Deeply fatigued, he knows he is probably not reasoning as well as he should, but he suspects the trail is just the other side, waiting for him. He examines the boggy surface. He finds again what he thinks is a viable path. Thankfully, this bog is half the width of the preceding one. He steps, tests, and then moves carefully across it. In twenty minutes he reaches the other side.
Again, he breathes relief, contemplating the rise in front of him, knowing there is no other way but up. More tired than he can ever recall, he looks down at his compass and sees he is still heading due south, just as he suspected. He pushes through the heavy brush, climbs the small rise, and comes out on top.
He’s very tired now. He knows he should stop, but he wants to recover the trail. He feels disappointed he has not found it. The hike ahead appears clearer. Up here there is a solid granite dome covered over with caribou moss and lichen. There’s some grass. And then it opens up wide and clear for at least thirty yards.
As he moves forward, the clouds part. For the first time all day a discernible blue gap opens in the otherwise gray and white cover. It’s misty, but definitely blue. And then the sun breaks out, shining on Jason’s small clear island in the middle of the brush. He looks up, bathing in it. If he were religious, he would interpret it as a sign. Even though he’s not, he will still interpret it as a sign. He moves forward a few steps, and down the other side he sees a long lake.
He doesn’t remember a lake on the map. He didn’t think he would be coming in contact with a lake, but this one is definitely different from the one he has already seen twice today, the one far behind him.
This place, bathed in the sun over the long, narrow stretch of water, is beautiful. It is the first truly open patch of ground he has encountered all day. He revels in being unencumbered by thicket and brush.
It is almost 4:00, and he knows he is far too tired to continue hiking. It occurs to him that this is the first place he has been all day that appears to be a reasonable campsite. And why not? Why not camp here for the rest of the day? Get out of these wet clothes. Pitch his tent. He is too tired to gather wood for a fire, and besides, after last night’s rain, the firewood is still wet. But he can cook some food, and he is near all the water he can drink.
Thinking of food and water he realizes he is starving, and thirsty. His mouth feels like it’s lined with cotton. He pulls his water bottle out of his pack, bathing in the sunlight, and finishes his water. He takes off his pack. He has decided to stay. He is too tired to keep moving. He can continue south tomorrow, after he’s well rested and fed. Jason suspects the trail is just the other side of this lake. He’ll have a look at the Hiking Minnesota map and find this lake, now that he has a good landmark.
Within an hour his camp is set up, he has filtered more water, drunk his fill, and his WhisperLite is cooking another fine meal—stroganoff and noodles. The smell is savory, ambrosial. He is dry, warm, and ready to eat. For the first time that day, he feels relatively good. But he is exhausted. Now that he’s secure, with the tent beside him and his meal starting to simmer, he can take stock of himself.
Waiting for his dinner to be done, he pulls the disposable camera out of his pack and snaps a photo of his tent on the rise. The tent’s mosquito-net door is zipped shut. Not that he needs it. The afternoon light appears brilliant after his long amble through the gray woods. He has taken all his wet clothes—two pairs of socks, shirt, pants—and laid them across the tent’s peak. The extra weight of the sodden clothes sags the tent sides, but it’s plenty strong enough to hold.
Jason’s tent on rise over water (courtesy Jason Rasmussen)
He turns around and takes a picture of the water through a small stand of spruce. The far lakeshore is buffered by a twenty-foot-wide marshy border. The area beyond the marsh is thick with spruce and fir.
The body of water east of Jason’s tent (courtesy Jason Rasmussen)
He moves down through the spruce stand, closer to where the slope of his moss-covered hilltop slides down into the lake. Then he takes a picture of the lake disappearing into the distant trees.
The water is still and almost perfectly clear, and he can see the shallow, leaf-strewn bottom. An old beaver lodge sits near the middle of the narrow lake. He turns and takes a picture in the opposite direction, where the lake bends to the right around two narrow hillocks of spruce. Beyond the narrow opening, the water appears to empty into a large marsh.
