By their own admission, the Chattanooga group had panicked. They left Dan and came south partly from fear, but mostly in a run for help. Some of them should have stayed put, but the two fathers in the group couldn’t decide who should stay and who should go. Besides, they had promised the parents of the kids that they would stay together and keep everyone safe. They thought Dan would be better served by their alerting the proper authorities. And there was the Silver Falls portage. There was no way all of them could have climbed back over that arduous rise of rock and mud, particularly with canoes and equipment. Unbelievable as it sounded, it was faster coming south.
To the others it sounds reasonable enough, unless you considered they have stranded their guide in the middle of the bush with no means of transport, no maps, and a food cache that can’t last. Cathy Antle sometimes reflected on the wide variety of outdoors experience she encountered among the Boy Scouts. Sometimes, like Dan Stephens, they were as savvy as deep woods trappers. Sometimes, like this Chattanooga group, they had no sense of the measure of true wilderness.
But this group had solid reasons for what they had done. They insisted they had come south because they figured the Prairie Portage Station and the Sommers Canoe Base were the best places to turn. And they had paddled like dogs to get here.
Everyone nods in appreciation of their speed and effort. No doubt about it, that was one hell of a paddle. It has to be some kind of novice record, and they can see the group is exhausted, nerves worn thin as bare wires.
Cathy and Carrie have heard enough to radio HQ. After they help the group get settled, the two fathers return to the station. Mattson, Wills, and Jones huddle over the station radio while Cathy makes the call. Static comes over the line, but also a voice—and this time it is clear enough to hear. Dave Maynard, Quetico Park’s operations specialist, sounds cheerful and ready to assist.
“What’s up?” he asks. “How are things at the Prairie Portage?”
“Beautiful, buggy, and busy, as always. Especially to-night,” Cathy says. “We have a group down from Bell Lake say they lost their guide.”
It takes five minutes for Carrie to relate the pertinent details of Stephens’s bizarre disappearance. What Maynard can’t figure out is what the Chattanooga group is doing at Prairie Portage. They should have returned to Cache Bay. He knows valuable time has been lost. Every passing hour expands and complicates a search area.
The Mattson Method is the methodology used for determining the Probability of Area (POA) for every possible search area or route choice a lost person might take, providing he is mobile. Search coordinators compile all known facts about where the person disappeared, who he or she is, and any other corroborating information. The data is used to lay out a search area. All subsequent air and land efforts follow the quadrants laid out in the process.
If Maynard recollects his details correctly, each hour a person is lost expands the POA by five kilometers. More often than not, lost people wander, ignoring the axiom about staying put. This one is a guide, so Maynard hopes he had enough sense to sit still. But it is very odd. No one disappears. People sometimes go missing and are never found, but they’re somewhere—alive or dead.
Something is seriously wrong, and he knows the sooner he can contact the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) and get the Emergency Rescue Team (ERT) involved, the better. This guy has already been gone over a day. If Maynard’s math is correct, that has expanded the search area by over one hundred square kilometers.
He tells everyone in the room to stay by the radio. He is going to contact the Ontario Provincial Police. He knows they will assign a constable to the case, and the constable will have questions. He will have to know the details before he moves it up the line to the shift sergeant. The shift sergeant will have to contact the duty officer. Once the duty officer is briefed on the pertinent details, he or she will decide if ERT’s participation is warranted. Maynard wants to make sure it all happens in record time, because every passing minute matters.
SURVIVAL, SEARCH, & RESCUE
Survivors don’t expect or even hope to be rescued. They are coldly rational about using the world, obtaining what they need, doing what they have to do.
LAURENCE GONZALES
Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why
“Forget it,” he said. “You’ll do someone else a favor sometime. It’s all part of the Big Circle.”
I liked the concept. Because of the nature of bush travel, you often can’t repay those who help you. But you can help somebody else, somewhere down the trail.
Sooner or later, it all comes around again. That’s the Big Circle.
SAM COOK
Up North
13
Linda Rasmussen Worries
Northeast of the Pow Wow Trail, Thursday, October 25, 2001
In the morning Jason awakens to a silent world. He is tucked down inside his dark shelter. His leg still burns and his feet are numb. He blinks and discerns pinpoints of daylight through his woven-branch hatch. It’s quiet outside, almost eerie. He can hear a faint whisper, but he doesn’t think it is wind.
He did a good job covering the trunk opening. Now he pushes on the overhead weave and it dislodges, toppling forward. A light dusting of cold, white powder drops down onto the edges of his tree-trunk hole. It’s snowing! Jason struggles up to the mouth of his opening and the world is blanketed in thick white. The trees and brush and the large stump from which his own sheltering trunk has fallen are smothered with several inches of dry white fluff. The thermometer has taken a wicked turn south. This snow isn’t melting.
At least the howling wind has subsided. He recollects the midnight storm, how he could have been crushed by the felling of one of these old giants. His leg still hurts. His feet grew numb in the deepening cold, and now he cannot feel his toes. He didn’t bring his hat or gloves because he didn’t plan on spending the night in a tree. In a tree! When he considers the cold white world he is beyond shock. What else could happen to him?
