Day One: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Sorry guys, this is long…

That’s me, walking away from the camera, and not because I’m worried about how bad I look in photos. I’m nursing my anger. It’s my anger that will keep me alive for the next four days.

Day One - Lost in the Boundary Waters with Mr. and Mrs. Bob OCD I Know These Waters Like The Back Of My Hand.

We are dropped off at 6 a.m. The drop off is thirty minutes by motor boat from the cabin. We off-load the canoes and stow the gear. As we pull away, the couple who shuttles us begins to laugh so hard they can barely keep their balance in the shallows. I’m confused. What’s so funny? They wave gaily, calling out over and over again - “Good luck! Have fun! Bwaaaaahaaaaaaaa!” I’m missing the joke. Is it on me?

We paddle a half-mile to the portage. Hubby and I are already falling way behind Mr. and Mrs. Bob and their canoe which cuts through the water like butter, while ours wallows like a claw-foot bathtub. We reach the portage and unload the canoes. I don’t mind the portage. It’s a about the distance of 2-3 city blocks up a narrow rocky trail and down the far side…into the wilderness. Mrs. Bob and I carry the gear - making three trips each - while the men do the manly job of hoisting the canoes on their shoulders and portaging them. Of course, nobody mentioned that the high tech canoe Mr. Bob carries weighs about fifty pounds while the Grumman that my hubby carries weighs closer to one hundred and twenty pounds. I try to help, but my assistance just makes moving the canoe more awkward and dangerous. Fortunately hubby is one strong macho dude and he gets that canoe safely up over the hill and down to the far side of the portage.

The gear re-stowed, we begin our journey. For the first three miles or so, we’re in a protected channel and there is little wind, yet Mr. and Mrs. Bob are still a good half-mile ahead of us, slicing through that water like a goddamn butter knife, while we struggle to find the exact heading that will keep Old Iron Sides pointed forward. The thing lists to starboard (right) in the tiniest wave or the smallest puff of wind.

We hit the land formation known as Windy Point. I know all about Windy Point. At Mr. Bob’s insistence, I’ve looked at the map at least two dozen times - mostly because he wants to show me how cool his map is - but I’ve also studied our intended route so I have a basic understanding of where we’re going in a geographic area that, quite frankly, looks pretty much the same in every direction.

***Segue: I possess an internal compass. I am very good at finding my way in new places provided that new place is not an underground parking garage, in which case my internal magnetic compass malfunctions. In addition, I grew up in the forest and I learned to PAY ATTENTION. I watch for landmarks and I remember how I got somewhere. How you get there is every bit as important as getting there, maybe more so.

So, we hit Windy Point, where we are blown sideways by gale force winds and knocked around by white caps on waves cresting three to four feet. Mr. and Mrs. must wait for us to catch up. We’ve paddled about three or four miles thus far. Without further ado, Mr. and Mrs. announce - “We’re heading for that far shore.” And off they go, never missing a beat, heading across three miles of open water in their slick, high-tech, low-riding, light weight canoe that cuts through the water like butter. Within seconds, they are out of earshot. Hubby and I make a valiant effort to follow in their wake. Old Iron Sides wallows like a pig in the trough of the waves, threatening to capsize with every gust of wind. Whenever the wind catches her and turns us broadside to the waves, we are lost. Most of our energy is expended merely keeping her head up into the wind. She’s a sail, and an unwieldy one at that. Mr. and Mrs. are now mere specks on the horizon, their heads appearing and disappearing in the waves like tiny green floppy hat-covered tennis balls.

At the point of a small island, our last land mass for say…two miles or so, we flail. The wind blows us sideways, pushing us ever closer to the breakers on the rocks off to our right. The waves threaten to swamp us and capsize the canoe. Not only would we lose all our equipment and clothing, the waters are so rough and impassable, chances are we’d be separated and blown for several miles before making landfall. If we don’t drown, who knows where we’ll end up in this fucking wilderness that contains bears and wolves and cougars. I stick my paddle into the water and instead of moving backward, it’s shoved forward by underwater currents. Hubby is trying his best to keep us steady. I look to the right. I look ahead across the expanse of open water. I look to the right again. Once we pass this island…if we pass this island…we are lost. We are history. We are dead meat. Filled with, not panic, but rage, I turn around and shout downwind.

