It takes an hour and forty minutes for the COs and the boat to converge on the orange object. By the time the COs crash through the woods, the boat crew has already recovered the material, a rectangular piece of heavy, orange nylon. It could be part of a tent. But it appears to have been cut and torn into a long rectangle. And it doesn’t match the lightweight material of any tents the searchers know.
They begin circling the area, but there are no tracks or other signs of movement or habitation. The fabric could have been packed in over the winter ice.
The boat crew is careful to mark the spot. Everyone has the GPS coordinates locked in. The boat begins patrolling up and down the extensive Isabella shoreline, looking for clues. The COs, already in the woods near the site, begin making broad circles in the trees near the shoreline, looking for other signs of Jason’s passing. Other searchers are pulled from nearby bushwhacks and sent in to assist the officers. Pushing through the heavy, difficult terrain makes for a strenuous afternoon. By the end of it neither the boat nor the ground-pounders have turned up anything. It appears the orange swatch fell out of the sky.
Just a few miles from the scene of converging searchers Jason Rasmussen tries to moisten his lips. His mouth is parched and his tongue and throat are dry. Despite the area’s ample snow, this is the third day Jason has tried to sate his thirst with one cup of melted water. He is weary and discouraged, and throughout the day, he is often seized with the urge to lie down and doze. But the repeated droning of an airplane convinces him to stay awake, against the remote chance the pilot flies directly overhead, and, by some divine miracle, looks down the exact moment he raises a weary arm.
He is tired. He cannot remember feeling this weak. His left foot is numb clear up to the arch. He tries to wiggle his toes, but if they move he cannot feel it.
He doesn’t want to stand. He wants to lie down and sleep. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knows “sleep” is a metaphor for death. Sleep—the sleep he contemplates, the one in which he lays down his burden and puts it finally to rest—is not what he wants. Not now. There is too much left for him, too much to do.
Overhead he hears the plane, further south now, well out of view. The wind picks up in the trees, and he listens. Somewhere over the ridge he thinks he hears people talking. He is startled. He is certain there are voices, but he cannot discern their words.
“Down here!” Jason yells. His voice is not much louder than a sparrow’s squawk. He hasn’t uttered a vowel in more than a day. “Here,” he manages, with more emphasis.
And then he listens closely and notices it is only the wind. The wind in the trees is soughing mischief. He listens intently, just to be sure. But there are no voices, only a faint breeze presaging more gray weather.
Later in the day he pulls out his birch-bark letters. He reviews what he wrote to his folks and to Heidi. They are reasonable starts, but they are only beginnings. He needs to say more. He must tell them things. He knows he cannot lie down and sleep—lie down for that final rest in his pine chamber until he has finished these letters.
By the time the day turns dark he is still working on his words. Tired as he is, he knows he must survive another evening. He has to finish the epistles to his family. There is so much to say. He has chosen to begin with the practical—explaining about passwords and accounts, the necessary business of life we take for granted. And then he begins to pick up the reins of his most difficult challenge.
Jason Rasmussen has always been a quiet, private person, but he loves his parents, his little sister, his life. On reflection he knows he has been blessed. In the waning light of the day Jason is overcome with gratitude. He sits on the edge of his log, his feet frozen, his body slowly starving, thirst scratching his throat. He is more tired than he can remember. And he shivers. Shivering has become periodic, routine. He knows his body is slowly growing colder, freezing. But before he lays down his bark, placing the letters out of harm’s way, Jason feels a kind of grace he cannot recall. He tells his parents he has had a good life, a great life.
By early evening several of the searchers have decided to call it a day. A few decide to wait for the dogs. Search and rescue episodes have a life of their own. This one has already far exceeded the ordinary span devoted to most of these undertakings. But Jason’s car sits in the lot, a constant reminder that he is out there—somewhere. And in spite of their poor luck, they have a clear sense of where he went into the woods and his intended route. He is still out there. The knowledge has sustained them long beyond a normal search and rescue. Finding the orange swatch blew momentary life into their efforts, gave them hope. Though it proved to be nothing, it had re-energized them. Now the dogs—new searchers with fresh perspectives and hounds—are about to have the same effect. People are looking forward to working with the dogs.
