Bill Lewis 

 

“‘Did I ever tell you about the time I almost died?”

That’s the hook I give my fifth grade class every year. I set it early in the fall, and then play them until the mid-winter doldrums set in, and there comes a day when a good story seems in order. In the end, it’s a disappointing story for them, mostly because I really didn’t die, no one did. But partly, too, because they, at age 10, can’t yet know what the experience was really all about.

I can’t just start out with the trip to the put-in place. A little history is needed first. Of the previous year on Chamberlain Lake, when a couple of guys in a missing canoe and a call to the ranger led to a few uncomfortable moments for our group. Seeds of doubt sown about decisions made under stress, attitudes capricious or conservative, priority of self or the group. All of this would come into play the next year as three of us walked the bumpy road faster than Dan could drive the van, on our way to the river which would take us Allagash Lake, surrounded in the late October cold by leafless trees and deserted ranger buildings, populated only by four well-educated guys who had no idea which way to turn their watches come daylight savings time.

The original plan was to put in at the ranger station near where we had been the previous year, paddle the length of Chamberlain Lake, and then upstream into Allagash Lake, where we would spend a couple of days before retracing our steps. That plan changed when the ranger told us that due to the low water levels we would never be able to make it upstream to Allagash. So plan B was hatched. We would drive to a spot up-river from the lake, paddle down to it, then paddle back up to the van a few days later. Ranger didn’t see anything wrong with the plan, and except for the fact that it meant another couple hours driving, neither did we. If you want to count mistakes, that’s one.

These are private roads, owned by the paper companies, and they are just as good as they need to be to allow for the big trucks to pull out the logs. The rough roads made the drive more like four hours to the put-in spot, but it was beautiful when we arrived; the stream with clear water and a rocky bottom, the afternoon sun casting long shadows. We listened to the river sounds as we unloaded all the coolers, lanterns, food packs, and other gear, and had a quick hot lunch. We were off, a mere 4 hours before dark.

I recall now that we were only on the river about 20 minutes before I knew we were in trouble, but it could have been more like five. The river was moving fast, and it was shallow, very cold, lined with thick brush, and it looked to me like a one-way street. We could get down OK, but getting a paddle deep enough into the water to propel us back up was going to be a problem. And the icy water and overgrown banks meant wading or lining the canoes back along shore wasn’t an option either. I opted to keep paddling and say nothing. That’s two.

After a couple of hours or so the river widened, got deeper, slower, and more beautiful. It was the last weekend in October, and we were in northern Maine. We like it there then; no people, no bugs, good scotch weather. Yeah, a little earlier is OK too, when there is still color on the trees, and you don’t need to put on all 6 layers of the down, wool, fleece, and quilted long johns you brought along. But soon we rounded a bend, and the lake opened up in front of us. We came to the stark beauty, the isolation and quiet we were looking for.

It was late, so we pulled into the first campsite we saw. Tents were erected, team tarp put up an acre of rain protection, and we had the first entrant in the annual “who can cook the most deliciously complex dinner over a fire” contest. There may have been a mention of how we were going to get out, but most of the evening was spent in easy conversation, planning the next day.

Morning broke clear and cold. A hearty breakfast, a few pots of coffee, and soon off up the lake to the deserted ranger station. That it was empty didn’t surprise us, although it should have made us wonder about the ranger we spoke to the day before. Turns out he went on vacation the next morning, he being the only one in the world who knew where we were. We justified our need to break into the cabin there because we had forgotten to bring clean water with us. The pump was shut off so we boiled some on the front porch then took off up the hill to a fire lookout tower. We climbed it, took in the view of hoar frosted Katahdin and the surrounding mountains, and cooked the first entrant of our annual “who can come up with the most elaborate cook-in-one-pan-over-a-stove-on-top-of-some-mountain” lunch contest.

Trouble started when we headed back. All four of us, Harvard grad, master of education, business owner, and philosopher/carpenter, had fallen forward, setting our watches ahead for daylight savings time. So as we walked back to the canoes, we thought that we had plenty of time to get back to camp before dark. That’s three.