“Do you remember Deep Survival?”

Hubby, “Yeah.”

“This is Deep Survival. We’re done. We can’t make it. If we try, we’ll die. This is our last chance to save ourselves.”

Hubby, “I agree. Let’s run with the wind and turn into the lee of this island. We shelter there and decide what our next move is.”

All we have to do is let the wind take us, then we pull for all we’re worth into the wind shadow of the thickly wooded island. We find a small beach in the very center of the lee side.

Hubby, “Remember the first rule? Stay put and stay together.”

“Right,” I say.

We pull the canoe up the shore and sit side by side on a rock. We take stock. The food pack is in Mr. and Mrs. Bob’s canoe. We have (hahahahaha) the matches, one sleeping bag, one sleeping pad, our own clothes, and two pints of water.

Me, “We can stay here one night if we have to.”

Hubby, “No. We stay here two hours and if they don’t come looking for us, we head back. Everything around here looks alike to me. Can you get us out of here?”

Me, “Yes, I know where we came from.” I point. “Down that channel.” I am dead certain. “I have to pee.”

I climb up onto the island, pee, and see if I can get across to the other side. No luck. The forest is too thick. I return to hubby’s rock.

Me, “Okay, I’m going to walk along the shore through the shallows and try to get to the windward side of the island.”

Hubby, “Bad idea. We should stay together.”

Me, “I swear that if the footing gets bad or the water is too deep, I will turn back. But I want to see if they’re coming back for us or if we should just make a run for it now.”

Hubby, “Okay, but be careful.”

Me, “No matter what happens, do not leave this rock.”

Hubby, “I won’t leave this rock.”

For the next 45 minutes, I pick my way through the shallows. The rocks are slick, but the water never gets above mid-thigh. Just as I reach the windward side, who should paddle towards me but Mr. and Mrs. Bob. I yell and they wave. As they approach, I tell them where hubby is and then head back. Again, it takes me 45 minutes to pick my way back. The group is reunited. What does Mr. Bob say? “You guys are lousy paddlers.”

Rage growing. Trying hard not to beat Mr. Bob about the face with my lousy paddle.

Hubby, “No, we’re not. This canoe is lousy in these conditions.”

Mr. Bob, “I’ve paddled that canoe for thirty years. I know what it can do.”

Hubby, “I bet you haven’t paddled this canoe for thirty years. We can’t make it across that open water.”

Mr. Bob, crestfallen, “but then we can’t get to the campsite I want to get to…waaaaaaa.”

Epiphany - Mr. Bob has an idea in his head. If his idea does not match reality, he dismisses reality. He cannot adjust his thought processes to changing conditions. OMFG. Deep Survival - one of the cardinal sins.

Mr. Bob, “Okay then, we’ll paddle to that island over there. There’s a nice campsite on that island.

We launch and head toward the nearest island. Oops! Somebody’s got that campsite and there is only group allowed per campsite. I ask. Believe me…I ask. Bull shit, I think. We regroup and discuss our options.

Mr. Bob, “We’ll have to head back to Windy Point. We passed an empty campsite there.” Mr. Bob points off in the wrong direction.

Me, “That’s not Windy Point.” I point towards Windy Point. “That’s Windy Point.”

Mr. Bob, scoffing, “That’s not Windy Point, it’s there.” He points in the wrong direction.

Me, “No, it’s back there.”

Mr. Bob, “I know these waters like I know the back of my hand. I’ve canoed in them all my life. You’re wrong.”

Me, “I don’t think so. That’s Windy Point.”

Mr. Bob, “You’re wrong. It’s that way.”

Hubby, “You know, Mr. Bob, she’s usually right when it comes to directions and finding our way. It would be very unlike her to get so turned around.”

Mr. Bob, “No! It’s there! We’re going there!”

So off we go…there…downwind. There is no chance of retracing our path in this wind. We round a headland and paddle with the wind down a long, isolated channel. No sign of a campsite. No sign of human existence, nothing. We beach the canoes so Mr. Bob can take a GPS reading on his brand new GPS.