After an early dinner BJ and John, still pursuing their single dubious clue, decide to canoe along the southern Isabella shoreline and take a spin up Perent River and Pow Wow Creek, all the way to the Ferne Lake portage.
They set off at 4:00, just about the time the sun is hanging low above the western horizon. It is a cold, three-mile paddle. The map shows no easy traverse to the portage area, at least on foot. But it’s an open waterway, and Jason could have changed his mind. If he hiked toward Isabella, then around the southern shore, or through the southern woods, he may have been able to bushwhack to the location. It’s doubtful, but in the last three days they have checked all the obvious places. They have hiked the entire trail. They haven’t yet been up Superstition Spur, but they’ve scheduled a crew to get in tomorrow. They have examined all the areas around the trail. Now they are waiting for the dogs.
John and BJ are gone until well after dark. Throughout the day the temperature—mild in the morning and midday—has taken a cold plunge. The canoeing pair notices the drop. The edges of Perent River start to crystallize. But they make the Ferne Lake portage by dusk and decide to hike the 252 rods into the lake, just to be certain. But there is nothing. And by the time they return to their canoe, it is dark.
Back in the communications center, Pete Walsh is worried about the couple. He checks in by radio every ten to fifteen minutes. By the time the couple has paddled down the length of the Perent River, the water is starting to freeze. They have to break their way through the ice with paddles and the aluminum canoe bow.
At around 6:30 PM, Pete Walsh calls the canoeing couple for a regular checkup.
“This is IC, calling John and BJ. How’s that paddle coming?” he asks.
He waits several moments for a response, but there is none. He waits a little longer before repeating, “This is IC, calling John and BJ. Give us a call back, eh?”
But there is still no response. Pete starts to worry, counting the minutes between calls.
Search and rescue personnel often count the highest incidence of lost or hurt people among their own. And with so many searchers on this case—already over forty, Pete guesses, and there are going to be more—it is practically inevitable that one of them will be hurt, stranded or lost. He is already thinking about who he can send out after them.
Then the radio crackles back. “We’re still here,” BJ says. “Must have hit a low spot. We lost your signal for a second.”
Pete Walsh is elated to hear her voice. “Those are about the sweetest words I’ve heard today,” he says. There is a collective chuckle over the air waves.
“It’s tough going,” BJ explains. “The ice is thickening up fast. But we should be back within a half hour, I expect.”
At around 7:00 PM, just about the time BJ and John return, Central Lakes Search and Rescue is on the scene. They have three teams, and one communication support person. Their three dogs are certified: one for tracking, and two air- scenting dogs. BJ remembers from her discussions with the handlers that search and rescue dogs come in three types: trackers, air scenters, and cadaver dogs. The tra
ckers are the animals most people imagine, when they think of dogs. Trackers take a person’s specific scent and follow it through the woods. Air scenters, instead of relying on tangible ground crossing, pick up scent molecules in the air, finding anyone who might be in the area. Trackers are sometimes more certain, but air scenters are often easier to work with.
“It depends on the terrain,” Carla Leehy is quick to point out.
Earlier, BJ Kohlstedt (who was given a key to Jason’s car by Steve Van Kekerix) used rubber gloves to open Jason’s trunk and extract one of his shoes. The dogs are given the shoe to pick up Jason’s scent.
“In this country,” Carla continues, “I’d almost rather have an air scenter.” She explains that you follow trackers on their trail, wherever it leads. Dogs, she points out, can often fit through brush holes and thickets a human has to hack through—or crawl through on all fours. The areas around the Pow Wow have thickets that even in early winter form a weave as impenetrable as a Georgia swamp.
