Exercise 7 - Wendy U.

The sounds of early dawn are not much different than that of late night in this wilderness. Owls who have hunted voles in the softer nightlight begin their roosting calls. Arctic terns begin to patrol in search of schools of fingerling’s feeding at the surface above the larger fish who would feed on them. The voracious hum of mosquitoes is heard above the liquid sounds of lapping wavelets. He stirs at the first sharp bites. Staggering upright, he realizes that he no longer has any boots on his feet. He winces and steps to a smoother spot. Cupping hands to his mouth, he cries, “Hallooo”. Repeating the exercise, he faces each quadrant and listens intently. A small breeze makes him shudder in the clammy denim hanging on his scrawny frame. He thinks of starting a fire. Hobbling carefully on the rocks he attempts to find dry wood above the wave marks. Small sodden bits and chunks of roots, branches and punky rotten bark is all he can find. Disgusted, he leaves it down and turns back. He peers at a distant sandbar. Cupping his hands, he signals again and watches for any flash of movement and strains to hear any noise that is not the wind or water. “Well, shit.” he says aloud to no one. In shallow water he finds that the walking is easier. Smooth silty mud squeezes up between his toes and soothes the cuts that are already starting to fester. His stomach growls and he grows anxious to find food, or even his boots should his luck be phenomenal. Lengthening his stride he walks downriver in search of bounty of any kind. Forty paces later, he stops and “hallooo’s” again, nothing. Counting out another forty paces and rounding a bend he makes his first find. A sugar sack. Flat brown burlap with blue insignia, the bag is tangled in willow branches overhanging the bank. He wades under and yanks it out. If there is one, there may be more, he thinks. He spies another corner of burlap disturbing the riffles of a close gravel bar. It is perilous wading across the slick sharp rock to reach it, but he knows he must. Too bad the bags are empty. Water flowing through the loose weave burlap has dissolved the precious cargo. He continues on down the river carefully trying to stay on smoother soils and spare his feet. He hopes to find a crate of supplies. Finally he gives up the search. Everything else was packed too heavily and has sunk. Two bags were all that he is going to get. He’ll have to make them work for him. Dragging spruce roots from the undercut bank he fashions twine and wraps his abused feet in the bags for protection. It is awkward, but he finds relief. He rests on a drifted log sitting dry on a spit of land. The river runs around him and a breeze keeps the mosquitoes at bay. Churlish growling reminds him that he is hungry and had better think of something soon. He empties his pockets and finds a sodden bag of tobacco, melted papers and lint. Not even a pocket knife. He looks at the sun and the horizon and figures out that he is on the wrong side of the river. Rescue will be several days walk to the bridge he calculates, upriver and uphill. The summer isn’t going to go as planned, he reflected. Lazily he lifts his hands one more time and hollers “halloo”, not really expecting a response. “Halloo” drifts through the woods in an echo-like manner. At first he simply listens to the sound, it was not what he expected. The response sinks in and he abruptly stands and turns. He yells, “Carlton!” and strides up the spit towards the bank trying not to trip on his burlap shoes. Heart pounding he yells, “Where are you, man?” Carlton is coming through the brush like a boar grizzly. Willow branches are swaying and breaking as they are thrust aside by his passage. Standing awkwardly on the bank he waits for his partner to arrive. There is a gash across Carlton’s temple, his pants are ripped, but his legs are sound and he has boots on his feet. They shake hands and slap each other on the shoulder in their relief that neither is dead, nor are they alone in getting out of the back country. The two men soon realize that neither one of them has anything to eat. There was no reason to wait any longer so they turn and start to walk upriver. They walk most of the night and into the next morning. The two men pause to drink some river water and take a breather. Water seems to be all that keeps their stomachs from sinking into their spines and they mourn the loss of their grubstake. Carlton asks, “Do you think Mary will take this well?” He replies, “Not likely. We lost her stake too.” “Surely she’ll be happy you made it out?” “Don’t count on it. Mary is a woman who looks out for herself first.” After a moment of contemplative silence the two men stand and begin walking upriver again. The mosquitoes continue to bite them through the mud spread on their faces and necks. If they don’t run into a newly awakened bear or cow moose with a calf, they should get out safely. He walks very carefully in his burlap shoes, trying to make them last. Climbing the rough rock past the rapids they had portaged will be his biggest challenge.