Lost in the Wild

by Cary Griffith

  “Get hold of yourself,” Jason whispers quietly in the dense woods.

  And after several minutes he manages to calm himself, his disappointment. Of course there’s a way out. He pushes to the edge of the lake to make sure, and there’s the tree-covered peninsula—the same one he observed this morning. There is absolutely no doubt he is near the exact place he stood this morning, contemplating this very same lake.

  He looks at his watch. Almost noon. He is not happy, but knows he has to sit down, take off this heavy pack, and reconnoiter. He is not yet ready to ask himself, “What’s the worst that can happen?” For the time being he focuses on getting out of these woods.

  8

  Bugs and Backwaters

  South of the Man Chain of lakes, Quetico Provincial Park, Thursday, August 6, 1998

  During the interminable night Dan Stephens lies in the dark and struggles to breathe. The shelter is tight and warm enough, but he has not reckoned on the bugs. Mosquitoes swarm over his exposed skin. He suspects they were nestled in the grass when he cut it. Lying in the tight enclosure, covered by the thick rushes, he is hounded by the pests.

  He alternates breathing through his nose and mouth. He cannot help but inhale them. There is a dry, metallic taste in his throat. He has learned to swallow and snort, but when he realizes the tinge of copper on his tongue is from his own blood, panic forces him to wiggle out of his tight lean-to and take refuge in the cold.

  Outside it is cool and relatively bug free. He tries to normalize his breathing. He spits and takes another draught of water. But he is not dressed well enough to stay out long. Dan knows he cannot afford the expenditure of energy required to shake and shiver.

  He drinks water. He waits. He has a powerful headache and still feels woozy, but this much he knows: to survive he is going to have to climb back into that bug-infested den and lie down in darkness. He’s going to have to separate himself from the reality of it. There is no chance of sleeping. A kind of distant rest is the best he can muster. Finally, when the cold is becoming too great, he wedges himself back into his seething cocoon. And the mosquitoes—apparently warmed by him, apparently attracted to his heat—continue to feed on their meaty course.

  If it was any other time, any other place, and he had any other recourse, he would rip out of his makeshift shelter and run screaming through the woods. Several times the swarms bring him near hysteria. The effect of so many needles burying themselves in his open skin, the taste of them in his mouth and throat, some of them engorged with his blood—he manages to hold it at the far reaches of consciousness. He knows if he lets them in, if he thinks about it, considers the pestilential siege, his slight hold on sanity may waver. He is coherent enough to remove himself mentally from the debilitating swarm. He tells himself it is only one night, this night—the longest of his life.

  He lies in the boggy grass near the beaver pond, wondering where he is. Consciousness is shallow and fitful. When he rises and seeks refuge in the open, he is keenly thankful for the one good thing about the cold: it makes the bugs docile as pet rats.

  When he kneels to drink he knows he is still sluggish from the fall. He remembers leaping across a pile of stone and falling. He sees a ragged field of stone as though it is part of some dreamscape. He remembers his friends from Chattanooga. He has a pounding headache, but through it he still worries about them. He waits until the cold drives him back into the warmth of his shelter. He lies quietly and tries to drift again into half-sleep, waiting for the first gray light of dawn.

  His body is one big itch. The previous day’s abrasions have left his legs sore and aching. Before lying in the grass he debated taking off his tennis shoes, but he appreciated their protection against bugs and didn’t want a scavenger to mistake them for a meal. And besides, if he wants to walk out alive, his shoes are almost as important as water. Finally, he decided to leave them on. Now in the first hazy light he wiggles his toes, and they feel hot—as though sunburned. Trench foot, he guesses. He suspects he’ll be walking in pain.

  He lies still, waiting for the woods to lighten. When he can see well enough to move through brush, he crawls out from under his makeshift shelter. He is tired, but thankful the long, dark, grueling pestilence is behind him. He pisses and mosquitoes rise to the warm stream, but in the early morning cold they are sluggish and easily swatted away. He is relieved to finally be out of their clutches—at least for now. Now he must move to stay warm. Until the sun rises, the bugs will be tolerable.

