Lost in the Wild

by Cary Griffith

  He peers around the edge of the pond and wonders what he will do when dusk settles. He knows the end of the day ushers in one good hour of bugs, maybe more. And he knows this night there will be no netting or nylon or rim of firelight and smoke or bug juice to keep them in abeyance. People who have not lived through pestilential swarms do not know they can separate a person from sanity and reason. And it is this knowledge that focuses Dan’s eyes over his lowland swamp, searching for some kind of shelter, some place to hide.

  FIRST STEPS

  Hiking here is like going back in time to the Stone Age—at least that is the feeling I got hiking among the harsh bedrock lakes with intriguing names like Superstition and Rock of Ages.

  JOHN PUKITE

  Hiking Minnesota

  If it had not been for my care in protecting my eyes . . . these fierce creatures would have blinded me many times. . . . It had happened so to others, who lost the use of their eyes for several days, so poisonous is their stinging and biting to those who have not yet become acclimatized.

  GABRIEL SAGARD-THÉODAT

  The Long Journey to the Country of the Hurons

  1

  Preparation

  Twin Cities REI, Sunday, October 21, 2001

  Jason Rasmussen walks under REI’s pine bole and iron beam archway separating the parking lot from the store near the Mall of America. For the second time this week he passes a large sign on his left proclaiming:

  Gunflint Lake

  Elevation 47o m.

  BWCAW–Quetico

  Minnesota–Ontario

  Like everything else in this place, it reminds him of outdoor adventure. He continues across the narrow courtyard and steps over a footbridge. An artificial waterfall cascades over stones into a small pool. On this late fall day the water is littered with yellow birch leaves, giving the place a North Woods feel, reminding Jason why he has come.

  As it had for so many others, the catastrophe of September 11, 2001 altered his travel plans. For over a year, the third-year medical student from the Medical College of Wisconsin–Milwaukee had been training for a trek in Nepal. His REI Adventures tour was scheduled to leave in October, his rotation month off. Now that his tour has been canceled, he has unexpected time on his hands and a yearning to walk in wild places.

  He needs to get away. He needs to go someplace where he won’t smell antiseptics or see fluorescent lighting or classrooms. The Nepalese trek, for which he had trained so assiduously, was going to satisfy his thirst for remote adventure, for someplace entirely different. Now more than ever he needs wilderness and the solace it has provided him in the past.

  He had lived in Minnesota until he was ten. Then his family moved to California, where he finished high school and attended community college before returning to attend the University of Minnesota, and then the Medical College. And in all that time he never once had a chance to set foot in the North Noods. It is an absence he has regretted. He thinks his visit to REI can help him sort out a destination and a plan.

  He grabs hold of the canoe-paddle handles and opens the massive doors, looks up at the fifty-five-foot climbing wall. It’s difficult not to admire the glass-enclosed wall; on the outside, large beams stick out of the roof—the REI landmark. From either side down a considerable stretch of Interstate 494, the protruding spikes beckon like half of the Statue of Liberty’s crown. And for many, including Jason Rasmussen, that’s what this store means: freedom, the special call of wild places, and twenty-first century technology that will take you there in style and bring you back safe.

  Jason enters the store. He admires the colorful resin-based kayaks and Kevlar canoes hanging from ceiling rafters. Old Town, Shadow, Perception, Wilderness. Even the names convey adventure. Racks of the finest outdoor merchandise in the world line store aisles. He sees paddle gear, winter sportswear in vibrant primary colors, waterproof duffels, pullovers, pants, and socks that wick away sweat. There are boots lined with Thinsulate—small layers of light and warm hyperinsulation surrounded by Gore-Tex, a semipermeable layer that breathes out, but prevents water from penetrating.