But now he has to get up and walk around, stamp his feet, return them to some semblance of normalcy. Normalcy? There is nothing even remotely close to normal about any of this.
When he was young, the first snow was an occasion for happy wonder. Now the weight of the cold presses on his life, as though this is one more rock on the pile, another nail in his coffin, another place where the wide sanity of the world is slipping.
He recognizes almost nothing about the muffled landscape in front of him, and he knows there is no returning. To try to turn back through this field of white, through woods where no trace of yesterday’s journey remains—where he would be unable to tell if he was walking over a bog, a flat forest opening, or his grave—is unthinkable. The deepening of his predicament is devastating. He tries to focus on his surroundings, to distract himself.
When the huge pine toppled over—probably in one of those wind storms, Jason suspects—part of the tree’s side splintered away from the trunk and remained connected to the ten-foot-high stump. The rest of the tree fell away. But the slab of splintered siding formed a long, wide, bark overhang. It extends from the stump to the top of the fallen tree. It is like a giant, rough-hewn tent awning, and in this snow it provides some cover over the ground in front of him.
Jason struggles out onto the bare patch of ground. He stamps his feet. His breath clouds the air. His hands are very cold. His feet are numb, and he continues walking in a narrow circle near the tree opening, stamping his frozen boots. Gradually, the movement warms him. At least enough to allow him to walk off ten paces and relieve himself.
But to get there he has to walk through snow. Normally it might be fun wading through the season’s first good accumulation. Now all he can think of is the way the white powder sticks to his boots and lower pant legs, melting and forming a thin layer of deadly ice.
From the vantage of
ten feet of distance he turns and looks at the woods in which his narrow hovel stands. Under the snow, the woods form a thick wall of white. There are a few large pines still standing, similar to the one that now lies on the ground in front of him. But most of them have toppled, either in last night’s storm or in the notorious July 1999 storm. Around them the open forest floor is thick with new pine growth. Much of it is Christmas tree– sized, some of it taller, some smaller. Taller poplar trunks rise out of the green pine understory. There is a thick red pine near the backside of his hollowed-out tree. Otherwise the world is a smothering blanket of white.
Jason tries to take stock of himself and his wintry abode. He has to consider the unthinkable: hiking out and trying to find his tent. He needs his food. He needs matches. He knows his only chance of getting truly warm is to find that tent.
He gathers his water bottle and places it in his waist pack. But the truth is, he has no idea which way to turn. His tent, he knows, could lie north or south. He is looking for a good, open rise above the lake, just on the other side of a bog. He is hoping he can recall the location by sight, but he wonders at the world’s transfiguration. Trees are covered. Saplings heavy with snow are bowed over near the ground. He figures that yesterday he must have passed east or west of the lake and then traveled north beyond it. He takes a compass reading south and starts hiking.
He’s soon wet from his effort. Pushing through the snowy terrain only makes him colder. And the world is so different. Nothing looks familiar. Finally, he is forced to retrace his tracks and return to his hollowed-out tree.
He survived last night. The tree should provide shelter for another day. At least he has shelter, he thinks, remembering his book’s clear delineation of the basic requirements of survival.
Today is Thursday. He won’t be coming home. He hopes his mom remembers his admonition just three days earlier. If they don’t hear from him by Thursday night, call the Lake County sheriff’s office.
He realizes the best he can do now is try and stay warm, to conserve both his energy and his heat. For now, he has plenty of water. And he can always melt snow. He pulls up his water bottle and takes a long drink. He’s hungry. He doesn’t want to think about it, but the empty gnawing in his stomach is difficult to ignore. He still has a can of tuna, some crackers, and the rest of the water.
He cannot stay out in this weather for long. It is still snowing, and he cannot afford to get wet. That would be inviting hypothermia. Hypothermic people don’t think clearly. They make stupid decisions, Jason knows. They die.
After the feeling has returned to his feet and toes, he turns back into his hollowed-out home.
Jason’s tree at dusk (courtesy Jason Rasmussen)
Later, in the afternoon, he rummages through his pack and extracts one pair of crackers. He eats them carefully, one at a time. He sips water in between the satisfying bites, knowing they will be his only food today. He decides to save the tuna. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be out here. Probably tomorrow, he thinks. They will probably send people out tomorrow. Certainly they will find him then.
He waits until late afternoon before turning back out into the nearby bushes. He has noted the spots where his shelter is weakest, where holes and cracks in its sides and top let through water or wind or the cold air. He takes pains to make his shelter more snug, covering over the top with a latticework of cut pine boughs. He stacks splintered wood near the sides. He plugs the holes as well as possible, from both inside and out.
Throughout the day the cold presses down, holding the entire region in an icy grip. His hands ache from working outside over the tree. When darkness finally comes, he is ready to return to the narrow confines of his wooden cave. Tomorrow, he thinks, pulling the mesh of pine boughs over the trunk opening. He feels certain they’ll come for him tomorrow.
Over two hundred and fifty miles south, in West Bloomington, Minnesota, Linda Rasmussen is anxious to get home. The kindergarten teacher is helping chaperone a roller- skating party with her school’s kids and their families. She enjoys the work, likes teaching children. It suits her disposition, her patience, and natural empathy. But right now all she can think of is the end of the party—in just moments—and a trip home to hear about her son’s adventure.
