Lost in the Wild
Lost in the Wild
Danger and Survival in the North Woods
CARY J. GRIFFITH
Borealis Books is an imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press.
www.borealisbooks.org
© 2006 by Cary J. Griffith. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102–1906.
The Minnesota Historical Society Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
ISBN-13: 978-0-87351-561-0 (cloth)
ISBN-10: 0-87351-561-7 (cloth)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Griffith, Cary.
Lost in the wild : danger and survival in the North woods / Cary J. Griffith.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-87351-561-7 (cloth : alk. paper)
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-87351-682-2
1. Wilderness survival—Minnesota—Boundary Waters Canoe Area.
2. Search and rescue operations—Minnesota—Boundary Waters Canoe Area.
3. Boundary Waters Canoe Area (Minn.)—Description and travel.
I. Title.
GV200.5.G75 2006
613.6'9097767—dc22
2005029863
For Anna, Nick, Noah, and Jess—who have always shared my love for wild places. There are many more wilderness trails in our future.
And for my Mom, who tried to teach me piano before she ever suspected I might have a future with a pen.
And for my Dad, whose love of language infected us all.
Lost in the Wild
PROLOGUE
Bogs
Jason Rasmussen and Dan Stephens
FIRST STEPS
1 Preparation
Jason Rasmussen, October 21, 2001
2 Hidden Portage
Dan Stephens, August 5, 1998
3 The Start of the Trail
Jason Rasmussen, October 22, 2001
4 Lost
Dan Stephens, August 5, 1998
BUSHWHACKING
5 First Camp
Jason Rasmussen, October 22, 2001
6 The Scream
Dan Stephens, August 5, 1998
7 Deeper into Woods
Jason Rasmussen, October 23, 2001
8 Bugs and Backwaters
Dan Stephens, August 6, 1998
9 Rasmussen Hikes South
Jason Rasmussen, October 23, 2001
10 First Word
Dan Stephens, August 6, 1998
11 A Plan to Recover the Trail
Jason Rasmussen, October 24, 2001
12 Assistance
Dan Stephens, August 6, 1998
SURVIVAL, SEARCH, & RESCUE
13 Linda Rasmussen Worries
Jason Rasmussen, October 25, 2001
14 The Science of Search & Rescue
Dan Stephens, August 6, 1998
15 Lake County Search & Rescue
Jason Rasmussen, October 26, 2001
16 The OPP Emergency Rescue Team
Dan Stephens, August 7, 1998
17 No Tracks, No Signs, Nothing
Jason Rasmussen, October 27–28, 2001
18 Bushwhacking the Quetico Woods
Dan Stephens, August 7, 1998
FOUND
19 Searchers Find a Clue
Jason Rasmussen, October 29, 2001
20 Stephens Finds His Way
Dan Stephens, August 8, 1998
21 The Tent
Jason Rasmussen, October 30, 2001
22 Finding Jason Rasmussen
Jason Rasmussen, October 31, 2001
EPILOGUE
Maps
Acknowledgements
Lost in the Wild
PROLOGUE
Wilderness is a word we use very carelessly. The bogs of the Gunflint region . . . are the only true wilderness in this area: undisturbed, obscure, and a little otherworldly. . . . Bogs are mossy grottos of silence.
JOHN HENRICKSSON
Gunflint: The Trail, the People, the Stories
Bogs
Northeast of the Pow Wow Trail, Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW), early afternoon, Wednesday, October 24, 2001
There are still two hours of sunlight, more than enough time to make it back to camp—providing he can find it. Jason Rasmussen pushes through another section of brush, searching for his tent and supplies. He should have crossed his camp hours ago. Instead, he has been hiking since just before noon. It’s almost four.
At least the rain hasn’t restarted, he thinks. He slogs through yet another thick patch of forest, hoping he will find the long stretch of water, the narrow lake at whose north end he was camped. If he can find it, he can find his tent. If he can locate his tent, he can light a fire, get out of these wet clothes, and have something to eat. At this point he knows the food will make him feel better. He can already taste the freeze-dried, gourmet teriyaki chicken.
And what if I don’t find the tent?
He doesn’t let himself contemplate the devastation. He knows it is foolish to castigate himself for not packing matches in his waist pack, along with the crackers, tuna, whistle, and knife. Idiot, he thinks, before he can choke the thought. He pauses, opens his waist pack, and again rummages through its contents. He pats his coat and pants pockets—just to be sure. No matches. Bushwhacking in wet woods has left him soaked and cold. But if he finds the lake. . . .
Twenty yards ahead he sees light. There’s a break in the tree line! He has finally found that hidden stretch of water. He allows himself one brief moment of hope. He pushes through the edge of brush. A sense of divine intervention, of deliverance starts to wash over him. He can practically feel his fire’s warmth.
