“We capsized, but we’re all right. Don’t try to land,” Bill Watts yelled. His voice was anguished, filled with all the things that were impossible to convey with words: terror at what had happened, joy at the sight of the men, remorse and guilt for being the driver of the capsized vessel. The men in the canoe felt a similar combination of emotions, but above all else was relief. They hadn’t lost anyone. But there wasn’t time to allow any celebration just yet—they still needed to get the men back to the mainland.
Ignoring Watts’s warning, Fialko steered the canoe around to the side of the island and tried to find a spot between the jutting rocks to land. A low promontory formed a sort of slip that the canoe could just squeeze into, and Fialko used it as a precarious landing spot while Doug Sohn jumped out and ran to his freezing crew members. After just a few minutes he came back with the report that everyone was all right, but they needed the emergency kit with matches and flares and more gear to get warm. As Sohn ran back and forth between the men and the canoe, the three remaining paddlers fought the waves to keep the canoe from being battered to kindling. Wave after wave poured into the boat and it was all Marr could do to bail out the water as fast as it came in.
But Fialko was more concerned for the boys on shore than he was with the state of his boat. He ordered Bardwell to head in and help Sohn get a fire going, then bring back whoever seemed to be in the worst shape. Bardwell shot out, forcing his way through the dense foliage and gathering sticks for a fire as he went along. There wasn’t much ground to cover to reach the capsized crewmen, but the foliage was so thick on the island that it was impossible to follow the same path twice, and he was constantly crashing through the bracken. He found the four young men in two sleeping bags, all of them almost naked, their hair still wet. Bardwell stacked the lumber in a pile to start a fire, but the matches from his boat’s emergency pack were wet. He and Sohn decided that the next best option was to use one of the flares to get the fire going, and soon a small pile of sticks was crackling, shedding heat on the grateful, frozen survivors of the capsizing. It was obvious that Garcia was coldest of all the men, so Bardwell bundled him up and led him out to Fialko’s canoe. As soon as he saw the teenager, Fialko knew he was in no state to be carried back to Washington Island in a canoe half-full of icy water. He told Bardwell to keep Garcia by the fire and get him warmer and send along whoever seemed least affected instead. Randy Foster soon appeared and took Bardwell’s spot in the boat. The canoe shoved away from the island, leaving Bardwell on shore with the others so that he could make sure they got as warm as possible and carry the gear they’d managed to salvage from the wreck to the shoreline.
All the while, Bardwell’s mind hovered somewhere between terror and exhilaration. The adrenaline rush was like nothing he’d ever known before. Instead of panicking or feeling overwhelmed, he moved from one task to another quickly and efficiently, knowing that the lives of three other men depended on him and his ability to function. There was no time to question what might happen next or what might go wrong. He simply had to act and solve each problem that arose until everyone was finally safe.
Back on shore, the men waited impatiently to catch sight of Fialko’s canoe. They passed around a pair of binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of the canoe or the missing men, but were unable to distinguish much of anything apart from the white-capped waves and the rough shoreline of Hog Island. After some time, one of the men finally sighted an overturned canoe floating away to the south and Fialko’s canoe coming back. The sight of it was enough to spur them to action. If any of the teenagers were in the water, they’d need more than one boat to carry them back to shore. Dick Stillwagon and Terry Cox immediately decided they’d be far more useful on the water than staying on land, even if it meant putting more men at risk of capsizing. They put two more crews together and unloaded half the gear in the canoes they’d be taking so that there would be room for any extra men. Then it was back out into the gale to bring back the men on Hog Island.
As soon as Cox got into a canoe to help with the rescue mission, he realized he’d left his mittens on shore. His hands were already hardening up in the frigid wind. It wasn’t that he minded the discomfort. Even before coming on the expedition, he’d been familiar with pain. It was a requirement for gymnasts. Training your body to do things it wouldn’t normally do was by no means a painless process. He didn’t like the cold weather and the effects it had on his body, but he could deal with it. He just couldn’t believe he’d forgotten something so essential after three months of living as a voyageur.
