And the Slug
IN the journal kept as part of our Dartmouth Outward Bound experience an entry reads:
Sunday The longest day
Decided to leave after breakfast after dawn because of grueling rainfall. Jeanne and Al went with us this time to the next damn dam. Then, after planning a four-mile portage, they said they'd meet us at the end of Rapid River. We both took the wrong road and ended up meeting in the middle of the woods close to the middle of nowhere. Twelve carried five canoes and nine backpacks (somehow or other) for a total of about five miles. Had a little powwow in our canoes in the middle of nowhere (Sunday Pond) and, after locating something that resembled a trail, continued on our way to the cove. By the time we got there it was getting late, so we decided "to camp out in the rain (it had been raining off and on all day). Everybody was all wet. Quote of the day "I'm shivering because I'm soaking wet all over, but I'm saving my good wool sweater for when I'll need it." Took off in the dark for a nine-mile paddle to the end point of our canoe outing. Fateful voyage of the Beagle, Enterprise,Moocroix, Pequod, and the Slug.
The portage and night paddle occurred only four days after Stewart, Nick, Gia, Bruce, Jill, Stu, Patty, Jon, C. J., Alan, Jeanne, and I congregated at the house at 20 West Street the Outward Bound residence where we were to live and learn together for the next three months. Before we could begin the more mundane life of housekeeping, studying, and group-living, we entered into a ten-day initial expedition of canoeing down the Rangeley Lakes in Maine and hiking the Appalachian Trail over peaks with names like Baldpate, Goose Eye, and Success.
The longest day came just about on time. I'm still not convinced that our instructors, Jeanne and Al, followed the wrong path entirely by accident. Jeanne had been on us not to get too fond of our "loping" pace. We did have a deadline to meet the Outward Bound van that would bring in our gear for hiking and take back the canoes. And up to then we had virtually ignored the Outward Bound objective of taxing body and mind to help reveal untapped resources in every individual.
This one morning we managed to meet the crack of dawn packed up and ready to leave. We knew that the night paddle we had vetoed the night before would be tacked on to this day. As "Spot," the name we gave our journal, relates, we had constructed for ourselves a formidable day that would not end until 3:00 the next morning. Our navigators found the dam where our portage began with the help of a little gentle sarcasm from Alan. "What does that building way over there remind you guys of?" It was a structure above a dam like one we had seen the day before, but when someone observed quite seriously that it resembled a tobacco mill, Alan groaned. Gradually, Alan and Jeanne left us to our own devices.
A well-traveled path along Rapid River would bring us to a point of re-entry, our map told us, so we packed paddles in canoes, piled Duluth packs and canoes on our backs, and promptly took the wrong trail.
We realized our mistake five miles later after conferring over our maps. Some wanted to turn around. Others saw that if we could find a path we'd be able to cross Sunday Pond and tack on fewer miles. (The journal underestimated the mileage, I think.) We met up with a local who confirmed that we were going in the right direction for Sunday, but added that he hadn't heard of anyone using the trail for many years. Our greatest fears were realized when we ventured further only to find that machetes were definitely in order.
Except for passing around a bag of gorp (nuts, raisins, and M & Ms) we suspended lunch in favor of plunging onward. Jeanne and Alan appeared en route, looking thoroughly nonplused. At first we sang show tunes, camp songs, a little Paul Simon but group-song dwindled as people entered into their personal struggles. The humidity, the bugs, and the netting of tall grass and tree limbs seemed to close in on each of us. The canoes were the most painful burden. Early in the day my knees had buckled under the weight of one of those 15-foot monsters. How easy it is to forget the value of a vessel when it becomes the passenger. I'd long since felt my shoulders knot up in pain. I fell hard to my knees on rocks and gravel, and I remember crying from the defeat for several seconds. As the others came to help, I realized the luxury of those tears and hid them quickly. Tears or no tears, we had a lot of ground to cover.
Each of us later recalled the surges of energy that welled in us through the day. Channeling frustration, anger, and fear of personal defeat into forward progress became the imperative. For some it was making it all the way to the cove with one Duluth. For others it was doubling back every hundred yards to help someone carry a canoe or an extra pack. For all it was true teamwork.
The hoopla that burst out as water came in sight is a song to remember, but quickly we had to make plans for our night paddle.
Seated in canoes, we fell to arguing over our course of action, and it began to rain. We were exhausted and shouting. Should we eat? Where should we camp? Could we please get out of the rain? We'd been sweating all day in the closeness, but now September night chill was setting in, and we were prime targets for hyperthermia. We set up dinner camp and huddled in our individual soreness. As far as I was concerned, there was no good choice that night. I was wet through, my body throbbed, and I couldn't get warm. I didn't want to sleep in wet clothes or canoe in darkness.
That night I learned the meaning of euphoria. The night paddle was the finest part of our entire journey.
I took the stern of Ahab's Pequod. Stu took the bow with compass and map. Four days before I'd learned the c- and j-strokes, essentials for steering a canoe, and that night held us on course with the help of distant lights and stars and shadows of islands on the horizon and, of course, the navigating skills of Bruce, skipper of the Slug. Although we could see luminous objects far off, we could barely see each other, necessitating role call every few minutes. To this day I can hear us calling off the names in order: Beagle, Enterprise.Moocroix. Pequod. And, after a time, Slug.
And we could sing again.