He hikes up the small rise to his tent and his dinner. He cannot remember feeling this kind of tiredness. He knows that as soon as the stroganoff is finished, as soon as he has eaten his fill, he is going to crawl into his mummy bag and slip into well-deserved oblivion.
10
First Word
Ely, Minnesota, and Quetico Provincial Park, Thursday, August 6, 1998
Twenty miles outside Ely, Minnesota, up Moose Lake Road, the Sommers Canoe Base main lodge and building complex lies nestled in deep woods. In summer the only visible trace of the base from Moose Lake is the radio tower rising above the trees. The signal ends in the main lodge, a heavy log structure built in 1942 by Finnish craftsmen.
An attendant is nodding over paperwork. It’s 2:29 in the afternoon, one full hour after a late lunch. In many countries it’s time for a nap. But at Sommers the afternoon is drawing out slow and hot. The FM radio receiver crackles, sending a signal across the office. Seldom does the receiver make even a pop. And then the attendant hears a scratchy voice.
“801C,” the voice comes over the console, faint, but plenty clear enough to hear. The attendant writes it on a piece of paper. “No Man Lake portage,” he notes. “About to enter That Man.” He knows the phone is only for emergencies—an infrequent occurrence. He crosses to the console and presses the transmit button.
“This is Sommers Base Camp. Come in, Group 801C.”
Then he releases the button, waiting for a response. The group repeats its number, adding its location.
“We copy, 801C,” the attendant repeats. “What’s up? Over.”
But the group doesn’t answer. And then the line goes dead.
The attendant takes the cryptic message to Doug Hirdler, the camp’s general manager. Hirdler has been working at the base long enough to have witnessed most kinds of emergencies. Usually it is a bad sprain or a knife cut. But nobody uses the phone unless there’s something to report. Hirdler starts to worry.
“Just keep tracking it,” he instructs. “See if they send anything else.” He gets up to chew over the news with Joe Mattson, the camp’s program director. When they look to see who is leading Group 801C, they’re reassured. Dan Stephens, one of their best. Whatever comes up, Dan will know what to do. Still, the phone is for emergencies, and knowing Dan is guiding that group doesn’t entirely calm them.
While That Man Lake is almost as long as This Man Lake, islands cross its middle, making a sail impossible. The Chattanooga group enters the water and starts the long hard pull down its length. They have almost reached the halfway point. It doesn’t take long for their aches to return. They bend their backs and arms into it, straining against the paddles.
The wind remains behind them, assisting their efforts. Tim Jones murmurs a prayer of thanks and feels as though God is watching over them, giving them assistance at a time when their spirits are flagging.
They make slow progress. They pass by the big islands, keeping to the northern shore. It is a hard three miles. At least the lake is long, narrow, and straight. If they stay along the north shore, they should paddle straight to the portage.
At their last portage they rummaged through their supplies to find the right map: F-11: Snowbank, Knife, Kekekabic Lakes. They’ve seen the portage that awaits them. At 136 rods, it will be the day’s longest. The two fathers don’t look forward to the haul, particularly as the afternoon stretches out before them. They are all tired, and they can see the younger boys st
ruggling with the effort. Jerry Wills is particularly fatigued, but there is no alternative. He appreciates these Scouts. In the last twenty-four hours they have done everything they’ve been asked to do, and more. Now they bend into the hard labor, fully aware of the long portage ahead of them.
There is a narrow connecting river between the two lakes, but in places the water drops over some small falls and the white water foams. Their portage ambles along the southern side of the river, concealed in the trees. They can hear the water rushing when they make the crossing. They struggle with canoes, packs, and paddles. Thankfully, it is relatively straight and clear, with few rises or drops. The gradual descent to their next lake—Sheridan—is a long hike, but manageable.
The group pauses and rests at the end of the portage. Some of them grab fistfuls of gorp, washing it down with water. After fifteen minutes they launch their canoes into Sheridan. They cross it in silence, making slow progress across the water. It reaches a short mile south, bending around a spit of land and turning almost due south to their next portage into Carp Lake.
