Lost in a Far Country

by Thomas L Daniel

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. And I’ll be heading back soon, anyway.”

  “One thing more. See that pile of sticks over there? That’s a beaver lodge. Beavers carry a parasite called Giardia. Won’t kill you, but it will give you a lot of diarrhea. Also, stomach upset. ‘Purple burps,’ one of my ranger friends calls it. So, if you’re drinking lake water, boil it first.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” he said. But Jack knew he would not start boiling water now. He had already drunk enough without boiling, he believed, so that if he were going to get giardiasis he probably already had it.

  The ranger turned, walked back to his boat, and was soon out of sight.

  Jack sat on the knoll where he had eaten and soon saw a beaver swimming out of the lodge the ranger had pointed out. He watched it cutting aspen saplings and branches, just has he had observed one doing the previous day. The phrase “busy as a beaver” came to his mind. Certainly all of the beavers he had seen had been active and busy. Relaxing and resting, he spent what he assumed was about an hour at his lunch spot.

  Canoe back in the water, Jack paddled on toward Saganaga Lake. He thought he should have no trouble reaching the large lake in an hour or so. Time passed, however, and he was still in the narrow waterway. Two hours, perhaps, maybe three—he wasn’t sure. He found his way through a group of islands and then emerged into open water. Saganaga Lake, at last, he mused. Looking across the open water of the lake he could see whitecaps. Wind again, he said to himself. But I should mostly have it at my back as I head south to Minnesota.

  Keeping close to the shore and sheltered from the wind, he paddled on for what he judged might be another mile. He came upon a sand bar—a sandy island separated from the shore of the lake by about twenty feet of shallow water. He decided to camp there.

  “Just the place for a Snark! The Bellman cried

  As he landed his crew with care.”

  The couplet from “The Hunting of the Snark” pushed itself to the fore of his brain. Jack’s mother had encouraged him to read Lewis Carroll, and Jack had enjoyed his nonsense verse.

  Jack pulled his canoe out of the water and tied its bowline to a sapling. Getting down on this hands and knees, he cleared a level spot of a few twigs and stones. Once again, he put down his ground cloth and erected his tent. As he had each night, he carefully ditched the tent, easily done in the sand with his hands. It surely doesn’t look like rain, he thought, but it isn’t much trouble, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. He put his sleeping bag into the tent.

  Dinner. I could easily wade across to the shore and pick up firewood, he thought. I’ll cook my remaining camp dinner of chicken and noodles. Not much choice; I don’t have anything else left to cook. And I’ll want a fire in the morning to heat water for coffee and oatmeal. He took off his boots and gathered wood along the shore, breaking it into sticks of a size and number he thought would suffice for both dinner and breakfast preparation. Seated in sand warmed by the afternoon sun, Jack ate his remaining dinner and half of his remaining GORP. The rest of the GORP would provide lunch the following day. Tomorrow night, he said to himself, dinner in Grand Marais, Minnesota.

  Dusk heralded by another glorious sunset was followed quickly by dark. Jack stretched out on the sand and gazed up at the star-glittering night sky. There’s the Big Dipper. I guess all the stars I see here are also in Ohio, he said to himself. But we can’t see most of them. Not even down by Lake Erie. Only the brightest. Too much light everywhere. Northern lights once again arced over the tree-lined north shore beside his sandy island, reaching almost to the zenith. Tired yet hopeful that his journey was nearing its end, Jack crawled into his sleeping bag and was soon fast asleep.

  13. Saganaga

  Crashing thunder woke Jack. Rain pelted down upon his tent. Lightning flashed, its bursts of light piercing the tent’s nylon roof and walls. Yet he was dry in his sleeping bag, and the tent successfully shielded him from the storm’s downpour. He had no idea what the hour was, other than night, but he was quite sure it was not yet morning. In fact, thinking about summer thunderstorms he had experienced in Ohio, he suspected it was still early in the night. It did not matter to him. He would stay in his tent, stay dry, and do his best to go back to sleep—hopefully. And sleep he did, coming awake again to an early morning sunrise.