If Jason gets home early, Lee will hear the entire saga: what it was like, where he camped, what he saw, words about the weather, and Jason won’t want to repeat it. She knows Lee. If she asks for the trip details, Lee will say, “Sounds like he had a good time.”
So she hurries to her car. She covers the distance from party to home, anxious to see her son, to hear about his trip. The first thing Linda Rasmussen notices is the absence of Jason’s Saturn. She hasn’t missed his stories—but she is not entirely happy about it. All day she had been on a field trip with her kids at the Minnesota Zoo. Although the weather was a blizzarding, sideways slant, she was unconcerned about Jason, because she knew he was already out of the woods and on his way home. Then after school she returned home, and Jason still hadn’t arrived, or left a message. Now, after 8:00 PM, he is still not home. She pulls into the garage, knowing there will be a message from him—that he is running late, probably because of the storm.
She is a little concerned, but tries to consider the positive side. Now she will hear all the wonderful details of his remarkable northern trek. Lee is downstairs watching television.
“Any word from Jason?” she asks, coming into their kitchen.
“Nothing,” Lee yells back. “When did he say he was coming home?”
Linda is surprised. The absence of a message worries her. She tries to recall the details of her conversation with Jason prior to his departure, the one here in their kitchen. She places her coat over a chair.
Outside, it is clear, but blustery. The snow has long since ended, and by tomorrow—weather reports indicate—a warming trend will most likely melt the small accumulation. Neither Lee nor Linda worries about the weather, since it has been a relatively warm fall and the last few days have been mild. Jason was careful to pack for the possibility of colder northern woods. And right now they don’t know that the storm up north was much worse than the weather in the Cities. For all they know, Jason has been enjoying the same unseasonable warmth.
“He said sometime later today,” she finally answers.
“Was he going to get home this late?” Lee wonders.
Linda tries to think. Details like this one, told to her four days ago when she wasn’t completely focusing, are sometimes difficult to recall. At the time she remembers there was little reason to worry. Jason was organized, is organized. He is careful and he was more than a little prepared—with two maps and a good trail description, a clear idea about where he was heading and where he planned to camp each day.
She remembers looking over his map. And that causes her to recall the detail about the only optional part of his plan—a possible side hike up the Superstition Trail Spur. She remembers Jason talking about the spur. If he had enough time, he was going to hike it.
And now that she is recalling details, another one shakes loose. She is certain she remembers Jason telling her that he would call them Thursday afternoon.
She walks downstairs. Lee is sitting on the left side of their corner couch, waiting for the 9:00 PM news, killing time.
“No messages?” she asks, wanting to be sure.
“Nothing,” Lee says. She can tell from his voice he’s concerned, a little edgy, worried about their son.
“I’m going to call,” she finally says.
She doesn’t know what the sheriff can do, but she knows that by now she should have heard from her son. The storm complicates his absence, but she remembers Jason’s admonition.
“If I’m not home by Thursday night, call the sheriff.”
The Lake Country Sheriff’s office is six blocks off Highway 61, in Two Harbors, twenty miles up th
e North Shore from Duluth. With just 3,600 inhabitants, Two Harbors isn’t a big town. The highway cuts through the middle of it. Grouped along the highway are restaurants, gift shops, a couple of liquor stores, gas stations, bait shops, and the usual assortment of establishments catering to the tourist trade. On the far northeastern end of town sits a Dairy Queen. Turn right at the DQ, drive six blocks to Third Avenue, turn right again, and the sheriff’s office and jail sit in a squat, yellow brick facility next to the county courthouse.
Two Harbors, home of Agate Bay—billed as the busiest harbor north of Duluth—is also the county seat for the second-largest county in Minnesota, at least in terms of land mass. With over 2,000 square miles, the county covers over half the state’s northeastern Arrowhead Region. It runs from Two Harbors, over fifty miles up the North Shore of Lake Superior to the Cook County line, just northeast of Little Marais. From this southern border it plunges north in a broad, straight swath to the Canadian border.
Over three-fourths of the county is comprised of four state parks, the Superior National Forest, and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. The populated quarter is mostly made up of small towns like Knife River, Two Harbors, Beaver Bay, Silver Bay, and Little Marais, all hugging the frigid waters of Superior’s North Shore. There are 11,058 citizens in the entire county. Except for Finland, Isabella, and Fall Lake—tiny inland communities—the vast majority of people live on the North Shore. Everyone is surrounded by trees.
At 8:38, Linda Rasmussen’s call comes through to the on-duty dispatcher. Linda explains about Jason’s hike, that he was due back hours ago. She tells the dispatcher where he was going, how long he planned on being away, and his final directive.
Missing persons are law enforcement’s stock in trade. The dispatcher takes down the information. Then she explains about the weather, particularly further north. There is some snow, but it’s not too bad—at least by Northern Minnesota standards. She should be able to get a vehicle up in that area before too long. She will check on Jason’s car and get back to the Rasmussens, probably within the hour.
Lost in the Wild Page 13