As we set out the wind was up, gray clouds were rolling in, and man, it sure seemed to be getting dark fast. The different personality of the two canoes was easy to see as we began our paddle. One was faster and seemed to take the building waves much better. I was able to keep Dan and myself dry as we paddled the hour back to camp in the dusk. Mike and Adam didn’t fare as well. Mike was getting wet as the bow plowed into the broadsiding waves, and we were getting farther and farther apart. Since firewood was scarce around the campsite, they pulled over to pick some up. Dan and I kept going, and at hundred yards off shore from camp it was so dark in the woods we could only make out eerie shapes. We got out flashlights to help guide Mike and Adam home, and 15 minutes later they arrived, wet and angry that we had left them behind.

And so began a more serious side of the trip. Some of the issues from last year surfaced. Why did we separate ourselves from each other in such unsafe conditions (the water temperature was 34 degrees when we checked it that night.)? Why did some of us take our plight so seriously and others seem to not be concerned, to scoff at our concern even? And how were we going to get out of there? This group of friends that in some form or other had been taking these fall trips for over 10 years was facing its most testing challenges, both in terms of the position we had put ourselves in but also in terms of the group dynamic.

Dinner that night was the forum for concerned and sometimes emotional discussion of these issues. I argued that we needed to leave the next day, a day early, because we were in trouble and needed as much time as possible to get back up stream. Mike said he looked forward to this trip all year, and didn’t want to cut it short. Dan sided with me on most points, and Adam remained more neutral and acted the moderator for our discussion. We went to bed undecided about what to do. Mother Nature decided things for us.

I love sleeping in a tent, especially when I go to bed confident in my preparations and in the gear I have. It was cold, but I was ready for it, and I slept warm and well. When I awoke the next morning it was oh so quiet. And no wonder; there were 6 inches of snow covering the tent, keeping out light and sound. I plowed my way out into dry snow still falling steadily, and realized that whatever troubles we had last night were now compounded.

Breakfast was tense, with opinions thrown around like snowballs at middle school recess. What saved us in the end was the map. We had a good one showing great detail of the lake, river, and surrounding area. We located a pond west of the river we had come down, and remembered that the ranger had said that people often got access to the lake by crossing the pond then paddling down a stream to the main river. That could be our out, because the stream joined the river at a point we could reach. Across that lake was the road, a few miles from where we’d parked the van. No one actually remembered seeing the stream when we came downriver, so we decided to dig out the canoes and check it out. We packed a lunch and paddled out in a light snow.

One map. Two canoes. Four navigators. You know that caused a bit of a problem. There were some landmarks to help locate the stream though, and after about an hour we were sure we were where it should be. But all that was there was the slightest tinkle of water, nothing remotely big enough for a canoe. We paddled farther up river, back down, looked at the map, scratched our heads, but we were all convinced that we were in the right spot.

We pulled over to shore and crawled up the slippery bank for a look around. This was the place all right, because we soon found the end of an overgrown old logging road that the map showed as a faint dotted line. We walked up the stream through thick growth hoping it would widen. It didn’t. It got narrower, just like our options for getting out of there.

It crossed my mind more than once while eating lunch that we were in serious trouble. No one really knew where we were; we were miles away from our car. We were packing enough gear to outfit a Boy Scout troop, it was snowing harder than ever, and our best option had just proved to be a bust.

One of the things I love most about camping is making things up on the fly. That little piece of rope on the ground is just what I need to lash together the stand for the water container. An empty Aleve bottle is just the ticket to squeeze into place on the air mattress to replace the plug left at home. I’m like McGyver out there, improvising my ass off, using what I have in uncommon ways. So I wish all the rest of this were my idea, but it really was a classic case of collaboration.

Here’s what we decided. We would walk the 2 and half miles up that overgrown road to the main road, make our way to the car, and we were home free. To test the theory, we took off through the snow, and sure enough, we ended up at what looked like the road we had come in on. On the way back we talked about how to get the stuff out. I said forget the stuff, we could die out here. Let’s hide it in the bush, and come back for it in the spring. We’ll take a pack each and leave the rest. We can’t leave all this stuff, we’ll never see it again was another opinion. To carry it all out would take at least three trips, we figured, between the canoes and the gear. That was over 12 miles of walking, carrying unwieldy loads, in the snow, after paddling and hour and lugging all the stuff through thick brush before we even got to the road. Not so good.

But soon a plan was hatched that was logical to all, and would turn what seemed a threat into an ally. We would bring all the gear to the trailhead, load it into the canoes, and like huskies of the north, we would tether ourselves to them and pull them out. The snow was going to save us. White teflon. McGyver would be proud.