  In the muted light he looks down and finds the hefty walking stick he trimmed the night before. He notes the direction in which it is laid. He uses it to mark what he thinks is a southern trail across the half-lit marsh. Then he leans over and picks up the pine pole. It feels good to grip, something to hold onto. He walks up to the edge of the beaver pond, finds a clear place to siphon water, and fills his collapsible canteen with enough for a good morning draught.

  The bugs are starting to warm to him. He drinks quickly, forcing the water down. He looks to the growing light in the woods and rechecks his position by guessing at the direction east. He is still groggy, but coherent enough to know if he wants to get warm he had better start moving. He knows Sommers Canoe Base lies somewhere south. He takes a vague bearing in that direction and strikes off through the trees.

  Believing they are out of range for the proper operation of their radio phone, the fathers rise at first light. Tim awakens Shawn so they can return over the portage and check the dark cave of cedars where Stephens disappeared.

  Jerry Wills will let the other Scouts sleep a little longer. They are going to need their rest. It was a hard evening and night, and today they will be asked to do the impossible: to find their way through a maze of lakes they have never seen, locate and cross more than a half-dozen unmarked portages—some of them long—and paddle twenty-seven miles to find a ranger station on the international border. Wills switches on a flashlight and stares at the map. He doesn’t know how they can do it, but he doesn’t see much choice. The life of their guide and friend, and their own lives, might depend on it.

  His hand reaches up again to rub his sternum, where his chest feels tight. The strain, he knows. The hard physical labor of paddling and portaging. Still, he wonders about his heart. Maybe he should have it checked when he gets home.

  This part of the Quetico is rugged, with prominent outcrops and high, granite ridges. Jerry Wills recalls Dan describing the Man Chain, wondering if the region’s unusually high ridges might render their radio phone useless. The terrain, their concern about schedule and direction, and the vague discomfort they all feel when contemplating a return through the nameless lake, convinces Jerry Wills they have made the right decision—to stay together, keep moving ahead, continuing southwest, hoping they will encounter another group, or at least make it far enough so their radio phone is operational. Finally, Jerry Wills looks up to see Tim and Shawn’s canoe disappear into the northeastern shadows of Bell Lake. He turns and starts waking his crew.

  In the early morning Tim and Shawn retrace the portage to peer over no-name lake. They carry a small cache of supplies: some food and waterproof matches, a note for Dan detailing their return for help. “Stay put,” the note concludes. “We’ll be back with help.”

  They lay Stephens’s cache on the no-name lake side of the portage. The portage is dim, but the path is clear. They are surprised that yesterday they couldn’t find it. They peer over the nameless lake. The water is calm. The only sign of their crossing are footprints in the muddy transition between lake and dry land. None of them are Dan’s.

  To look back over the lake where their friend and guide disappeared makes them feel anxious. This far into wilderness their imaginations are unbridled—they picture wolves, bears, cougars, or things more sinister. They call out in the early light, but there’s no response. Pondering Dan’s disappearance makes their skin rise like a plucked chicken�
��s.

  They call again. Nothing. They repeat their call, waiting for some response, but there is only the warm mist rising in half light over the deceptively placid water. They wonder what could have happened, shaking their heads, bewildered. The invincible Dan Stephens walked into the woods and disappeared. What in hell could have happened to him?

  “Let’s get back,” Tim finally says. Shawn couldn’t agree more.

  The day is warming but the bugs have not yet started to swarm. They turn and re-cross the portage, paddling the short distance to camp. By the time they reach it, the others are nearly loaded and ready.