  REI’s layout forces you to amble through much of the store; around the corner to accessories, a small display of wristwatches, sunglasses, high-end compasses, GPS devices, Leatherman and Swiss army knives, windproof lighters, compact digital cameras with built-in binoculars. Down the aisle he sees yellow, light green, and orange tents pitched on the cement floor. Across from them hang camping stoves and several racks of bottled gas. Beyond the tents are mittens, gloves, hats, gaiters, and still further down, backpacks. Gore-Tex, nylon, polypropylene . . . Camelback, Valhalla, The North Face. The latest gear made from the best stuff man can cultivate or conjure, and named by someone with a flare for merchandising the wild.

  Winter is coming on, and Jason knows he’ll have to dress warmly. But with equipment like this, much of which he has already accumulated in anticipation of his Nepalese trek, his only concern is which freeze-dried gourmet meal he’ll cook for dinner.

  In the camping section he talks to one of REI’s helpful attendants. This one he knows: an old algebra teacher from his hiatus year at Normandale Community College, when he was establishing residency before enrolling at the University. Like many of REI’s attendants, his former instructor is moonlighting, not so much for money, but for the love of wild places and the conversation it engenders—and a discount on REI goods.

  REI doesn’t have sales people; it has consultants. Jason tells him he is thinking about heading up north, preferably to the Boundary Waters, for a three-day hike, and his old prof takes him to a rack of books. He pulls down John Pukite’s Hiking Minnesota and shows Jason the Pow Wow Trail, a twenty-six-mile-long circular hike that puts in near Isabella Lake and immediately crosses into the Boundary Waters. It meanders through spruce, pine, poplar, and—as the book describes—“remote bedrock lakes, beaver dams, and cascading creeks.”

  That’s it. He can tell just from the description and the way the trail-line curves over the page in a wobbly circle, crossing small lines of creeks, edging along pine symbols, with plenty of small tents signifying campsites. He glances over the section describing the terrain. “Difficult. Western side composed of rough and tumble trails.”

  Jason has hiked in woods before and knows what to expect. He has a good map and compass and knows how to use them. But Pukite’s book was published in 1998, a full year before the July 4 blowdown storm that altered large tracts of BWCAW forest, making some of it impassable. In fact, three years later, areas around the Pow Wow Trail had grown up so dense you would need a machete and a chainsaw to get through.

  Pow Wow Trail map from John Pukite’s Hiking Minnesota

  Pukite’s text identifies some of the trail’s complicated background and significant challenges. The Pow Wow was developed in 1977 by the Youth Conservation Corps. Rather than plot and cut an entirely new path, they made use of a maze of old logging roads that crisscrossed the boggy country east of what was then the small town of Forest Center. But the bogs finally prevailed, forcing them to move the entire trail system west, where the country was for the most part drier and better suited to hiking and backcountry camping. There are still plenty of places where the path is questionable, marked by fallen trees and rugged country. The wise, Pukite advises, will rely on a good compass, map, and serious orienteering skills.

  Jason doesn’t ignore these lines, but he skims over them, feeling a greater appreciation for trail descriptions that speak to the kind of hike he imagines: “If you go, you will be treated to special lakes that you have nearly all to yourself.” He is left with a vague notion of hiking through quiet woods and finding the solitude he desires.

  He notes the book, and another entitled Wilderness Survival. This one is a small pamphlet, light enough to carry, and with enough information so that the entire text is worthwhile. He places it with his o
ther items.

  He walks over to REI’s map section, where the consultant shows him the yellow-and-blue Fisher maps, familiar to anyone who hikes or fishes the wild places in northern Minnesota. They find the one containing the detail of the Pow Wow Trail and surrounding area. Map F-4: Lake One, Lake Two, Lake Three, Lake Four, Bald Eagle Lake, Lake Insula. Spreading the map out on a table nearby, he can clearly see the entire area, including elevations and streams. He smiles, contemplating the fall hike through cool woods—the air crisp, the sky a perfect blue. In the Cities the week has been one of those easy transitions from season to season, when the days are warm and the leaves hang on, lulled by the false promise of Indian summer.