He bursts out of the forest wall and sees it: another bog. He is stunned. He stares at it, wondering if it is only a dream. A nightmare. His third bog in two days! He looks across its surface. This one appears more solid than the two he crossed yesterday. And it’s narrower. He looks to his left, but the bog’s treeless, flat surface stretches as far as he can see. He looks to the right and sees the same interminable gap. There is no way he can walk around it. Yet he feels certain that just beyond this bog he’ll encounter the lake—his lake—stretching in front of his camp like a broad clear boulevard.
But bogs are dangerous. Jason Rasmussen is not a seasoned wilderness hiker, but this much he knows. Bogs are masses of floating vegetation, rivers and islands of floating grass hummocks. They can be anchored in spots, making the ground appear firm. You can place your foot on what appears to be solid ground. And it can feel solid. But when you give it your full weight, the thin vegetal surface can suddenly yawn and disintegrate, and you can drop like a rock into whatever depth of water lies beneath.
Jason envisions the sudden break, the plunge, the weightless feel of his body as it falls into freezing water—not touching bottom—kicking to the surface as he watches the last glint of sunlight disappear
between closing sphagnum lips.
Come on, he catches himself. Get hold of yourself. What’s up with all the negativity? He reminds himself of yesterday’s bog-crossing success. And Jason knows he has to cross this one. There is no other way. He knows his lake, camp, and supplies rest just beyond that next rise. He can feel it. And the afternoon is getting on. He is cold, wet, tired, and hungry. The Tootsie Rolls he ate over an hour ago have done little to quiet his stomach’s growl.
He searches for a test stick. He picks up a long tamarack bough and trims it down to a sturdy five-foot pole. He takes his first step, prodding the bog’s grass and fern surface. It gives, but just barely. He steps onto it. It holds.
Across the twenty-foot gap he can see plenty of foot-wide pockmarks filled with black water. But he can also see several probable footholds through the honeycombed maze. He pushes his test pole forward. He finds another firm hummock and steps onto it. It gives, but holds.
He continues crossing the bog, first testing with his long pole. Twice the heavy staff breaks through the grassy surface. Both times he backtracks, chooses alternative routes to the left and then right, searching for more solid ground. Both times he moves forward.
Finally, he comes to within seven feet of the far edge. Too far to jump. He pushes the pole forward, testing, probing the tangled surface. It holds. He realizes he can jump from his current position, plant a foot on the solid patch, and close the distance between that hummock and the bog’s edge with one strong leap.
That is just what he tries. He leaps forward five feet, feels the hard bottom of his hiking boot hitting solid turf —and then it starts to give. With sickening panic he feels his foot sink. The cold water envelopes his boot top, clams around his ankle and shin. His other foot is moving forward, searching for solid ground. He lurches forward. His first foot plunges into the hummock. His other foot searches in vain for something solid, and then it, too, disappears beneath the widening black water. For one brief moment, while the momentum of his body carries him across the bog’s edge, he is knee-deep in mucky swamp. And then he falls in a shattered heap on the opposite shore.
A groan squeezes out of him as though someone has slammed him hard in the center of his stomach. He gets up stamping his feet, trying to shake them free of the freezing water. He looks down at his soaking pant legs. They cling to the contour of his calves. Water runnels off them, pooling in his boots.
Goddammit, he swears. Darkness is coming fast. The thought rises unbidden.
In one hour you’re going to be wandering in the dark. And it could get cold. It could get very cold. You could freeze to death.
He exhales and notices his breath cloud in front of his face. He looks back over the bog, then forward. He is wet, tired, plenty cold already. The bog water feels as though it has soaked into much more than the bottoms of his shoes. Its icy fingers pull at the inside of his body, at his heart, at his spirit. He collapses on the side of the boggy bank. He doesn’t want to push forward through another stand of low-hung tamarack, alder, and stunted, leafless black ash. It looks like a wall behind him, an impenetrable wall of wilderness brush.
Suddenly he’s claustrophobic, barely able to breathe. He begins to wonder if he will ever find his way out of these woods. Tears start rimming his eyes. His vision blurs. He can’t see anything. He cannot see the bog in front of him, the forest through which he came, even the ground in front of his face. He feels disoriented. He knows he should have long ago recovered his camp. He feels the panic he has kept at bay for the last two hours starting to rise. The huge body of an invisible wilderness weighs on him. He can feel its heaviness on his chest. He can feel his temples pound. He slumps on the edge of the bog and tears spill from his eyes, creasing his haggard face.
He came to the woods for solace. He wanted respite and wilderness solitude. He cannot believe it has come to this. He can’t believe anything. He tries to get hold of himself, tries to calm his hiccupping desolation, to recover his reason, but there is nothing. A huge emptiness settles over his heart, over his entire self, a final desperation, and wrenching words surface from this depth: What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do now?
Bell Lake environs, Quetico Provincial Park, Ontario, Wednesday afternoon, August 5, 1998
Dan Stephens stumbles south all afternoon, penetrating deeper into remote bush. When he remembers his friends, he calls out, but the sudden vibration coming up from his throat intensifies his head throb. And besides—no one ever responds. An interminable insect whine follows him. He hears occasional bird songs. He walks deeper into the wilderness, wondering if there’s a lake. He crosses more small creeks in stagnant bogs. He pushes through the marshy region.