  — — — —

  Up and out of the tent, he grabbed his bar of Ivory soap and waded into the water. He plunged in, soaped himself, and soon felt clean and refreshed. Out of the water and dressed, he surveyed his surroundings. The lake water had risen, and his island was now smaller and further separated from the shore. Dry firewood would be hard to find, perhaps impossible, he thought. But he did want to make at least a small fire. He still had oatmeal in his dwindling food supply. And coffee. But neither would provide breakfast without a fire to heat water. He took off his boots and his trousers. Wading to the shore, he walked along the berm looking for and finding several birch branches. He held them overhead and carried them back to his sandy island campsite. Once again retrieving his wax-coated matches, he managed to get a small piece of birch bark ignited. Then a larger piece of birch bark and finally the driest of the small kindling he had collected. Feeding small branches of birch into the flames, he kept the fire going long enough to heat a pot of water, if not to bring it to a boil. Lukewarm oatmeal and coffee. Not a tasty breakfast, but maybe the last he would have before Minnesota and the end of campfire cooking. Or so he hoped.

  Breakfast finished and his remaining food and cook gear stowed, Jack turned his attention to his tent and sleeping bag. Inside the tent, he managed to roll up the sleeping bag tightly without getting it wet. He then disassembled his tent. He brushed off as much of the remaining rain water as he could with his hands, and rolled up the tent tightly. He retrieved the plastic ground cloth and wrapped it around the tent. Okay, tent wet, but all the same, ready to go, he said to himself.

  At the shore of his now diminished island, he looked out over Saganaga Lake. “Sag,” the ranger had called it. It was a big lake with open water. A strong wind blew out of the northwest. Whitecaps crowned waves. If I set out across the lake with the wind at my back I will be blown to the eastern shore or perhaps the southeast corner of the lake. I would then have to paddle west into the wind along the shore looking for an access point at which to land. Jack had no idea what he might find, but he reasoned that Minnesota canoeists must have some well-established entry points with access to roads. Maybe, probably, more than one. However, canoeing west along the wind-pummeled south shore to find an access point would not be easy. Had he a map he could have aimed for a specific take-out point as he crossed the lake. But his map was lost, days ago.

  The best plan, he decided, or at least a plan, would be to continue west along the wind-sheltered water of the northern shore of Saganaga Lake. That should not be difficult, he thought. At the western end of the lake, he would turn south along the shore, still largely sheltered from his enemy, the wind. Then he would paddle along the south shore to find a take-out point. Gear stowed in the bow, he pushed off in the canoe. “Okay, ‘Sag,’ here I come,” he said aloud.

  Jack’s plan was, in fact, a reasonable one, albeit it entailed a considerably longer route than a direct crossing of the lake. Canoeing along the north shore meant paddling in a cross wind. But by staying close to the shore, he would be sheltered, minimizing the wind problem. A strong wind would tend to turn his canoe, leaving him at risk of another dunking. Had there been two experienced paddlers in a well-balanced canoe, crossing the main body of the lake would not have been difficult. But he was alone, and his canoe was light in the bow and easily wind-whipped.

  Jack quickly learned that Saganaga is a big lake, and Jack had to travel about five miles before approaching its western edge. He then turned south, paddling for about a mile across open water before arriving at a small cove where he found an established campsite, unoccupied at this time. It’s well past noon, he thought, and I am well past hungry. Two han
dfuls of GORP provided lunch—and marked the end of his lunch and dinner food supply.

  He spotted an international boundary marker set in a rock. The inscription told him he was in the BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area). What’s more, he learned that he was standing on land known as American Point. “Here I am!” he exulted. “Back in the USA, in Minnesota. Maybe I’ll find a good restaurant for dinner in Grand Marais tonight.”

  If he’d had a map that he could have consulted, Jack would have set out after lunch heading east to reach the channel to land at Tip of the Trail. He might then have found dinner in Grand Marais, assuming he could catch a ride into town from a generous soul. But he did not have a map, and he did not know where he was nor where the nearest take-out point was. And thus, having finished his meager lunch and rested, he continued along the shore into a long channel known as Red Rock Bay.

