Nine Lies of B.G. Davies

The Line in the Sand (Part 7)

Two days later we were standing on the shore looking down at the track in the sand.

The decision to push on ahead, further North, was based on Gray's belief the Hudson Bay Post was somewhere ahead, but that depended upon if we were even on Mattagami Lake. At this point I had more faith in Jimmy's silent and unwavering determination to continue on course than on Gray's treatise of where we must be. The body of water we were paddling was a long widening of the river, exposed to the relentless north wind, so strong that many times we would look at a rock or a stick in the shoreline clay and, despite our best effort, were unable to see the canoes making any noticeable progress. And other times, if one looked a little higher up the bank to where the slope flattened and the clay became sand, one could still see the impression of the creature's track. No one felt inclined to rest by pulling onto the shore. While it should have motivated us to put even greater effort into our paddle strokes, I felt that each inch of progress was only bringing us closer to an inevitable encounter with whatever beast made the track. I looked across to Jimmy, analyzing the paddle strokes he used to combat the fierce headwind and to seek comfort in his expressionless face. 

The wind was only increasing. The cold front we had seen from shore was now upon us. Waves were splashing against the side of the canoes and water, picked up by the wind, was spraying into the vessels, wetting paddler and gear alike. An icy rain stung any exposed skin. Wet sleet was coming, not from the sky, but from down the lake, travelling horizontally, as though the frozen rain was intentionally thrown into our faces. There was no shelter from the elements; to paddle closer to shore only exposed the craft to greater turbulence, and to the mysterious line in the sand that mocked our journey.

Finally, after hours of a futile struggle against the force of the wind, Gray gave the order to cross the lake. "We can get protection over there lads." At this point, the far shore was a half mile across, but the fetch to the north was uninterrupted for miles. The cold wind funnelled down the long, narrow lake and I braced myself for what I knew would be a difficult crossing.

Gray steered the bow of his canoe to an angle to the wind and dug in. Wally, in his bow, reached forward and pulled the water towards him, fighting to keep the canoe from turning downwind and becoming broadside to the waves. The other canoes followed. I switched my paddle to the upwind side and dug in hard. In my bow Silvester flipped his blade to his right and grunted a long pull. We began the crossing.

Jimmy's canoe was ahead of the party by five lengths, still following the shore. Despite the fact  he was paddling solo and had most of the heavy gear, he had positioned the packs in such a way that the wind, when it blew from one side, helped keep him moving straight without using correction strokes. He made it look easy, and when he turned and saw Gray had begun to cross the lake, he broke the rhythm of his stroke to raise his hands high above him and looked up to the sky. Jimmy was a difficult creature to understand, so one was never certain of the meaning his gestures; he may have thrown his arms up in protest, or in question, in delight, in praise, or perhaps for an entirely different reason. Then he lowered his head and continued his course along the shoreline.

Now four canoes, eight souls, were tossed relentlessly by the black water. Away from the shore, the waves were spaced farther from each other, but their height was magnified. The waves rolled, breaking in a long, unending froth. We would try to steer the canoe directly into an oncoming breaker to keep the canoe out of the worst of it, but with each crash, more spray and splash entered the vessel. I was kneeling on the floor of the canoe, legs braced against the hull, narrow ribs digging into my knees, my rump supported on the seat, trying to keep the vessel balanced as water sloshed across my knees, from one leg to the other.

We made it half-way across when I saw Gray's boat leave the water. It appeared to me as though the canoe was lifted from the surface. It was thrown clear out of the lake. The boat flew up, not being pulled from above as much as pushed from below, as though some Leviathan or Behemoth had ascended from the dark depths, grabbed hold of the hull from beneath, and tossed it into the sky. Wally threw his paddle and grabbed the gunwales for his life as Gray, still attempting to brace the canoe with his paddle, no longer found water under his blade, and with a shout, was thrown from the vessel before the canoe flipped and landed right side up again on the lake surface.