Background: In 1993 the author was lost near the Old Crow Nature Reserve in Algonquin Park. The story continues after he has managed to survive the first night huddled in a primitive lean-to, despite cold temperatures, rain and inadequate clothing … Above: Only a small fraction of Algonquin Park’s ancient pine is protected. The Old Crow Reserve north of Opeongo Lake and Barron Canyon, a popular tourism destination, survive as representative features of the eastern park’s original topography. Photo Christopher Huggett.
As I stood over the meagre fire in an attempt to dry my wet clothing still clinging to my frigid body, it became obvious that my chances of survival were becoming increasingly remote. Four years after this incident I was certified as a Swiftwater Rescue Technician with Esprit Rafting in Davidson, Quebec. In 2000 I became a Volunteer Search and Rescue Technician with Global 1 in Wakefield, Quebec.
What I did not know in 1993 is that, despite a search being considered an emergency, ground search parties do not normally set out until daybreak. Moreover, what the public doesn’t realize is that people do not usually get lost; they lose themselves. Most searches end in body retrievals – which are the result of suicides.
To obtain help, my canoe group would need to engage in a few portages and a 12-hour paddle to reach the Lake Opeongo boat launch. There would be at least another 8-hour delay for a search party to be organized and arrive at the “Last Known Point.” Typically, an air search would first be initiated but the closed canopy in the ancient forest and limited ability to signal using a smoldering fire made that impractical. To my knowledge infrared sensing had yet to be devised in an air to ground search.
Could I rely on my limited experience, intuition or problem solving ability? With the anticipated delay of a ground search, the traditional safety protocol of “staying-put” could increase the odds of hypothermia. From a couple of previous experiences with cold water submersion, I knew when a core temperature drops to 33 degree C. moderate hypothermia would stop me taking further preventative action. My problem was to keep a fire going with drenched vegetation and only two paper matches as back-ups. Last night’s fuel-wood had been dry, but eight hours of continuous rain, and a minimal volume of lower lateral dead branches in this cathedral forest, made firewood a precious commodity.
By 7 a.m. I concluded that my best course of action was to “mark” a retreat in the direction I believed lead to the portage trail. This way I could return to the fire pit if necessary. By profound miscalculation and an irrational trust in my intuition, I decided that “west” lay in the direction of a massive pile of ancient “blow-down” to my left. Here I anticipated I would eventually intercept the portage trail. Was I wrong!
With a confidence limited to the less enlightened, I strode in that instinctive direction. As I pushed through the wet ferns and saplings (immediately wetting out my trousers), I heard the plaintive call of the Pileated Woodpecker. Until now the forest had been blanketed in an uncanny stillness. The Ministry of Natural Resources ( MNR) had used this large woodpecker as an indicator species for old growth forests, so the sound barely registered as remarkable.
As I approached to mount the barricade of logs and debris, I heard the bird again. This woodpecker was calling at rather regular intervals; which was not typical of the species.
The sound originated in the opposite direction of my intended route. It became obvious this repetitive bird, like a broken gramophone record, was something unnatural. As I approached the distant sound it started to resemble a human voice. Twenty minutes later a handful of my canoe party, lead by my good friend Fred appeared. Fred was a heavy set, 48 year-old ex-footballer and could exhale a mighty sonic blast well over 110 db when necessary. The sound had travelled over 1.5 – 2 km . That voice and his wilderness savvy saved the day.
Apparently, when I failed to return to camp the previous night the group paddled over to the trail leading to the Nature Reserve the next morning. Paul, a senior member of the party, discovered my gas-mask bag and began leading the group into a mature hemlock grove. However, Fred, argued I had ventured to measure white pine and re-directed the search to the trail’s opposite side. Hence, he guided the men uphill through the pine stand, following the largest specimens.
As we descended toward the portage trail Fred loaned me his damp Gortex jacket and within 20 minutes we had reached the canoes. A short paddle to the campsite and a campfire followed.
Apart from these details I recall very little of the event half a life-time away. More salient mishaps and random emergencies involving calamity proceeded throughout my life reducing this incident of being “lost in Algonquin Park” to the back-pages of my memory.
In 2017 Fred died following an extended illness. Adjacent to the memorial guest register at his funeral sat his memorable Tilly Endurable Hat, stained, yellow and threadbare. A symbol of a canoe culture decades ago when the old guard told stories, laughed at mistakes, joked, and poked fun at one another. A culture not much different than the original voyageurs, surveyors, or clergy that paddled the same waters in search of furs, settlement land or trading partners centuries before.
I believe that every human being facing an existential threat, when forced to surrender his or her personal agency in a desperate attempt to live is often spared the final embrace with eternity. This temporary reprieve is not necessarily from an act of divine mercy, but rather an indication the individual has not yet “arrived.”
As H.D. Thoreau observed, we lose more than we gain as we age. This cognitive and physiological ageing process is frighteningly self-evident. But despite the inevitable shortcomings of ageing we can always strive to become better human beings. Humility, respect, and compassion, some of the highest human achievement are accessible to everyone and denied to none. Thus, this incident in Algonquin Park (and the many others that would follow) indicate I have a considerable distance to go in achieving this ultimate state of reality.
Editor’s Note: Click HERE to read Part 1 – how the author became “lost”
About the author: Christopher Huggett is a retired naturalist living in Killaloe-Hagarty-Richards who occasionally contributes to The Madawaska Valley Current.