BJ and Pete Walsh explain what has already been done. They want one of the crews to head into the area where the orange swatch was found. The other two—the tracker and the air scenter—should start up the trail and see if they can pick up anything. The time is perfect, Carla knows. She and Dale, her husband and the one who is taking their air scenter to Isabella Lake, prefer working at night. So do the dogs. Sherry Wright, the group’s communications person, sets up in the van with Pete and BJ.
Throughout the late evening other dog handlers come on the scene: Wendy Deane with Cassie, a tracker, and Jim Couch with Tanner, who is both a tracker and air scenter. They are both sent out to cover more parts of the trail.
At 11:30 PM, Ken Anderson and Jeff Hasse finally roll into the trailhead parking lot with their truck full of gear. Neither has ever been to the old Forest Center parking lot. Unless you are a local, it is not an easy place to find. This far north and on the edge of the BWCAW there are few road signs, and the fact that Hasse and Anderson locate the lot in the dark, on their first try, is a testament to the pair’s navigational skills.
Pete Walsh, Pete Smerud, and Sherry are in the communications vehicle. BJ has gone out in the field to assist with one of the dog teams. Ken and Jeff introduce themselves and begin to explain why they’ve arrived and what they can do. The two Petes bring the recent recruits up to date, describing Jason, the search and rescue, and the areas that have already been searched. By this time the entire trail has been covered, and many areas around it, including the northwestern corner of Isabella Lake. Clues are starting to turn as cold as the weather.
Ken and Jeff look at the swatch. Neither of them believes it is from a tent fly. The fabric is too heavy and they have never seen any tents of that particular hue—more of a burnt orange, or orange-red, than the kind of orange you see in the field.
From experience the two search and rescue professionals know coming onto an active scene can be a threat. Depending upon the personalities of those heading up the effort, they can feel welcome, or practically shunned. If welcomed, they are more than ready to take a lead role, helping with theories, communications, cartography, and whatever else the search demands. If shunned, they are happy to serve as ground-pounders in the field.
The two Petes have been on enough of these efforts to know every extra hand is invaluable. The more experienced, the better. When Jeff and Ken begin asking questions about maps and communications, the efforts to date, the overall plan and where the search is heading from here, the two on-site commanders begin to realize these urbanites may not know much about the Pow Wow or its surrounding woods, but they are plenty informed about search and rescue.
The command center vehicle has a laptop with a mapping program hooked to a printer. Pete Smerud is operating the equipment. But when Smerud begins demonstrating its capabilities to Ken Anderson, the hard disk fails. There is a collective gasp in the van. These maps help guide the search and track the areas already covered. Fortunately, Ken Anderson has come prepared. He hooks up his laptop and begins displaying USGS aerial photos of the Pow Wow and surrounding country. He has other mapping programs. The application has the flexibility to focus in close, or from far away. And he can create custom subsections of these maps, writing on them, or highlighting trails and the locations of search teams.
Not long after Anderson gets started, two or three customized maps spit out of the printer. One of them lays out the entire area, highlighting the current Pow Wow Trail and sections of the old trail that they label the North Loop and East Loop. The map joins others on the wall of the incident command center. The cartographers are back in business.
Throughout the night IC is in constant radio contact with the dog teams. They have moved far up the trail and into the woods, but neither the tracking dog nor the air scenters have located any trace of Jason Rasmussen. Around dawn, the teams make their way to pickup points on the trail. They are tired, hungry, and cold, and the ATVs are going to come in and meet them, then ferry them back to home base.
Carla Leehy lets IC know she is at the pickup point. The team sent to fetch her reports that they are at the juncture, but Carla is nowhere to be found. IC begins querying both groups about their surroundings. The juncture at which the Pow Wow begins its circular path is clear and familiar to the ATV folks. Carla Leehy and her team, unfamiliar with the trail or the terrain, only know they are at another juncture in the trail where the main trail seems to connect up with a second path.