After another hour they locate the fifteen-rod portage, and thankfully it is an easy crossing. The Scouts are tired. They’ve made remarkable time coming down from Bell, but they are weary from the long haul. Still, they know they must keep pushing.
They enter Carp Lake and after fifteen minutes paddle around a small island just outside the portage bay. Jerry Wills raises one tired hand to rub his sternum. As if in answer he sees a silver flash from down the long lake surface in front of him. It is another canoe party. He calls out to the others, and they squint into the blue afternoon, watching the same silver flash across the water. Then they dig in their paddles to close the distance before them.
Dan Stephens crawls out of the deep channel and knows he has to get himself dry. He climbs a small ridge to get out of the swamp. A light breeze gives him temporary respite from the insect swarm. The sun warms him. He takes off his clothes and hangs them in nearby bushes where the afternoon breeze will dry them.
He sits down, naked, starting to realize he had better stay put until his head clears. He’s starting to feel better. It is as though the wilderness stream bathed his entire body in dark tea, and the total immersion is having a clarifying effect. Gradual lucidity begins to wash over him, dissipating his muddled thinking. He sits for a while, resting.
After several minutes there is a sudden onrush of clarity, as though someone has switched a light on in his brain. Its illumination is startling. He remembers his Tennessee group, the start of their trip, their journey north, the canoe race. He recalls their search for the unnamed portage, and his cloverleaf in the cedar swamp.
It all tumbles forward and with sickening clarity he realizes he should have remained in the rocks where he fell, stayed until his head cleared. Instead, he started walking, bushwhacking deeper into the woods, his path aimless and ill-defined, hiking into the wilderness with only a half-wit’s sense of direction and a vague plan.
He remembers the Fisher map. He gave his compass and map to young David. He tries to recall the wide yellow swath north of Bell Lake—at least ten miles of wilderness before reaching another noticeable body of water, a course that would take him much farther into the woods. If he had hiked north, he would have moved deeper into the Quetico, making his chances of being found, of surviving, nearly impossible. But he feels certain he is headed south.
He knows they must be looking for him. He curses the stupor that made him leave those rocks. He feels a brief surge of shame for having put himself in this predicament. He imagines the call to his parents, their understandable worry. But he is okay. He is all right now. For the first time since falling he feels clear headed, and he knows he can find his own way out of the Quetico bogs.
He takes stock of himself. He is wearing shorts, a polyester shirt, a deflated polyurethane life vest, and light hiking shoes. He has a collapsible canteen, a knife, lip balm, some string, pocket binoculars, sunscreen, and a small roll of duct tape. His legs are badly abraded. His scratched eye is bleary. His shoes, soaked and filthy, cover over one of the worst cases of trench foot he has ever seen. Hiking is just as he expected—painful.
He takes off his shoes and tries to dry his feet in the afternoon sun. He allows himself one brief moment of self-pity.
“I need a plan,” he says out loud. “And I will sit here until I figure one out.”
The sun is still two hours from setting. Two-thirds up the hillside the rock is open and warm. But he can already feel the onset of coolness with the fading day. Last night it must have dropped below sixty, and the mosquitoes were so bad he slept fitfully, if at all.
Dan likes his position on the hillside. He is high and open enough to keep the bugs at bay—at least until dusk. He faces near west, where he’ll soak in the day’s last rays. And in the morning he can crest the ridge and walk to the other side to warm himself in the rising sun.
He takes another reading. He finds a long stick, locates the westerly sun, and lays the stick in a clear east-west direction. He knows he has to move south. He looks in that direction. The hill slopes down to a long, thick valley where it bellies out for a half mile before rising to another ridge. In the morning, he will hike to the next ridge. He doesn’t look forward to crossing that bush, but he has to move south. He recollects the map. He remembers the yellow and blue swatches north of the Canadian border. The lakes form a straggling northeast-to-southwest band. Below Bell Lake the yellow is almost solid to Ottertrack. Ottertrack Lake is a familiar, well traveled canoe route.
