Look at that muscle on my arm. Look at it. I ain’t no weinie!
Day four…rescue!
Up and moving at 5 a.m. Head throbbing but I can manage. I have exactly the right number of headache pills to last me through six to eight hours of paddling. After that, it’s anybody’s guess.
Our noise wakes the Bobs. As if we care. We pack up – talking quietly about how the Bobs want the tent packed a certain way, but we no longer give a shit. We can tell that the Bobs are sort of thinking of firing up the camp stove and chowing down on some of that delicious and nutritious instant oatmeal, but we ain’t havin’ it. We are packed up and we launch Old Iron Sides at 6 a.m. on the nose. I know I’m running on empty and this 7-8 mile paddle will take all the energy I have left. Hubby doesn’t have much gas in his tank either. We need to get a move on before the winds grow any stronger. Today the winds will be from the south at about 10-15 knots and we are headed south.
We stay in the lee of the archipelago of islands for as long as we can, but then we must join the large, open channel to get back to our portage. It is sheer determination that drives us. Hubby keeps our course straight and I paddle. After three days, we’ve come to think of Old Iron Sides as our best friend. We find a comfortable rhythm and keep him headed into the wind. Yes, it’s slow going, Old Iron Sides bounces his way along, but slow and steady win the race.
Mr. and Mrs. Bob follow a different trajectory. As the winds continue to pick up, we hear Mr. Bob call out, “Let’s stop at this island for lunch.” Stupid remaining half-cup of gorp.
Hubby and I don’t even bother to look in his direction. We keep on keepin’ on. If the winds are this strong at noon, how bad will they be if we stop out here in the open channel for an hour?
“Where’s Windy Point?” hubby asks.
“Dead ahead, and then we need to paddle into the channel to the left.”
Hubby, “Once we get into that channel, even though the winds are still strong, the land masses on either side will cut down on the wave action and this will get easier.”
Two more miles to windy point and then another three miles or so and we’re home free. We pass Windy Point and notice the Bobs pulling over to the shore. Hubby, “We should stop and rest, gather ourselves for the last push.”
Me, “No.”
Hubby, “We need to stop and rest and I can eat your portion of gorp.”
Me, “Well, since you put it that way…”
I take two pills and close my eyes for an hour, head in hubby’s lap, while he chows down on the gorp – he actually eats most of the remainder. He no longer cares that the Bob’s will be shortchanged.
We push off, into the wind, but hubby’s correct. Despite the wind, the water just can’t move as much as it does in the wide open lake. In another hour, we are pretty much out of the wind and headed toward the portage. Another hour and a half, and we pull into the shallows in front of the portage, I hit the wall. I have no energy reserves left. But still, I must help carry gear. I make two trips. The first trip I carry four life jackets, two paddles, a water proof stuff sack and a backpack. The second trip I tell Mrs. Bob I need to carry a lightweight pack. She starts to hand me the kitchen pack – which is very heavy. I know what she’s trying to do – make me carry the kitchen pack so she can carry the empty food pack. I shake my head and reach for the food pack. All alone on the far side of the portage, I rummage through it, hoping against hope there’s something inside. Ah-ha! What should I find but one lonely, stale chocolate chip cookie! I shove that sucker into my mouth fast as lightning! I save one corner for Hubby, but when he sees it, he says, “No, you eat it. You need it.” He gets no argument from me.
Mr. and Mrs. Bob load their gear into Butter, preparing to shove off so we can paddle to the pick up site. Because Old Iron Sides tends to get hung up on underwater rocks, hubby and I have made a habit of scouting shallow water for snags. As we wait our turn, we see…something. And we say…nothing.
Remember, this trip has been all about Mr. Bob and keeping Butter in pristine condition. Nothing is more important than Butter, not food, not Mrs. Bob, certainly not us. Butter is the end all and be all. Butter is the everything.
Mrs. Bob climbs into the canoe and Mr. Bob shoves off. He sticks his paddle in and gives a mighty sweep when we hear an ear splitting sound – Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee – and Butter hangs up on a big fat underwater boulder. Mr. and Mrs. Bob look like they might vomit. They can’t get her off and every move they make just causes more damage. She receives a big old nasty gash all along her keel.