  Moving through the channel and making his way among and between islands, he passed a number of occupied campsites. He waved to two couples in one site who appeared to have established a large and elaborate camp. They’re camped out there, he thought. Not traveling. Just enjoying a north woods vacation. There must be some limit to how long one can stay in a campsite, he supposed. And there must be some sort of permit system.

  He came upon rapids—a small waterfall—and found he would once more have to manage a portage. “This isn’t the Minnesota landing I had hoped for,” he said aloud. The portage was short, only about one hundred feet. Still, it meant carrying the canoe across. This time, his third portage, he managed to get the canoe up on the first try. The portage trail was rocky, but not as difficult as the one he had navigated on Northern Lights Lake. He walked carefully, not wanting to twist an ankle on the uneven path.

  Back in the water, he continued along a narrow channel passing several occupied campsites. The sun was well into the western sky. Shortly another portage greeted him. Jack explored it and found it to be about two hundred yards. Halfway around the track, he mused. Not my favorite sprinting distance, but not bad, he said to himself Okay. I’ll make this portage and then camp. I can’t be too far from a way out to the road, and I really don’t want to try to hitch into town at night. He carried his personal pack, what remained of his gear and food packs, and his paddle across. Once again he struggled the canoe onto his shoulders and made his way across the portage.

  After short distance through a narrow waterway he entered Alpine Lake, a lake with many islands, the shores of which hosted many campsites. Well, he thought, I’m not yet at a take-out point. I’ll have to spend another night in my tent. And all the campsites look full. I guess I’ll have to see if someone will share their space with me. He saw a family, a couple perhaps in their thirties, with a boy and girl, probably both grade-schoolers, camped on the point of an island in what looked like a large site. He pulled up to the shore.

  The man, the father, walked down to the rocky water’s edge and caught the end of the canoe. “Looking for a place to camp? There’s room here. Every place is pretty much occupied, but we can share. This is a large site.”

  “Oh, thanks. That would be great.”

  “My name is Lars. Lars Olsen. Here, let me help you.” He helped Jack onto the shore and then pulled the canoe out of the water and tied its bowline to a birch tree.

  “I’m Jack, Jack Stavitch. I don’t have much,” Jack said reaching for his pack. “I got swamped, dumped, in a storm and lost most of my gear and everything. And then a bear got to much of the food I had left. But I still have my tent and sleeping bag if I can find a corner of your place.”

  The woman approached. “I’m Ingrid,” she said. “There’s lots of room here. Find a good place for your tent.” Then she added, “Our kids are Sam and Mary Jane. We thought they didn’t really need Norwegian names.”

  “Great,” Jack replied. Then, tent and sleeping bag in hand, he found a level spot a bit removed from the Olsens’ tents. As he had every night, he carefully brushed the space free of spruce cones, stones, and sticks. He put up the tent, ditched it, and unrolled his sleeping bag in it.

  “We have a fire going,” Ingrid Olsen said. “You’re more than welcome to cook your dinner over it. We’ll have ours under way shortly.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much,” Jack said. “The bear pretty much finished what I hadn’t lost when I was dumped. But I’m healthy, and one night without supper won’t kill me.”

  “Nonsense,” Ingrid replied. “We have lots. More than we can eat. You will join us.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. You’re our guest for dinner. That’s that. Settled!”

  “Well, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Lars caught two large walleyes this afternoon. There’s more than enough for all of us. Where are you from? Do you know walleye?”

  “Actually, I’m from Ohio. And most of the fish we get is tilapia. Farmed somewhere, I guess. But originally from Africa, I think. Sometimes we get Lake Erie perch as well.”

  “Ya. Now, while I cook, your job is to entertain Mary Jane and Sam.” She dusted the fish fillets with corn meal and wrapped them in foil before putting them onto a small, portable grill over the fire. Jack watched with interest. “The best way to do fish on a camp fire,” she said. “No dirty fry pan to clean afterwards.”

  Jack nodded, and then turned and called to the two youngsters. “Come on, guys, let’s see who can skip stones the farthest.”