  Jerry Wills has been careful to pare their supplies to absolute essentials. In spite of park regulations, discarded equipment and food sits near Dan’s tub at the edge of camp. Jerry reminds himself that today they have to make time. The park has a zero-footprint policy—visitors are not to leave any traces of their presence. But this is an emergency. They will inform the rangers at Prairie Portage, and someone will return for it—providing bears haven’t found it and feasted. They don’t want to leave these supplies, but neither had they wanted to lose their guide and have to travel at a breakneck pace for help. Jerry Wills knows they will need every possible advantage.

  They give one last call into the tree line, screaming Dan Stephen’s name. Some of the Scouts whistle, but it is early, and their efforts echo back empty. None of them expects an answer. In the distance they hear a loon cry. A lone blue heron rises in startled flight from the opposite shore.

  The Scouts come down to the water’s edge. Jerry Wills and Tim Jones take one last tour of camp. Some of the Scouts are starting to climb into their canoes, readying themselves for the long journey south.

  “Wait a minute,” Jerry Wills calls to them.

  The spit of rock in front of their campsite juts into the lake. It makes a long shallow reef, descending gradually toward the middle of Bell. Their canoes are beached on a crevice running up into camp. Now the Scouts gather near the lakeshore.

  Jerry Wills comes down and walks into the water. “We need to ask for help,” he says. The Scouts know their troop leader. He is a devout man, always ready with a prayer. This morning he has them walk down into the water with him. Tim Jones follows them into the cold, placid lake. They huddle there, join hands like a team preparing for a big game. But there is a somber quality to this gathering. They are starting an arduous day’s journey, and they’re anxious, wishing they were breaking camp under different circumstances. Dan’s absence hangs over their heads like a thick fog.

  Jerry Wills’s prayer is brief, ardent, strained. He asks for God’s guidance and help through the long day’s journey. He asks that God watch over them and give them strength for what they are about to begin. He asks that He watch over their friend, guide him, and bring him safely home.

  The boys are used to their leader’s words, but this morning they ring with special urgency. Before, their requests for God’s blessings were general, maybe even typical, given their adventure. Today the boys and Tim Jones murmur with Jerry Wills, sincere in their entreaties. They close with a collective “Amen,” and break silently for their canoes.

  “We have to get nearer,” Jerry Wills finally says, thinking about their phone, worried about the long portage and paddle in front of them. “Let’s cross into Other Man and give it another try.”

  Dan Stephens fights through alder, cedar, black ash, and tamarack. As the day heats up the bugs rise to meet him. He pushes through the muck of lowland swamps, struggling to find a clear rise. For most of the morning he wanders through a marsh, vaguely aware that he needs to move south, needs to keep hiking, following the drainage. He believes if he follows the drainage, it will empty into the Man Chain, and eventually he’ll pick up a passing canoe group, maybe his own. Twice he rises to tree-covered outcrops, thankful for the light breeze and marginally better view.

  He still feels groggy. He knows he has to keep taking water. Whenever he finds a clear pool or light-running stream, he kneels to drink. The rangers at the Cache Bay Station told him the Quetico waters are high this year, and for that he is thankful.

  He develops a rhythm, walking through the brush. He uses his pine pole alternately as an walking stick and parting tool. When he is walking through thick brush, he swings the bottom tip out and under limbs, branches, or grass. Then he parts them by swinging his hand and holding the stick wide to the right or left as he passes. Sometimes he fashions a second stick from wilderness windfall. In thick areas he uses two sticks to part whatever lies in front of him. But he is careful to keep his head up, periodically scanning for the next best landmark toward which to move. He wants to be able to see anything that rises in front of him before it becomes a problem. And he struggles to keep hiking in a southwesterly direction through brush that sometimes appears thick as a living room wall.

  On this day he begins noticing bear scat, some of it moist. When hiking in Appalachia, Dan encountered plenty of bears. He prefers to let them know he’s coming. Twice in the past he has surprised a mother bear with cubs and was able to back away from the snarling she-bear. He would prefer avoiding any confrontation in these woods, so far from any hope of assistance and in such tight quarters.