Then again, everyone had been a little addled by the morning’s events. Ken, wearing nothing but his soaking underwear and a blanket, had to be held back because he was so desperate to get back in a canoe and help the four teens who were still out on the water. His reaction could be chalked up to hypothermia, which sometimes robbed people of their senses to the point that they resist aid even when they’re barely able to move. Or it could be something more inherent in his personality, the urge to help others no matter the cost to himself. Whatever the case, there was no way he could withstand the conditions on the water again after the soaking he and the other men in his canoe had received.
For his part, Cox was frightened but invigorated now that they had something to do. The waiting and not knowing had been far worse than the painful cold of being back on the water. It felt like every cell in his body had been set to maximum efficiency. All his senses were alive to the slightest change in the landscape. It was something between acute terror and crystalline lucidity. He would be a perfect machine until everyone was safe on land.
The wind was blowing thirty miles per hour now, up a bit from earlier in the morning. The waves were just as nasty as they had been half an hour ago when the five canoes came off the water. Before long, the two boats of paddlers could see that Fialko’s boat was carrying a new passenger: Randy Foster, one of the missing teens. When the three boats approached one another, Fialko told them that everyone else was still on Hog Island. He didn’t take the time to fill in the details; the water was too rough to spend much time talking. But even without all the details, the sense of relief that came with knowing the men were alive was enormous. None had drowned or been injured. Still, they did need fairly immediate assistance to prevent severe hypothermia from setting in. It was no time to feel complacent or victorious, not until everyone had been warmed up and transported back to the campsite.
Fialko’s canoe continued on to Washington Island while the two other rescue vessels skirted the rocky shoreline, fighting against the waves to keep the canoes from being smashed on the jagged rocks. It was a terrible place for the fragile boats. When they reached Hog Island, Cox and the men in his vessel hung back about a hundred yards, watching while Stillwagon’s men brought their canoe as close to shore as possible without causing any damage. There they waited for what felt like an eternity for the young men to arrive. Finally, Garcia emerged from the island, supported by Bardwell and Wilson. He was bundled in a sleeping bag and quickly ushered into Stillwagon’s boat. Cox’s heart surged. They were all going to survive. Cox’s canoe took the place of Stillwagon’s as the latter began paddling back to Washington Island, then Wilson hopped into Cox’s boat and they too took off. Fialko’s boat was already on its way back to retrieve the last of the stranded men, Watts and Bardwell, as well as all the gear the men had managed to salvage from their capsized canoe.
Cox tried to ignore the ache in his frozen hands as he paddled, listening to Wilson’s version of what had happened. The teenager was happy to be alive, but also in shock, almost on the verge of tears. Whatever bliss he’d felt with the realization that he was going to survive the experience was now replaced by terror at how close they’d come to dying. “I’ve never been so scared in my life,” he told everyone.
Cox and Wilson had started off the expedition as intractable adversaries. They probably had the worst relationship of any two on the team. Both were given to yelling, and Wilson’s participation in the expedition had bee
n questioned more than once by the adults. He was loud and bossy and had a temper. But Cox could outyell him and was unafraid of talking him down. Slowly, Wilson improved on his ability to work with the others in his boat, and Cox came to respect him for his hard work. They moved from dislike to begrudging respect to friendship. Though Cox had never doubted Wilson’s stamina, he now had a new appreciation for the teen’s ability to face adversity and overcome it with relish. Cox hoped like hell he’d never have to face such odds. What would his wife, Pam, say when he related the day’s events? She’d been nothing but supportive since he’d convinced her of how much he wanted to participate in the expedition. But he’d never put himself in such risky situations before, never had to consider what might happen to her if he got injured, or worse. And now, four young men had barely escaped drowning and hypothermia.