My question: If you know these waters like the back of your hand, why the hell do you need a new GPS? Did you bring a damn compass? No…that would make sense.

Mr. Bob stares at his GPS for 30 minutes. “This thing is messed up,” he announces. Of course it couldn’t possibly be operator error. Hmmmm?

Mr. Bob, “Okay, I know where we are. The campsite is on the far side of the channel and further in.”

We follow Mr. Bob…right into a swamp. We are lost. We cannot return the way we came due to the gale force winds and white caps. We’ve ventured far from the main channel. There is not a single sign of civilization. Hubby and I look at each other.

Hubby, hissing in my ear, “Nobody has been down this channel since the area was first explored in the 1600′s.”

Me, “We are so fucked.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bob, “We’re going to paddle up along the shore and see if we can make it to a campsite we think is right around the corner.”

Hubby, “No…wait, we shouldn’t split up.”

Me, “No…wait, you have all the food.”

Too late. They’ve vanished in their canoe that cuts through the water like butter. If they don’t return, we are stuck here, at least until the wind dies down enough to allow us to paddle to some channel where we might be seen and rescued. I get out and explore the area. I find an occupied beaver lodge, a huge pile of moose shit, and big blobs of fresh bear scat. We are majorly fucked.

After an hour, Mr. and Mrs. Bob return. I’m relieved to see them, but only because they have the food pack.

Mr. Bob, “We’re stuck. We can’t even get out of here in our canoe. We’re wind-bound. Last year, some people were wind-bound for a week.”

Me, “Oh hell no. I have a plane to catch Saturday. I am not going to be wind-bound. If I have to swim to the goddamn main channel, I’ll swim and I’ll wave my red life jacket around until someone rescues me. I’m going to be on that plane if it kills me.”

Mr. Bob, “You worry too much.”

I have to go stand near the bear shit to cool off. I’m sending out bear vibes, hoping a bear comes and eats Mr. Bob tonight.

I return to help set up camp. Mr. Bob has placed our makeshift kitchen in the worst of the gale force winds. I find a sheltered place near the beaver lodge. Mrs. Bob and I move the kitchen. The men set up the camp stove and we boil water for hot drinks, since we are all frozen. We each have a hot chocolate, after which Mrs. Bob packs up the hot chocolate with the words, “The rest of these are for Mr. Bob. I only brought enough for him.” WTF? She reaches inside the day pack they’ve used to bring the food, a day pack which shocks me by it’s small size and lack of mass. It’s a canoe trip for god’s sake! Weight doesn’t matter. You can bring a whole fucking refrigerator if you want! Oh…wait…that would be our canoe…

To my horror, Mrs. Bob pulls out a small package of dried instant stuffing and a small can of chicken. “This is our supper,” she announces. “Go drain the chicken.”

“No,” I shriek, “keep the chicken water, we need the calories!” I rifle through the bag. OMG! OMG! OMG! My math impaired brain makes some quick calculations…Mr. and Mrs. Bob have planned the meals to provide each of us approximately 600-800 calories per day. We’ll be burning 3000-4000 calories per day. A body at rest burns 1200 calories per day just for basic metabolic functions. That’s a calorie deficit of 2200-3200 calories per day. And if we’re stuck here for more than four days? We are so going to die.

Hubby ‘o’ mine eats his three-quarter cup of stuffing and then asks, “When’s supper?” He’s assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Bob, as self-proclaimed gourmands, will have packed fabulous meals for us.

“This is supper,” I say, beginning to channel Jack Nicholson from The Shining. I look around for an ax.

After doing the supper dishes and watching Mr. and Mrs. Bob pack them neatly into their little compartments in the kitchen pack, I retire to my tent to nurse my rage. Tossing and turning for hours, I finally leave the tent at 4 a.m. to sit on the shore. I watch the beaver family, mama and papa and two kits, play barely five feet from me, for three hours and I feel calm. Screw Mr. and Mrs. Bob. Hubby and I will survive. When we leave this campsite, I’m taking the food pack.

Tomorrow: One Fun Day

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