About five years ago, a college buddy invited me grouse hunting in the north woods of Minnesota. It was early season, which sucks for grouse hunting because of all the trees and underbrush, but I was looking forward to a weekend away and spending time in his family hunting shack.
He'd been going there since he was just a squirt, and assured me he knew the land inside and out. With a sherpa leading the way, I bravely trudged through the willows and popplers on the heels of my dog and his Lab.
We'd hunted most of the morning, had a siesta over the noon-hour, and then decided to check out his deer stand. I'm familiar with hunting ruffs by following woodland trails, only breaking off when a dog was birdy or on point. He, on the other hand, was all into the brush busting. So when we pulled the truck over on a seemingly obscure chunk of pine trees, I thought nothing of it. He pointed out the line of Jack pines and said we'd follow it into the woods to his deer stand.
In any good survival novel, this would be the point of hindsight. Because had I brought my pack with the first-aid kit, water, compass and other gear, we wouldn't have had much to worry about. Instead, because of the unseasonably warm weather, I'd opted to travel light, with just one bottle of water for the dog, my bird vest and a pocket full of shells.
Most of us in North Dakota probably know what it's like to hunt standing corn, or traipse cattails for game. If you have, you know the unnerving feeling of seeing sky and the tops of the cover around you, and nothing else. Imagine that, but with an overcast sky and a dense canopy of aspen leaves and pine bows.
Five feet from the road, and I couldn't see the white of his pickup truck.
But, assured by my guide's years of experience, we traveled in along the line of Jack pines until we came to his deer stand. It was a rackety things, as Minnesota deer stands are prone to be, but it appeared stable enough to his standards for the season opener in a couple months.
"Where to now?" I asked, grabbing the water bottle and giving Remy a few glugs. Water haphazardly splashed out the corners of his mouth. My dog is a very inefficient drinker.
"Well, we'll just keep following this line," he said, motioning toward the pines. "Eventually there's a willow stand that holds birds, sometimes."
In we went, following the dogs' lead. They were birdy on occasion, but we hadn't so much as heard a flush. Upon reaching the willows, I suggested we head back to the truck and try a trail. The sun would be down soon enough, and it made sense to hit a promising location during the witching hour.
Instead, my buddy hangs a left and says we'll make a loop. There are old logging clearings, with edges of popplar and willow that are a good chance of holding ruffs.
In we go. It's an interesting experience. Each area of woods seems impossibly thick, with branches that snag at ball caps and force hunters to sling shotguns over shoulders. Briars rip and bloody us, while the dogs delicately maneuvered like secret agents through a field of lasers. Invariably we'd pop free, the woods birthing us bloodied and soaked with sweat, into a clearing of boggy peat and scrub brush. Three times we repeated this process, traveling deeper and deeper into the tangled north woods.
Then, my friend spoke words no man in a strange place ever wants to hear.
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
The blood drained from my face. My eyes bulged.
"Wha-wha-what are you talking about?" I stammered. "How the hell would I know where we are?!"
He stood and thought for a moment, turning slowly in a circle as he scanned the surroundings.
"Oh God. Oh dear God," I moaned. "We're lost, aren't we."
"We're not lost. I know exactly where we are. Just have to figure out which was is north. You brought a compass, right?"
In a comedy, this would have been the part where the protagonist, me, uproariously tackled the co-star in an epic scrap of fisticuffs. We'd tumble through the woods, scratching and clawing (then a quick cut to the dogs, who are cocking their eyebrows in curious amusement) rapping off one-liners like bullets from an AR, until finally bursting from the the drama in one climactic moment, only to find ourselves mere feet from the pickup truck. We'd chuckle heartily at our foolishness, limping as the credit rolled and the sun set. The perfect ending. Exit stage left.
Except this was real life, and I was now all too aware that we were most definitely lost. In late September with expected lows near freezing. In the woods. With nobody else around.
"No," I said, "I don't have my compass."
"Dang."
"And I don't have much water, or my first-aid kit, or matches, or anything else."
"I didn't bring anything either."