Listening to the way the four teens had come together to survive, Cox felt immense pride in his team. He realized that in life-or-death situations, he could trust any one of the men to have his back.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon passed quickly. Foster, Wilson, Garcia, and Watts were reheated by a roaring fire and given large bowls of oatmeal to help warm up. When Lewis came back from the marina, tortured by the report of the wrecked canoe and the ensuing worst-case scenarios running through his mind, he was momentarily overcome when he saw that all the young men were alive. It was impossible to describe the immensity of his relief. If they hadn’t survived, if anyone had been seriously injured or died, he would’ve been responsible. He had brought them here, put them through this type of weather, and seeing them now was staggering. It was joy and relief and pride—they’d done everything they’d been trained to do in just such a situation. Never before had their two years of training seemed more valuable. Their coldwater survival skills and capsize drills had both played a role in this horrible morning, and those lessons were the difference between living and dying. Once he’d ascertained that everyone was well and truly unharmed, if a little shaken, he set off to activate the phone chain that would let all the parents know the outcome of their accident.
Wilson and Garcia were interviewed by the local Channel 5 news station, hunched around the fire, cheeks finally regaining some color after their frigid swim earlier in the morning. They’d already dubbed themselves the “November Swimmers.” Some of the adults speculated as to whether they might make national news because of the event, trying to put an optimistic spin on what had nearly been a tragedy. Publicity was hard to come by, and this capsizing could be proof of how well prepared they all were. The teenagers clearly thrived despite the trials they faced.
Of the four young men who’d been in the overturned canoe, Watts remained the most deeply upset by the accident. He’d been crying when his rescue canoe landed on Washington Island. No matter what anyone told him, he couldn’t help feeling responsible for the accident.
“We got away from the group, which we shouldn’t have done, stop,” he said when the group held an official meeting away from the press and the public to discuss the capsizing. It had been his decision to paddle outside of Hog Island, and if he hadn’t made such a terrible call, none of it would’ve happened. No matter what people told him about how well he’d done, he couldn’t help feeling accountable for all the destruction the capsizing had caused: the canoe, which had been retrieved a few miles down the southern shore of Washington Island, was no longer seaworthy. There was a hole punched in one side, the bow was in shreds, a gunwale cap was torn off, and much of the lashing was gone. Ralph Frese, the blacksmith and canoeist back in Chicago who had helped design the boats, could help them fix it without too much trouble. But it would have to be driven down to Illinois. They’d be short a canoe for at least a week. Then there was the matter of all the gear they’d lost: two sleeping bags, a Dutch oven, a frying pan, a wooden mug, a copper mug, a three-gallon water bag, four pairs of mittens, fifty-five feet of rope, a pair of leggings, a pair of moccasins, a three-and-a-half-quart pot, and the handmade musket Watts had forged and welded with Fialko’s assistance. Watts loved that musket. It was unique in the world since he’d made it, and now it was lost to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
Wilson, Garcia, and Foster were all in relatively good spirits after being warmed and fed. No one really wanted to rehash what had happened or dwell on the near miss. At one point, Foster, sitting alone, said to no one in particular, “That’s enough thinking about death. I’m going to brush my hair.” The entire crew felt good enough in the wake of the disaster that they decided to go forward with the show they’d planned for Washington Island students that evening. There were only a hundred students in the entire school system, but the crowd’s enthusiasm matched that of a much larger audience.
That night the crew were treated to a fish boil by the residents of the island. Their hosts sold 115 tickets for the dinner at $3.50 each and donated all the proceeds to the expedition. To the crew the buttery fish, potatoes, onions, and slaw tasted like a gourmet meal by a Michelin-starred chef. Afterward the men tromped back to their camp to discuss what would happen next. Several people would have to take the battered canoe back to Chicago for repairs, a nearly three-hundred-mile drive that might take five or six hours depending on the traffic. Fialko immediately stepped forward since he was in charge of canoe maintenance, and Keith Gorse volunteered to accompany him even though it might mean missing several days of paddling. Everyone else would continue on the same schedule as before, just as soon as the weather broke. Until then they’d have to rely on the hospitality of the Washington Islanders just a little bit longer.