When we got up the next morning, it was amazingly beautiful. The sun was out, the sky deep blue, and the trees dressed in snow. It was also a lot colder. Cold enough in fact, so that in still spots on the river we had to push our paddles through a thin layer of ice. We also saw one of the coolest things I have ever seen in nature: the river was freezing right in front of us. We could see crystals forming on the water, hanging up on twigs sticking above the surface, joining together to glaze over in ice.

Cold as it was, we all worked up a sweat getting the gear to the logging road. We piled it all next to a hollow in the snow, home to a moose the night before. Canoes came last and were loaded with all our stuff. Ropes were tied on, two guys to a canoe, and with one collective lean forward, we were off. For about ten feet. This was a lot harder than we thought! One canoe, made of aluminum, was particularly sticky, with snow clinging to it like oatmeal to the pot I had washed that morning. This was never going to work, not with just two guys tugging. So we tied everyone onto the other canoe, and this time it seemed like we just might make it.

The road seemed hillier than when we had walked it the day before, but after a couple of hours we reached the main road. It was hard going, and the thought of a second trip was made easier only because we were laying down a nice track. Break for lunch, the return trip, and we were tied on to the second canoe. We still had about an hour of light when we got that one back to the road, exhausted after our seven and a half mile portage.

Dan and I were just about to start the walk to his van when we heard the sound of a truck coming. We flagged it down, and two guys got out. They were wondering whose van they had seen parked up the road, shook their heads sympathetically when we told them how we had gotten out, and agreed to give us a lift. Dan and I jumped into the back end, and were immediately grossed out. These guys were trappers, and along with several stiff animals the back was full of traps and barrels of bait: animal parts looking nasty and smelling worse.

They also had a nice shovel, which would come in handy for digging the van out. But when we jumped out and asked if we could borrow it for a few minutes they said no, and just drove away. “A pretty un-neighborly attitude,” Dan said. “Ass holes,” I said. We kicked the snow away from the van, and were back with Mike, Adam, and the mountain of gear in no time.

I wish I could say the excitement ended there, but the trip out was an adventure in itself. We were low on gas, so we plotted what seemed like a shorter route out. But those logging companies didn’t cut the roads for our convenience. They twisted through the big stands of trees, and at every fork we were unsure which way to go. Loggers were heading home in the growing darkness, and we stopped a couple to ask for directions. Their homes were in Canada, though, and they spoke only French. Dan knew a little, but not enough to be completely sure of what they were saying.

Finally we were on familiar ground, and were soon at the ranger station where the trip began. We stopped in to have a word with the guy. That’s when we found out he was in Florida. We were pissed, especially since we had planned to let him know what we thought of the information he had given us. If the river below Allagash Lake made it impossible for us to paddle up to the lake, why hadn’t he also warned us that the stretch of river above the lake was also a one-way street? Then again, why hadn’t we thought of that?

Our wives were expecting us home for dinner that night, but clearly that was not going to happen. In those pre-cell phone days, we weren’t even able to call them until almost 9 o’clock when we finally hit a pay phone outside Millinocket. We checked into a motel, enjoyed a hot shower, and went out for a bite.

Dinner that night began a dialog that lasted weeks, was revisited for months. We had been angry at each other. Some had been afraid. We replayed issues from the year before and wondered why we had some of the same problems again. But we did talk. We processed what had happened and why. We spoke our feelings, and listened to others. We got angry again, we laughed about it, and we didn’t always agree. In the end, though, I think we all felt like we at least understood the other’s point of view.

I was in the middle of a career change when we took that trip. My teaching has made it hard to keep going every fall. I miss it. There’s the camping out part of it; cooking over a fire, the smell of smoke, doing those little McGyverisms I like so much. And of course the great food we out-do each other with. But mostly it’s the company I miss.

I still see those guys some, was even able to join them again on a few trips. Mike and I do a little carpentry together now and then, and there are occasional dinner get-togethers. But for me it isn’t the same, really. The trips were the glue. They were the time to get outdoors and enjoy each other’s company, share ideas, share troubles. The closeness comes when the conveniences of our easy lives are missing. Without the trips I feel a little less bonded.

I guess we really didn’t almost die. In fact, it was the way we lived that makes the story. But I bait my class every year, more, I know, so I can hear the story myself than to try to teach them something about friendship that they will need to get out and learn for themselves anyway.

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