Hubby and I look at each other. We fall down in the sand, laughing our bloody asses off. We can’t believe it! Talk about karmic payback! We watch them struggle to free her, and man, it is a beautiful sight. It’s the best thing that’s happened in four fucking days.
We avoid the rock altogether, and laughing hysterically for the next half-mile, we paddle to the pick up site. By now, I’m in the euphoria stage of ketosis anyway, so I can’t stop laughing. We arrive 20 minutes before the boats are due. I spend the time wading along the shore, far away from Mr. and Mrs. Bob, following minnows and giggling.
When our saviors arrive, they bring sustenance, because it turns out they’ve experienced a similar trip and they know what we’ve been through. They take me aside and tell me the horror story of their three-day canoe trip with Mr. and Mrs. Bob and how they ran out of food, got lost, and thought they would die. I drink a quart of fresh-squeezed lemonade while they regale me – I hear about the canoe trip and about a misguided five-day backpacking trip with Mr. Bob somewhere in Montana so nightmarish that this guy has PTSD. He said he can’t even drive through mountains without having a panic attack. The puzzle pieces fit together perfectly!
Fortunately, our saviors provide us with a wonderful supper that night…lasagna, bread, pesto, black olive tapenade, salad and German chocolate cake. And it’s not divided into portion sizes – there’s plenty…we can eat all we want.
Mr. Bob asks us, as my husband says he is wont to do, “What will you take away from this experience?”
There are many things running through my mind. I could say, “I hate your mother fucking guts. You are self-centered, stupid, idiotic, dangerous narcissists. You nearly got us killed and I will never forgive you for that. I was reluctant to go on this trip and now I know why. I didn’t much like you when I first met you and I was right not to like you.“
There are so very many things I could say, but I don’t. Instead I say, “I learned that my husband and I are true partners. We can work together in the most difficult, the most adverse circumstances, and we can prevail.”
Mr. Bob doesn’t know what to make of my answer. He turns to Hubby. “And what will you take away?”
“That canoe was a piece of shit, and completely inappropriate for this trip, but we made it work. The wife and I were great together.” Mr. Bob is taken aback by the POS comment. Hubby shrugs. Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Bob care what Mr. Bob thinks.
On the long trip home, we dissect our adventure. We hold hands, we laugh, we’re happy, and I decide I will write about it. And we decide that this is the last we’ll see of Mr. and Mrs. Bob.
I’ll play devil’s advocate for just a moment. In her defense, Mrs. Bob had the lasagna in her freezer and our savior set it out to thaw. Mr. Bob has been a political activist for many years, albeit, he wears blinders, is elitist though he’d never admit it, and dismisses any point of view that does not reflect his own. However, he has done some good despite his attitude. I don’t believe either Mr. or Mrs. Bob consciously made a decision to put us at risk. As far as what happens in their unconscious world, why they make the illogical decisions they do, I’ll leave that for you to surmise. I can only say that the two of them are ill and each feeds the others’ illness.
P.S. Mr. Bob emailed Hubby yesterday. He billed us $15.00 for our half of the food they provided on the trip. I don’t know which astounds me more…that they are asking us to reimburse them a measly $15.00 for half the food or that they spent a measly $30.00 on food to provision four people in the wilderness for four days. Amazing…
I’ll leave you with this recommendation…and no, it has nothing to do with the Bobs. Read Deep Survival, Who Lives, Who Dies and Why, by Laurence Gonzales. Not only is this a fascinating read, the book changed our lives. Hubby and I are both the outdoorsy type. We do lots and lots of stuff. One area where we had conflict in our marriage was my caution versus his theory that because he’s strong and resourceful, he can muscle his way out of anything. This prevented me from feeling truly confident when we went off on our adventures. I felt his illusion of immortality put us all at risk. We both changed after reading Deep Survival. He slowed down and began to pay attention to his surroundings, recognizing the limitations of this fragile human body. As he changed, my confidence in him and in myself grew apace. Buy this book. You won’t be disappointed.
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I suppose I could leave the Boundary Waters with parting words like,