For three more days the crew waited for the strong winds and bad weather to break. Since they were falling behind on their presentation schedule, they took a ferry to Bailey’s Harbor to perform their show at City Hall. The town was on the other side of Death’s Door Passage, and the men marveled at the size of the waves slamming into the boat’s hull. Those were waves they might’ve faced in their canoes if not for the perilous lesson they’d learned on the water days earlier. Every car on the ferry was coated in ice. During the performance at Bailey’s Harbor the power cut out halfway through, and several people in the audience brought candles up to the foot of the stage, leaving the men to perform in the eerie flickering glow of candlelight. It created the perfect ambience, as if they really were apparitions from centuries earlier. The next day they were ferried back to Washington Island to do more sitting and waiting. The water was still too rough to make a safe crossing.
On November 8, more than a week after they’d first arrived, the wind finally died. Five canoes pushed off from the south shore of Washington Island to cross the treacherous strait. After thirty-five minutes of dogged paddling they reached their destination. Behind them, jagged waves were building over the shoals of Death’s Door Passage. They’d survived their experience going through one of the most dangerous spots on Lake Michigan, but only just. As one expert says of outdoor survival, “One of the things that kills us in the wilderness, in nature, is that we just don’t understand the forces we engage. We don’t understand the energy because we no longer have to live with it.”5 These modern voyageurs did have to live with it—they’d lived with nature’s energy every day since August. Three months of constant practice had been enough for them to survive when the worst happened, but it hadn’t been enough to keep them from avoiding disaster altogether. And as the air and water temperatures continued to decrease, the choices that meant the difference between a near miss and death would become less and less discernible.
Chapter Eight
“THE BEGINNING OF
OUR HARDSHIPS”
Illinois Territory
December 1681
The harsh winters of New France came as something of a surprise to the Frenchmen who were accustomed to the weather patterns of their homeland. The Jesuit priests were among the first to travel into new regions of North America and they described their experiences of winter in much the same way they described other hazards: it was a
matter of surviving the worst. One priest wrote of temperatures so cold they caused a tree to split in the woods and “make a noise like that of firearms.”1 Another wrote, “There are but few of us who do not bear marks of the weather, and one of the sailors has lost both his ears.”2
With more than a decade of experience in North American winters under his belt, La Salle knew what to expect. He and his men learned to walk in snowshoes and abandoned their European style of dressing for the warmer gear worn by Native Americans. They wore several pairs of leather moccasins on their feet. Leather wraps called “mitasses” extended from their ankles up to their knees and were tied with laces to keep their legs warm and prevent their pants from getting snagged on briars. On their heads they wore toques, knitted wool hats made in bright colors that corresponded to different parts of the colony: those from Quebec wore blue, while men from Montreal preferred red.3 Some men wore “Indian sunglasses” made of slitted pieces of wood, though La Salle always refused to wear the goggles and often wound up with snow blindness as a result.4 The painful condition, known in the medical community as photokeratitis, is caused by an overexposure to ultraviolet rays—like a bad sunburn affecting the cornea and conjunctiva.
In addition to snow blindness, La Salle and his men faced starvation and frostbite each winter. On an earlier unsuccessful expedition in early 1681, La Salle and his troop returned to Fort Saint Joseph from a trek into the Illinois territory with cracked, bleeding lips and patches of skin on their faces that had turned black with frostbite. They had battled slushy terrain and thin ice on a jaunt down the Kankakee River, which the Native Americans called “a slow river flowing in a big swamp.”5 Suffice it to say, winter could pose a serious obstacle to an expedition down the Mississippi.
Sure enough, the rivers were freezing by the time La Salle reached Fort Saint Joseph in December 1681. It didn’t help that five men from his crew, including a valued interpreter, had deserted the expedition “because they feared the hardships of the voyage,” said Abbé Claude Bernou.6 There was nothing La Salle could do to bring them back at this point. The best option was to keep moving forward with his remaining men and his Native American allies. The group made its way across the frozen landscape, trading their canoes for sleds when the Illinois River froze solid. The men pulled these sleds like oxen, wearing harnesses wrapped around their chests. It was backbreaking work, but at least they’d come prepared: they were well supplied with provisions and soon they’d be arriving at the Mississippi. The end was almost in sight.
The Last Voyageurs Page 17