  Beside the Fisher maps are McKenzie maps. Number 19, Isabella Lake, depicts the Pow Wow Trail in much the same detail as the Fisher map, with one notable exception. If you hike along the circular portion of the trail counterclockwise, the first two miles move north-northeast in a near-straight line. Then the trail angles sharply left almost ninety degrees, moving north-northwest. A small dotted line continues along the north-northeast route, indicating the path of the old trail, the one the Pukite text described as originally forged along old logging roads east of Forest Center. That part of the trail was later abandoned and moved to the western half, drier region.

  The Fisher map shows the same ninety-degree turn to the left, but not the faded continuation of the line depicting the original Pow Wow Trail. But Jason Rasmussen doesn’t look at the McKenzie map.

  He rolls up the familiar yellow-and-blue map, and on his way out gathers a few more items for his trip. At the last minute he fingers a small orange whistle, the kind you can hang around your neck on a colorful lanyard. He thinks about it—wondering if he really needs it. Like most things in this store, it is expensive: $4.95 for a little piece of plastic. Jason peers at the product description, smiling while he wades through the marketing hype that will tell him why an orange plastic whistle costs almost five bucks. It was rated at 118 decibels. “Exceeds U.S. Coast Guard and SOLAS regulations,” he reads.

  “SOLAS regulations?” He flips the package over: “Safety of life at sea.”

  But he is not going to sea; he is walking into the woods.

  Surrounded by so much high-tech equipment—all designed to bring us closer to the wilderness, but make our journeys comfortable and safe—it is easy to forget that people still hike into woods, get lost, and die. Jason conjures an image of the one-million-acre wilderness as one vast undulating sea of forest and lake. He pauses over the orange whistle, finally tossing it into his basket with its accompanying orange lanyard. Then he turns and walks toward the checkout.

  He has been camping before, he reminds himself. Plenty of times. His family has camped in California, and he has been camping with friends in local parks and in Wisconsin. He knows how to use a compass and a map. And though he has never seen the North Woods, he has always wanted to get up there. This is his perfect chance.

  He continues toward the checkout, content with his purchases, excited about his trip. The other effect of touring rei, among so many people bent in similar pursuit and among so much gear and merchandising, is to heighten Jason’s enthusiasm for his adventure. As he waits in line he picks up a disposable camera—something to record his adventure—and then moves to the open cashier.

  On Quinn Road in West Bloomington, a suburb south of Minneapolis, his parents’ wide sloping redwood house backs up to a small stand of trees. There are Berber carpets, tiled floors, stairs to the left, stairs to the right, and plenty of windows in the front and back, opening onto trees. His mom, Linda, sits in her kitchen and listens to his directions.

  “Here’s where I’m headed,” he says, looking into her clear, penetrating eyes, just like those he sees in the mirror. He opens Pukite’s book and shows her the Pow Wow Trail.

  “Looks beautiful,” she says. She is only slightly worried. This isn’t the first time Jason has walked into the woods alone. He knows it is dangerous. Most camping and instructional guides advise against it. But sometimes—particularly at this time of year, when no one else is available—the only alternative is going solo.

  And besides, she knows her son. Jason is a driven, determined kid. Once he sets his mind on something, he pursues it with a remarkable degree of focus and single-mindedness. When he was young, he attended high school in southern California, where Lee, his dad, was working for the Mennen Company. At the time, California schools had few rules and fewer expectations. Like most kids who were preoccupied with everything but what they planned to do with their lives, Jason skated. He coasted through his high school career, uncertain of his future and what he wanted to do with it. Then in his two years at Orange County Community College he met a professor who turned his head toward the compelling world of science. It was a moment of epiphany. He became absorbed in his classes. He began to study. At the end of his two years at Orange County he did well enough to have the audacity to contemplate a career in medicine.

  When he shared the idea with his parents and his younger sister, Heidi, they smiled, somewhat incredulous. But they supported his efforts. His newfound ambition was in marked contrast to his high school drifting, and as unlikely as a career in medicine sounded, his parents welcomed the change.

  And then he shocked everyone by his sustained, unremitting effort. He struggled with math and science, but gradually absorbed them. By the time he entered the University of Minnesota in his junior year, he was an academic sponge. And he did well. He enrolled in all the math and science allowed, he remained focused, and his efforts were rewarded.