I was physically shaking, and felt ill. My buddy's reassurances sounded far off, echoing off the walls of pine trees that were closing in. Smothering me.
I remember reading a story in high school about a boy who went cross-country skiing and hunting in the mountains. He'd been caught in an avalanche, miraculously landed upright but helplessly stuck, and survived by drinking urine and eating the raw flesh from the handful of grouse he'd managed to shoot.
I wasn't yet thirsty enough to try my home-grown nectar, and we were not so fortunate to even have heard a grouse, let alone shoot one. The only thing I could think of was to hunker down and huddle with the dogs for warmth, praying the rain stayed away, and attempt to make it out in the morning.
As my friend once again paused to take in the scenery, I did a frantic pat-down for something, anything that might help. Pants pocket had keys, back pocket wallet, shotgun shells, 1/4-full bottle of water, belt...
Then, there in in my other vest pocket, a cell phone. I'd brought it almost second-thought. It had a new-fangled camera on it, and I thought it would be neat to get some hero shots in the woods if we were successful.
It had another innovative feature, too, one that would potentially save us: a map feature.
But we were in the middle of deep conniferous woods, in northern Minnesota. The map would be little use if I didn't have service. I held my breath and flipped the phone open.
Five bars. I couldn't believe.
"I have service!" I screamed, snapping my buddy back to reality.
"So? What are you going to do, order pizza?"
"No numbnuts, I have a map! I can find out where we are!!"
I scrolled until I found the map and punched "Enter." The screen turned tan, and a digital pinpoint showed our location. Success! There we were! But where exactly were we? There were no discernable references. No names or streets. Just a pinpoint on a screen, like a flare shot from a dessert.
I punched "zoom out" and waited for the phone to process. And waited. And waited. The spinning ball stopped, but still nothing but a pin.
"Zoom out" Wait. Wait. Wait. Nothing.
"Zoom out" wait. Wait. Wait. Nothing.
My hands were shaking. This had to work. A drop of sweat feel from my pursed forehead and splattered on the LCD screen.
"Zoom out" Wait. Wait. Wait.
There, on the left and bottom, two thin gray strips.
"I found roads!" I screamed again. "They're to the west and south."
"Well I could have told you that," my buddy said, sarcastically. "We need to know where the hell we're going."
He had a point. This would only work if we could get a bearing. Again, no compass, and this wasn't a modern smart phone. It couldn't tell you which way you were facing.
It could, however, tell you where you traveled if you went a straight line. I looked around and spotted a large pine tree that towered above the forest canopy.
"There," I pointed. "Don't loose sight of that tree."
We ran and stumbled through the underbrush, the briars and thistles scraping and gouging. The dogs bounded along playfully, blissfully ignorant of our precarious situation. I looked at the map but the pin hadn't moved. We needed to go further.
Into another clearing and back out again, carefully walking in a straight line toward the ancient monolith of sap and bark.
The pin remained motionless, and our travel pitched into a frantic pace as we burst through the woods like deer pursued by a pack of veracious wolves.
Finally, ever so slightly, the pin shifted to the north and west.
"I have a bearing!," I said, screeching to a halt and gasping for breath. "We're moving due northwest! That means the nearest road is that way."
The sun was set but the glow of dusk lingered, embers from a bonfire long since past its roaring peak. With certainty came comfort, and a small sense of relief. But we weren't out of the woods yet, literally, and I followed my friend west. The dogs continued to hunt, but we were in no shape to shoot if a bird did get up.
Finally, I could see glowing expand through the branches, and took one last step to a trail. We hadn't made it to a road, but at least we were on a path.
"I know where we are," My buddy said. "This is old man Johnson's scrap yard. We just need to head south."
A quarter mile later, and we were back on asphalt. We'd wound up only a mile from the pickup, but our loop had taken us far, far into the woods.
I was tired, spent, both mentally and physically. All I wanted was a beer and bed. Halfway back to the truck, my buddy chimed up.
"I had a pretty good idea of where we were. I don't know what you were so worried about," he quipped.
Sure he did, the sonofabitch.