He has trouble recalling that just five hours earlier he was leading a group of Scouts from Chattanooga, Tennessee, down the Quetico’s Man Chain of lakes. He can barely remember who he is: Dan Stephens, an Eagle Scout from Georgia, spending the summer of his twenty-second year leading Scout groups out of the Northern Tier High Adventure Camp in Ely, Minnesota.
He remembers this much about his Chattanooga group: there are two fathers and six kids. Until this trip none of them had ever set foot in the North Woods. One of the fathers had been on other scouting trips, but he moved like an aging bear and was ill-suited—at least by current health—to spend a week paddling and portaging. The other father was a reasonable hand with a paddle, but he had spent little time in the wilderness.
In spite of their inexperience, the Chattanooga group had been his summer’s best. From their first day out they felt as comfortable as old friends, though Dan could see they would be lost without him.
Dan remembers he was with the group. He remembers some of their names and faces. He recalls the Man Chain and their ultimate destination: Prairie Portage on the Canadian border. But there are still thirty miles of hard paddling in front of them and it will be at least two more days before they reach it.
What he can’t quite figure out is why he now stumbles alone through lowland bush and swamp creased by waterways and bogs, waving away bugs.
Near late afternoon he comes to a U-shaped lake. He is tired and hungry and not entirely clear-headed about where he is or how he got here. He pauses at the shore, hoping to regain his bearings. He sits for an hour, trying to rationalize his position. He knows he is not thinking clearly. He needs to get an unfettered look, from someplace high enough to give him a reasonable vista.
Near the lake an old-growth white pine stretches skyward, offering a panoramic view of the area—Dan assumes—if he can climb it. He considers the lower branches. This one has enough hand- and footholds to make climbing a possibility. He walks around the tree in the shade, locates the most viable route upwards, and starts to climb.
Fifteen minutes later he is almost fifty feet off the ground. From his aerie he has a wide view of the surrounding country. He can see a medium-sized lake, with a longer, larger lake beyond it. By dead reckoning he surmises the lakes lie west or southwest. He guesses the longer lake is Other Man, and is comforted by finding a lake he remembers from the map. He thinks it is probably the best place to turn. If he can make it to Other Man, a common route for those traversing the Man Chain, he might encounter his group, or some other group paddling down the chain.
He descends the tree, takes his bearings, and stumbles ahead, pushing through more swamp. In a few places he has to turn to avoid boggy patches or open water, and in this lowland area the brush is particularly thick, but he tries to maintain his direction.
It is heavy slogging for another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. He loses track of time. He hasn’t checked his watch, but at the very least he thinks he should have run into, or rounded, the smaller lake before Other Man. He should be close. But after he has been hiking for what seems like well over an hour, all he sees in front of him is more swamp and bog.
He approaches the edge of an old beaver pond. The area
is boggy and stunted with low-hung willow, cattails, and thick marsh grass. The tall grass surrounds a large pond-bog complex. Another white pine rises over the pond’s edge. It has a scraggly head but otherwise angles out over an outcropping of rock and appears scaleable. Dan climbs up to have another look, trying to discern his position.
When he looks west he sees the larger lake farther south. He realizes he has angled in the wrong direction, probably north-northwest. He is stunned. He has increased the distance between himself and Other Man. He cannot believe it. He castigates himself, cursing. Idiot! He can hardly believe he angled through the swamp until he was walking in almost the exact opposite direction from the way he should have been heading. He was sure he was hiking west-northwest. Instead he has slogged through at least a half mile of swamp, hiking almost due north. He looks down, shaken by the realization, and curses again.
He climbs out of the tree. It doesn’t feel like the right place to reconnoiter, but reason has at least reasserted itself enough to convince him he should stay put until he figures out some kind of plan.
He comes down to the edge of the old beaver pond. It looks clear in the late afternoon sun. His head still hurts. He kneels beside the water to fill his collapsible canteen. When he leans over, his head aches and a brief bout of vertigo threatens to relieve him of this morning’s oatmeal and gorp.
He sits and waits for the nausea to pass. He is beginning to realize his predicament. He is in the middle of a swamp with not much of an idea where to turn. He had not considered it, but now he looks around in the late afternoon—and it dawns on him. He may have to spend the night in darkness, in wilderness, alone under the stars.
As if in answer, a small cloud of bugs rises like a fist to his face. He waves them away and turns to be rid of them. His head is still splitting, with a knot on his forehead the size of a loon’s egg. He knows he is not thinking clearly. But he also knows the sun is going down and dusk brings out the bugs. He recalls stories of moose and deer driven to frenzy by swarms of black flies and mosquitoes. Seeking relief, they would swim into the middle of lakes where some of them, rather than return to shore and the swarms, would tread water until they finally weakened and drowned.
Lost in the Wild Page 1