  But the MCATS, the medical school entrance exams, are difficult. It took Jason three years to finish his coursework and score high enough to be admitted to med school. Linda and Lee had always been impressed by their son’s ambition and perseverance. He had worked damn hard to overcome a mediocre secondary education, and he succeeded—largely by the sweat of his own brow. Lee, who has run in over twenty marathons, knows plenty about hard work. At this point, Linda knows Jason does, too.

  She’s not too concerned about his solo adventure into the cold North Woods.

  “It’s only three days,” he reminds her.

  “It’s a shame about Nepal,” she muses.

  “It will be beautiful up north. This time of year I’ll have the woods to myself.”

  “Just be careful, Jason. It could get cold.”

  “I’ve got it covered,” he says. And he does. He has the compass, the Fisher map, the trail description and map from the Pukite text—and plenty of the right gear. He has a polypropylene pullover, a red flannel shirt, a sweater, a light Gore-Tex North Face windbreaker with a pullover hood. He has nylon hiking pants with an insulated layer and water-resistant polyurethane coating. He has good boots, a down bag rated for temperatures as cold as ten degrees below zero, an air mattress, a waterproof tent with a bright orange tent fly, wool socks, plenty of food, a camp stove, two canisters of white gas, the charcoal lighter from his parents’ grill, his orange whistle with the lanyard he can hang around his neck. He packs Tootsie Rolls, crackers, canned tuna, and enough freeze-dried food to last a week.

  His mom glances at the Pukite map again, sees the twenty-six-mile circle with plenty of campsites. The trail meanders through a string of small lakes: Pose, South Wilder, North Wilder, Horseshoe. She imagines glades sloping down into clear, still water—park-like conditions.

  “Here’s where I plan to hike,” Jason explains, pointing to the start of the trail on the map. “It’s over two miles to the circular part of the trail. Then I’ll walk counterclockwise for another couple of miles and camp the first night near Pose Lake.” He points to it on the map. He traces the wobbly line along the north side of the circle, ending at a tent symbol near Rock of Ages Lake.

  “Here the second night,” he says. “That’s a pretty good hike, but I should be able to do it.”

  He
will camp near Marathon Lake the third night, and then exit the next day. If he has time, he’ll explore the Superstition Trail spur, a one-mile, round-trip side trail that’s supposed to be scenic and haunting.

  And this is important, he thinks, figuring the time it will take to hike out. “I should be out Thursday afternoon. I’ll call you.”

  “Okay,” she nods, comforted by his plan and the places she can see on the map. It looks like a good itinerary, and she knows her son’s determination and strength. She looks forward to his Thursday afternoon call.

  He considers the trail and the time he’s given himself. Plenty. He’ll be out well before noon on Thursday, so calling shouldn’t be a problem. “If you don’t hear from me by Thursday evening,” he says, knowing his mom will appreciate his care, “call the Lake County sheriff’s office.” He doesn’t write down the phone number, because he doesn’t really believe the need will arise. He mentions it to her as a minor precaution, something more to comfort his parents than from his own genuine concern.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” he says. “But if you don’t hear from me by Thursday evening,” he repeats emphatically, “call the sheriff.”

  Jason knows the likelihood of anything going wrong is remote. But things do happen. The history of North Woods travel is littered with stories of those who walked into wilderness to find satisfaction for their yearning for wild places, solace, scenery, or replenishment, and found something else entirely.

  2

  Hidden Portage

  A nameless lake, between Fran and Bell, Quetico Provincial Park, Wednesday, August 5, 1998

  Well before noon, Dan Stephens and the group of eight Scouts he is leading carry their canoes down the slope into the northeast end of a lake with no name. They are glad to have the portage behind them. Fran Lake had been crystalline in the mid-morning sun. In the faint breeze it had been like crossing mottled blue lapis. But the seventy-six-rod portage out of Fran was difficult to find, overgrown, uphill, and bug infested. The morning left the group hungry and ready for lunch.