Lost in Algonquin Park

Part 1: How burning sticks one at a time kept me alive

Before the advent of the technology we now take for granted — like cell phones, GPS,  Gortex clothing, thermal infra-red sensing and robotic drones — previous generations relied on ingenuity, instinct and experience to confront the unpredictable and often unforgiving outdoor environment. Health had to be earned and fitness was a necessity to tread into the unknown or the “road less travelled.” There was nothing dramatic nor romantic about living a little more on the edge, but the intuition to survive was viewed as a necessity and not an option, as it is today.

With Canada’s traditional wilderness or “hinterland” (defined as: “ … where man is but a visitor and does not remain …”) now limited to the journal accounts of explorers, surveyors and clergymen, the probability of getting lost in the wilderness is dramatically reduced. However, this self-sufficient generation lived constantly alert, and truly alive, to confront the numerous dangers both real and imagined in the land of the Creator. Life insurance, disaster relief and government assistance had yet to be devised along, with our contemporary sense of entitlement.

Research shows the two most common causes of outdoor emergencies are, “equipment failure” and “late starts.” Examples abound: the  MSR gas stove that fails to ignite or leaks fuel, the North Face tent that fails to live up to its reputation by shredding  apart in a storm, or the sleeping bag zipper that separates because the YKK runner is worn. “Late starts” refers to a trip or expedition which is delayed, usually because a member is overly cavalier and joins the group at the rendezvous site late because he had to first drop off his children at hockey practice or gymnastics. By travelling alone, you can circumvent these drawbacks because you set your own agenda and the health, ineptitude, inexperience or inferior equipment of others doesn’t place your life in jeopardy. However, in the following account these factors were reversed.

In 1993 at the age of 33 during a group canoe trip to Little and Big Crow Lakes I became “lost.” It’s not a surprise. You either have “it” or not … that is, a sense of direction. Unlike homing pigeons who may use electromagnetic fields or geese guided by astronavigation, I had no concept of direction beyond familiar environments with salient landmarks.

The members of my canoe group were comprised of older (i.e. more than 40 years old) “domesticated” men of an urban Ottawa church congregation. Unlike myself, an outsider to the denomination, each member proudly sported a Tilly Endurable Hat (the economic status symbol of the day). They were married, financially self-sufficient, had large families, and a post-1980 prefabricated two-car garage, suburban bungalow. They were considered society’s successful — at least by the current values of our civilized western world. However, these attributes did not necessarily predispose or prepare them for outdoor living.

They organized semiannual canoe trips that were the equivalent of the seasonal “hunt camps” of their rural counterparts. It was when men got together for a coveted couple of weeks each year. As the only single paddler, this was a fraternity ritual foreign to me; where competitive chest- beating and machoism were expressed by the weight a man carried over portages, the size of trees he hacked down or how foul he smelled from a mixture of sweat and DEET. Times haven’t changed; historical accounts describe Voyageurs’ boasting of similar feats of strength and endurance. For that matter, so do moose and other animals …

However, detached from the watchful eye and domestic/emotional support of their wives, it became apparent the members of this conservative patriarchal group were out of their element. They lacked their spouses’ common sense, problem solving, manners, basic campsite hygiene, and culinary self-sufficiency. All this became evident soon after departing from the Lake Opeongo boat launch.

Cooking was limited to instant Kraft dinner and salami, Betty Crocker instant dinners, Kool-Aid, Lipton instant soup,  and Quaker oats. With the lack of dietary fibre and scarce portions, the paddling group was left constipated and starving. A traditional post-trip belt-tightening ritual followed with each man using the reamer on his Swiss army knife to notch a couple more holes on his leather belt.

It was the “Iron John” era — a cult movement that argued man’s intrinsic identity had been subjugated by contemporary society. Men retreated to the woods to beat drums and participate in other bizarre rituals. In the early 1990s the subculture was still very much alive in North America.