  Truth is, the day is almost a carbon copy of yesterday, with a few notable exceptions. He is lost, hungry, tired, muddle-headed, and not entirely sure where he is, or which way is south. His feet ache, and he is damn hungry. He cannot ever remember being this hungry. He feels his stomach tighten.

  He comes to a tiny circular island in the sea of grass and water, about ten feet in diameter. He has a small binocular lens. He gathers some grass and kindling, and tries to use his lens to focus the sun into a fiery laser point. But after several minutes he hasn’t even produced a smoky wisp.

  He doesn’t consider fire by friction. He’s had experience with the technique, and knows that without a good hand socket—something he doesn’t have the materials to build—rubbing sticks together is a useless, blistering endeavor.

  He was hoping a small fire would raise his spirits. If he fed it long enough others might see it at night, or see the smoke. Now he abandons the idea, gets up, keeps moving.

  For the Scouts, the remaining mile down Bell Lake is a relatively easy paddle. From the narrow point of its southwestern end they hurriedly cross a shallow twenty-one-rod portage into another nameless lake. The cool morning air quickens their efforts.

  Once in the smaller lake, they need to hug the left shore, turning south. It is a half-mile paddle around a point with hidden reefs. Due south of the point there is an island with jutting trees. Surrounded by a morning mist, the island looks eerie against the southern shore, but it tells them their brief four-rod portage should be just ahead.

  This portage is low and marshy. The three bowmen get out and pull their canoes across the narrow, eighty-foot spit. They are thankful they don’t have to unpack and carry. They make good time and come into another nameless spread of water—another small connecting lake.

  This one has a small island in the middle. They stay to the right of the island, continuing due south, searching for two jutting points of land that almost connect. They need to thread those points and cross a narrow bay to their next portage. They find the points, pass over water less than a hundred feet wide, and see the south shore rise before them.

  From the lake the thirty-nine-rod portage is easy to locate. The land rises up and the path over the escarpment is clear. At this hour they are warming to their familiar routine. They know how to divide their tasks, and their supplies and burdens are fewer. But this portage starts out with a vertical climb over a solid granite wall, as though the wilderness is throwing another obstacle in their path. The wall ends in a narrow granite ridgeback, crosses high over the water, and then plunges down the opposite side into a brief swamp before ending in the next lake.

  On top of the crest Tim sets down his can
oe and brings up the pack with the radio phone. Since leaving camp they have spent more than an hour paddling and portaging. They are much higher here—and farther south. Their location might make a difference.

  He switches on the device. The indicator light blinks on, and the familiar, muted, white noise hums through the receiver. He tries three times, but there is no response.

  “It’s the distance,” Jerry surmises, disappointed. “We’ve got to get closer.”

  In spite of the portage—one of the most difficult they’ve tackled—they work hard and fast, ferrying canoes and packs in silence. There is a small point of land that extends into the lake beyond where they enter. They glide over the water, crossing around the point to look down the long, open water of Other Man.

  To reach the next portage, they need to push down the lake’s length. The day is warming. A light breeze rises at their backs. The lake’s surface ripples, but the waves are not high enough to impede their paddling, and the wind eases their efforts. They have two miles of blue water and islands; on any other day they would revel in its magnificence. They are on the north shore, the correct one for crossing. Tim Jones and his crew in the lead canoe start off along the heavy forest edge, thankful for the freshet that helps move their canoes along.

  They take well over an hour to paddle down the two-mile length of Other Man. Thankfully, the portage into This Man Lake is open and easy to find. At forty-nine rods, the trail is longer than their first, but it is low, flat, straight—an easy crossing. This Man Lake is almost three times longer than Other Man. They struggle down the start of its length, hugging the northern shoreline. At 10:30, the sun is well off the horizon and the breeze makes a small chop across the water, but they remain thankful for the wind at their backs.