  “We’re Vikings,” Sam announced. That he was wearing a Daniel Boone coonskin hat did not seem incongruous to him.

  “Well, do Vikings know how to skip stones?”

  “Of course. Vikings know everything. But maybe you’d better show us anyway.”

  At the water’s edge Jack taught them to lean low and throw their stones flat out over the water. “For good skipping stones you want flat ones and not too big,” he told them. Soon they were facile stone-skippers, competing with each other for the most skips.

  A good family, Jack felt. He recalled the couple with a child and dog he had seen on the Northern Lights Lake portage. This north woods camping is good stuff for young families, he mused. And as it had before, his mind turned to Marilyn. He could easily picture the two them at a campsite like this one. Maybe even with kids of their own.

  Dinner was delicious. “I can’t thank you enough for sharing dinner with me,” Jack said. “Canoeing after losing your food to an ill-mannered bear gets kind of hungry.”

  After dinner, Lars put the two youngsters to bed in one of their tents. Jack helped Ingrid clean up after the meal. She had soaped the cook pots, so cleaning them at the lake shore with the help of a bit of beach sand rendered them spotless and gleaming. He joined them sitting on logs that surrounded the fire.

  “Okay,” Ingrid said. “Time to share life stories. Shall we go first, or you?”

  “Well,” Jack said, “why don’t you start?”

  “So,” Ingrid began. Lars listened, but deferred to his wife’s narration. “We’re from Minneapolis. We met at St. Olaf College in Northfield, south of the city—Minneapolis, that is. We’re Lutherans, like many folks in Minnesota, although we don’t go to church as often as we should. St. Olaf is a Lutheran college. We were classmates there. We fell in love and got married right after graduation. Now we’re both teachers. Well, sort of.

  “Lars is a high school principal. A good one. The kids all love him, and he’s done a lot to boost school spirit. He gets the kids thinking positively about themselves and life and keeps them out of trouble. Me, I’m an English teacher—or I was until I became pretty much a full-time mom. Mostly I taught English Lit—AP English. Do you know about that? I don’t quite place you. Are you on summer break? From college somewhere?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you about me. But first I have to ask you, do you know the O’Neill play, Long Day’s Journey Into Night?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve taught it. A great play. Why?”

  “Well, that’s my family. That’s the dysfunctional Stavitch family. Only I do
n’t have TB and have to go to a san. I just want to go to college. And my penurious father won’t let me. I’m in high school. I’m a good student and an athlete. I’ve finished my junior year and will be a senior in the fall. I should be applying to colleges soon. My high school advisor encourages me to apply to top universities. Harvard, Yale, places like that.”

  “How about Carleton College in Minnesota?” Ingrid asked.

  “Yeah, that’s on his list too.”

  “Or St. Olaf?”

  “Well, I don’t know that one. Anyway, my skinflint father thinks a university education is a waste of money. All he ever thinks about is money. He, we, can’t afford anything. Except, of course, his fancy Corvette. And all the land he speculates in. He wants me to take a couple of accounting courses at a nearby community college and then take over his winery. That’s not what I want to do. He can keep the Stavitch Saint Urban Winery. I want something more, although I’m not sure what. And my mother is drunk all the time. So it really is just like O’Neill’s play.

  “O’Neill ran away, you know,” Jack continued.

  “Yes, I do know about him,” Ingrid responded.

  “I understand he did go to an ‘el cheapo’ san at first. Then his father relented and got him to a better TB place. But my dad is not going to relent. Not if it costs even a dime more. He works hard. He has a garage, a good one. And he’s a good mechanic, well-respected in town. That’s his main job, but he also has a winery. Northeast Ohio grows lots of grapes. For Welch’s grape juice for years and years, and now varietal grapes for wines. There are lots of wineries in the area. Some good ones. Our winery is one of the best. Dad makes good wine. Between the garage and the vineyards, he works hard.”

  “So Stavitch Saint Urban. Stavitch is you and your dad.”

  “And my older brother. And Mom, too, before she drank so much. I’m too young to pour wine, so I mostly help out with cleaning and maintenance and stuff like that.”