Both teams radio in their GPS coordinates, and after Ken Anderson plots them on one of his maps, they see Carla’s position is about a half mile south of the pickup team. Within fifteen minutes the two groups have connected. IC is happy they have been able to solve the problem. But the mishap plants a thought.
Before dawn more ground-pounders have shown up. They are sent off in a multitude of directions. Some up the trail. Some head to the juncture and turn west in a clockwise fashion, searching for signs along the southern border of the loop.
Carla Leehy and the other dog handlers feed their hard-working animals, then have something to eat themselves and lie down in their vehicles to warm themselves and get some badly needed rest.
Crowded into or near IC are Pete Smerud, Ken Anderson, BJ, Pete Walsh, Rebecca Francis, Jeff Hasse, and Sherry Wright. They have worked through possible scenarios for where Jason might have gone. Now that the maps are up on the wall, one of the most likely appears to be along the eastern and northern trails—identified on the map as the Northern Loop and Eastern Loop. In both instances sucker trails lead away from the correct Pow Wow Trail. They surmise it was at one of these sucker trail junctures that, hours earlier, Carla Leehy’s team went astray. And she was sure she was at the right location—the juncture where the trail starts its circular march.
The mistake hasn’t gone unnoticed, and the new theory—the one being mulled over when the radio crackles with a call from the plane—is that Jason was suckered off the main trail by a phantom path.
20
Stephens Finds His Way
Knife Lake, international border, Friday, August 8, 1998
In the first gray light of dawn, Dan Stephens peels back the birch-bark covering and rises in pain to the day. It has been another troubling night. There was the dream, whose details he now recalls as though the map lay on a table in front of him, illumined with a halogen lamp. His legs are painful. His feet burn. And the goddamn carpenter ants have made another meal of him. His scratched eye is taut and bleary.
He’s starting to shiver from the early morning cold, knowing he should get over the crest of his hill. And he has back pain from lying coiled in birch bark and broadleaf on hard ground. Otherwise, he reflects, remembering his plan and yesterday’s solid southern progress, he feels pretty good. He is comforted by his agenda and his ability to adhere to it.
He crosses the ridge, hoping to warm himself in the sun that breaks over the sea of t
rees. He moves around, trying to warm himself, considering his day and the long trek ahead of him.
After he is fully awake he re-crosses the ridgeline and checks his markers. They are all aligned in the early morning light. He looks out across the lowland in front of him, to where the land bellies up to a distant rise. He looks down at his southern pointing stick, double-checking it with the other sticks he meticulously laid out the previous evening, and in the middle of the night, when he rose to piss under the North Star. Their corroboration gives him confidence.
He looks off in the direction of the southern pointer, sighting a high white pine on the distant ridgeline, knowing he will be able to keep it in sight. Then he strikes off down the hillside and starts pushing through more brush.
At first light the OPP rises on the no-name lakeshore. Even before the sun breaks, the members have breakfasted and are in the woods. One team works its way north of camp. Three others spread southward in a fan. Scott Moore climbs into the copter and starts crossing coordinates plotted on the map, methodically searching for any sign. Throughout the morning the ERT covers its grid.
By mid-morning Dan Stephens is ravenous. In a patch of shaded saw grass he finds a lethargic hopper. Between his fingers it is sluggish in its struggle, still cold in the grass. He pops it into his mouth. He chews quickly and swallows, washing it down with water.
It passes so quickly over his tongue that it has the flavor of water with the continued bitter aftertaste of the previous day’s arrowroot. He can feel his body absorb the morsel, and he appreciates the tiny addition to his diet. He knows he is slowly starving, knows he has to find more food. But he has reserves. He will hike today. Tomorrow he will forage and feed. He returns to the shaded grass, walking south. Over the next hour he finds seven more hoppers and pops them into his mouth, washing them down with water.
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