He has to make it to Ottertrack. Once at Ottertrack, he will wait, forage whatever food he can, and intercept another canoe group. Dan Stephens doesn’t like the notion, but he knows he can make it to the shores of the long border lake, where he will eventually encounter another group.
“What other choice is there?” he mutters.
He is thinking clearly now. He will stop making mistakes. He begins to lay out the next day’s travel. He will force himself to take a water break every ninety minutes. He will keep himself well hydrated. At every water break he will double-check his direction. He will forage whatever berries he can find. And there are bugs. He has read about survival, how most bugs have high protein and fat content. If need be, he will forage bugs.
He needs shelter for the evening. Rain and the mosquitoes could seriously diminish his reserves, and he knows he has to sleep, to replenish energy for tomorrow’s trek. He looks over the hillside, fingering his knife.
Midway down the hill he finds a widow-maker birch. He recalls the reason for the tree’s nickname: When high winds or storms break off a tree’s top dead branches, the trunk fills up with seep water. The tree rots from the inside out, the bark remaining to the end. Anyone who tries to fell a widow maker topples a pile of logs heavy as cement bricks. But he thinks about the bark, one of nature’s most waterproof substances. The natives used it for canoes, water baskets, drinking vessels, even their shelters.
He puts on his boxer shorts, shoes, and shirt, and limps toward the dead birch. He pushes in his knife, and after piercing the bark it sinks easily into rotting wood. But Dan doesn’t want the wood. He busies himself cutting and peeling three long circles of bark from the dead tree.
11
A Plan to Recover the Trail
Northeast of the Pow Wow Trail, Wednesday, October 24, 2001
In the morning Jason awakens to a light rain pattering on his tent fly. He opens his eyes to the gray light, comfortable and warm in his mummy bag. Then he rolls over, closes his eyes and listens. The drops make small pelting sounds directly overhead. He feels as though he is completely alone in the universe. The immediacy of having a paper-thin layer of nylon between himself and wild woods makes him feel alive.
He feels a satisfying ache that leads him to quickly recall yesterday’s trek. As he comes more fully awake he remembers his long peregrinati
on through the woods. He can feel the dull muscle ache from yesterday’s heavy hauling through wet brush. It is the kind of stiffness that reminds him of the value of hard exercise. But he doesn’t want to feel that level of discomfort again—wet, cold, and bone-tired.
Warm and dry in his mummy bag, he is not thinking about being lost and is certainly not awaiting rescue. He has plenty of water, food, and shelter. If he is careful with his supplies, he could last two weeks, though it would never come to that. With a fire, and the bright tent on the treeless escarpment, a plane could easily find him. It would be over in a day.
But he is not yet ready to concede being entirely lost, and after all, it is only Wednesday. He is still disappointed with himself over carelessly losing his Fisher map, but he knows he has plenty of time to find his own way out. This morning—rested, warm, and dry—he feels more optimistic than he did yesterday, after a long day wandering through wilderness. The rain outside keeps him tent-bound, but he is happy in his comfortable surroundings. And he will use the time to figure out his whereabouts and make a plan.
He squirms out of the bag, opens the tent flap, and stretches in the light, cold rain. He steps a few paces across the bed of caribou moss. Walking on the moss-covered wet rock is like stepping onto an icy sponge. He looks down over the long, narrow lake in front of him. It is surrounded by the usual thick tree line, the occasional low-hung cedar bent out over its surface. Under the muted sky the lake is slate gray. It appears to stretch more than a quarter mile south. There is mist at the far end of the lake and it looks beautiful in the early morning rain.
But it’s cold outside, and he climbs back in out of the rain and slips into his mummy bag. He pulls the opening up to his neck and waits until his body warms the bag. Then he reaches out, rummages through his pack for a granola bar, and happily munches, washing down the breakfast snack with lake water.
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