After about 45 minutes and a dozen or more entries, I decided to make my way back to the portage before dark. However, the trail was not in the direction I thought, and I went from tree to tree attempting to backtrack to where I had left my gasmask bag on the portage. I surmised if I remeasured each tree in reverse chronological order I could get back to my original location.

But the strategy was problematic and would have taken hours. I had less than an hour of daylight remaining. It became obvious I had to spend the night out.

Although I have been lost for several days on occasions, both prior to and after this incident, it had never been without any equipment. But now I had inadequate clothing for inclement weather, lightweight CF combat pants, the notoriously itchy LIFA polypropylene undershirt and a long-sleeved poplin cotton shirt. In my pocket were three cardboard matches and a Swiss army knife. The temperature was hovering around 8 degrees C. It was overcast with no wind.

My carpentry skills were pathetic at best and building a lean-to posed a major challenge. The shade under this old growth forest reduced the ground vegetation to slow-growing hemlock saplings. These I hacked off with my penknife and attempted to align them at a 45-degree angle from a rotten branch propped against the base of a massive hemlock tree.

I collected about 40 dry sticks between one and three inches in diameter and about two feet long. I neatly piled them at the entrance of my lean-to which was no more than two feet high. The structure resembled a fox-hole. There was barely enough space to crawl in and lie down. As darkness descended, so did the temperature. With dry kindling I managed to get the fire started with one of the three cardboard matches. But by 10:15 p.m. my luck changed — it started to rain. With a limited amount of dry fuel, total darkness and inadequate clothing, the water began to run down the hemlock needles and was absorbed and wicked onto my skin.

Years after this event I was medically diagnosed with Raynaud’s disease. My hands would turn purple and blanch like a corpse. I also had an average core body temperature one degree Celsius below the average 37 degrees C. I also lost the ability to shiver: an important physiological mechanism used to help prevent further heat loss in an emergence. During my life I had been no stranger to incapacitating frostbite and the onset of hypothermia.

Darkness and only wet fuel lay outside my hovel. Frugally, I burned one stick at a time like a candle, cradling my forearms and hands over the pathetic flame. Before the stick smoldered out, I used it to light another stick. The ritual continued throughout the night. While it can occasionally be unsettling when the odds work against you, I concluded that this dark, damp, cold world was a cathedral unsurpassed in grandeur than any of my companions had ever prayed in. Moreover, lying in this wet muddy hovel for several hours overnight allowed me to re-evaluate where I had been, and what would be now left undone. I had worked in a career of conservation — the protection of ecologically significant natural areas. I knew that many contentious areas along the Ottawa River floodplain would be cut and built without my sole intervention. Since 1984 rampant unregulated real estate development had ravaged the shores of Lac Deschênes, the widest 3 km section along the mighty Ottawa River. It was known for containing the last original vestiges of pine and white oak in the nation’s capital, Ottawa.

The night dragged on and by 5:00 a.m. the light increased. I was down to about four unburned sticks. I exited the drenched lean-to and peering around, attempting to orient myself in the formerly dark world. The grey overcast sky prevented me from determining the direction of the rising sun.

The crowns of the tall white pine failed to bend away from the prevailing wind. Moss was growing on all sides of tree trunks. Without any sun to produce a shadow, the “shadow-stick” method to determine direction after measuring the movement of a stick’s shadow was impossible. While the rain had temporarily stopped, all the ground vegetation was saturated with moisture. I could not leave my location without being drenched. I piled a meager amount of moist fuel outside the enclosure and stood over the flames. Dry patches began to form on my combat pants. But by venturing away to collect more fuel, my clothes became saturated again. The situation began to deteriorate and survival became questionable.

TO BE CONTINUED …

Author’s Note: Soon after this incident (and not because of it), Algonquin Park Superintendent John Winters agreed that the “wilderness quality” of the Park would be compromised forever, for safety and expediency following the construction of the Park’s first cell tower. The decision received little publicity and thus met little opposition … )

About the author: Christopher Huggett is a retired naturalist living in Killaloe-Hagarty-Richards who occasionally contributes to The Madawaska Valley Current.