The Line in the Sand

14

Awakening was less peaceful. It was Silvester, kicking my feet, yelling at me to not fall asleep. He was sitting on the bench of our canoe, I was lying on the floor of the boat, under a fur blanket. Jimmy's bearskin.

"Hang in there John," he shouted, "we are out of the worst of it now."

I raised my head from the canoe floor and looked around. Silvester was paddling our canoe, empty of all gear, and I was lying in the place of the packs in the bottom of the canoe. Ahead of us, Jimmy, in his solitary canoe, was paddling, towing two boats with men sitting on the floor, huddled together under blankets and tarps. Following our canoe was one other. Wally was struggling to paddle. A limp body was slumped in his bow seat.

The water was calmer over here. Sheltered on the lee side of the raging wind, we slid into a cove and crashed the canoes onto the rock shore. Jimmy sprung out of the boat and pulled each canoe up the bank. The men stumbled out of the boats and dragged themselves up to the edge of the forest and sat huddled together. I could barely move my legs and it took both Silvester and Jimmy, one on each side, to assist me to move to where the others were sitting. Wally and Silvester appeared to have the most strength. They followed Jimmy's order to help the men remove their wet clothing. I had no ability to feel my buttons and sat helplessly as Silvester undid my jacket and shirt and pulled off my soaked and almost frozen clothing. Gray, who was naked now, was placed next to me and the bearskin blanket was wrapped around us both. His skin, pressed into mine, felt as cold and dead as a corpse. Neither of us had the ability to shiver.

Jimmy, who had disappeared for a while, returned to the group, arms full of sticks and logs and, moments later, a great fire blazed in our faces. Orange flames soared to the heavens, embers and sparks exploded and cracked, landing on my cheek and on the bearskin. I felt my face tingle.

How Jimmy was able to start a fire in the conditions that day is still beyond my comprehension. Everything was wet, the forest soaked from rain, our gear, except that which was carried in Jimmy's canoe—was lost. Somehow, Jimmy was able to, in no time, build a raging fire. A life-saving fire. Eight white men, naked and helpless, sat huddled together under Jimmy's blankets, a tarp strewn overhead. Across from the fire, Jimmy Noland stood with a long driftwood stick in his hand. He pulled a pot of hot liquid from the fire and placed it, steaming, on a rock next to the blaze. Then he stood tall, and looking down on us for the first time since we departed from the other shore of the lake, in what seemed to be another life, Jimmy laughed.

That night I dozed fitfully while Jimmy tended the fire and served us hot tea. We discovered that all our provisions, what little food we had left, had been lost during the capsizing of our canoes. Jimmy's canoe carried most of the group gear, so we still had tarps and tents, pots and pans, axes and the like, as well as some survey equipment and tripods, although they would serve no purpose any longer. Jimmy assured us that those packs would have sunk to the bottom, and would never be recovered. All of our information, the notes, the journals, the scientific facts and evidence, the results of four months of work, the very purpose of our journey, was lost forever, taken by the lake. Gray said nothing, only stared at the fire.

Our objective now, Jimmy explained, would be to try and get to the Hudson Bay Post at Fort Mattagami. He had never been to the fort himself but told us of how, as a child, a group of Hudson Bay men from Mattagami arrived at the Fredrick House Post on Nighthawk Lake, where he and his father had held up one winter, years ago. Jimmy figured that Fredrick House, which he said was no longer in operation, would have been about a four-day journey from Mattagami, so that would likely place the party's current location, about one day's paddle to the fort.

In the morning, frost covered our entire campsite. The tarps were stiff and ice had formed in the water pot. The fire burned hot and Jimmy was standing in the same spot he stood the previous night, still tending the fire. Our clothes had dried somewhat, but my trousers and over-shirt still retained enough moisture to be frozen solid. My legs were shoved into the stiff pants, the shirt cracked as it was placed over my head.

Those men who were most able helped break our emergency camp. Gray, DeMorest and I seemed to be the worst, and while warmer now, we still were without the strength to walk to the canoes without assistance. We were placed on the floor of each canoe while those who had some strength were given the task of paddling from the stern. Jimmy tied the four canoes behind his boat so the group would stay together. Like a family of mergansers on a summer outing, we followed Jimmy's canoe out into the lake.

The wind had subsided, although it still pushed a thick mist into our faces as we plodded north. I tried to paddle a few times but could do little more than move my arms in a futile attempt to help. Movement failed to generate any noticeable body heat from within me. Although my mind was dull and my vision groggy, I knew I would not be able to survive another frigid night.

Jimmy did not let up. He never once lost a paddle stroke as he pulled our sorry fleet down the lake. We did not eat, did not stop to relieve ourselves. The men urinated in the canoes or in cups while Jimmy towed them. I never saw Jimmy once break the rhythm of his stroke. He only laughed, but not very often.

Dusk set in and the wind calmed and progress was more noticeable. I drifted in and out of consciousness, never entirely certain what thoughts were fantasies of imagination and what was actually happening to me. My recollection of the entire season's odyssey, it seemed, was subject to a similar unclarity.

So when I saw the shimmering fires of the fur trade post in the distance and the shouts of our men and the clanging of pots and the banging of paddle against gunwale, it seemed to be yet another vision in the half-sleep of my imaginative state. As I sat on the floor of the canoe that endless day, I imagined what it was like for eight men and one Indian to set out in June of 1900 on a four month expedition to map and survey the wilderness of New Ontario. I imagined these men following the leadership of the mighty George Reginald Gray, Timber Surveyor from Oro-Medonte Township, son of John Gray the rebellion-crushing hero, husband to Florence Lee Sheridan of 50 Isabella Street, Toronto, world champion Putter of Shot. I imagined a little man we called Jimmy—dark, weathered skin, a toothless smile, a grin, and a laugh. I imagined the coming together of fact and fantasy, of history and speculation, of science and superstition, the natural and the supernatural. I could not tell where the line was between each of these, only that there was a line. I saw the line. It is in the sand of Mattagmi Lake and of that I am, to this day, most certain. What I am uncertain of: which side of the line I am on now?