NOVEMBER 30, 2022 – (Cont.) Once we’d landed on the island, Dad and I started pulling gear out of the canoe. No map. We pulled more stuff out. Still no map.
I don’t remember Dad swearing out loud over the missing map, but I was bracing myself for a “damn!”—the one expletive I’d heard him utter on rare occasions. Without a map and or the aid of the sun, we had little to rely upon except our memory of the map. Despite Dad’s careful planning, no compass was aboard the canoe. We knew that Saganaga Falls, which we’d portaged just before entering the lake, faced north, and as Dad had pointed out, we wanted to continue north, then a bit west to Conners Island. But wherever we looked, everything appeared the same: water, islands, forest, gray skies and a world of mist, now that the earlier wind had disappeared. As the sound and sight of the falls vanished behind us, we became as good as lost.
On a hunch, Dad decided we should try “that way” for a while, but without any change in our surroundings, we headed, “this way” before again altering course to “that way.” If Dad was in a panic, he didn’t let on, but in his voice I heard concern and whenever I turned around to look at him, I saw worry.
From my earliest days, I’d observed Dad confront and resolve problems in numerous settings. He always approached quandaries and conundra with cool analysis. The mishap in the rapids coming out of Granite Lake had been the first time I’d ever seen extreme worry in Dad’s face, but even then, he’d kept his wits and salvaged us from what could have been even more dire straits. Now I detected serious worry, and if the wheels inside his mind were turning fast, they weren’t engaging with a solution.
So much time had passed since lunch, my stomach was growling. I thought about my mother, my cat, my sisters, grandparents, uncle. Would I ever see them again? But I knew I had to hide my fear. The last thing Dad needed was for me to show panic.
Just then, a miracle appeared. Through a gap in mist along the shore, I saw a crude wooden dock and called out to Dad. Atop a granite slope beside the dock stood a small cabin. Better yet, outside the cabin appeared two human beings, a man and a woman, a bit younger than my grandparents, perhaps. Simultaneously, Dad and I shouted for their attention.
The couple were as surprised as we were relieved. They waved, and as we paddled hard for the dock, they ambled down a path to the water. Dad maneuvered us alongside the old pier and said, “We’re lost.” It sounded like an apology.
Soon we were seated at a kitchen table inside the couple’s small, weathered cabin, where we were offered milk and coffee and a plate of cookies. “Anderson” was the couple’s name, and in short order Mr. Anderson spread a map out on the table and pointed to our location. We were way off course. It was of some consolation to learn from the Andersons that we weren’t the first “voyageurs” to have lost their way.
With our bearings restored, Dad was eager to resume our journey. “We’ll need to be heading out,” he said, “so we can reach Conners Island and eat before dark.” The Andersons invited us to stay put for the night, but Dad didn’t want to impose more than we already had. I think perhaps there was also something he needed to prove to himself: that he was still up to the challenge of surviving in “Big Water” wilderness.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
1 Comment
Whew!!!!
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