad, but he found that he could squeeze water out of it. Not tonight, he thought.

  Evening was approaching. It’s getting dark. I should eat something, Jack thought. But he was not going to try to cook anything. Not tonight. Searching among the supplies in the second of the two Duluth packs, he found his supply of granola bars. He ate two of them. No longer hungry, he crawled into his sleeping bag. He was asleep within minutes.

  — — — —

  There was daylight when he woke. He crawled out of the tent, pulled on the Gore-tex jacket, put his feet into the still-wet boots, and crossed the island to empty his bladder away from his campsite. His clothes and gear were spread about the area, some items on bushes, some simply on the ground, just as he had left them the previous evening. He felt grungy, dirty. Recovering a bar of Ivory soap from his gear pack, he went into the water. The soap floating beside him, he scrubbed his body, including his hair. He tossed the soap back onto the beach and swam to rinse himself.

  Out of the water, Jack thought about breakfast. Hot oatmeal would be good, he thought. The Coleman stove and supply of white gas the outfitter had given him had joined other items from the bow of his canoe at the bottom of the lake. Perhaps his first priority should be to get a fire started. If he could heat some water, he could make coffee. More than that, he could dry out some of his clothes in front of a fire, he hoped. A fire needed wood, and kindling, and a dry match. Jack looked around the area near the fire circle. If others had built fires there—and they almost certainly had done so—they had not left any neatly stacked firewood.