The Crash

The Crash

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The Crash

by Bruce K. Barnard

I was seventeen when I first visited the Boundary Waters. My good friend Phil had been there before. When he discovered that I owned half of a canoe, my sister owned the other half, he was not the kind of person you argue with. "We have to go", he said, "and stay a month."

So we did, with a Sears model aluminum canoe (a real tub), lashed to the top of a '62 Olds convertible. If you have never tried tying a canoe on the top of a convertible, take my word for it and don't.

Remarkably, 700 miles later we arrived in Ely, with the canoe, and the Olds in one piece -- if you don't count a dead battery.

After spending the night in the Olds and resolving the battery problem, we managed to find our put in point. We were quick to discover that the U.S. Army duffel bag we "borrowed" from Phil's father was not the way to carry 85 lbs of food, that one mushroom flavored Cup a Soup was not an adequate lunch, and that it made sense to load the canoe after it was in the water. We arrived at Sunday Bay on Crooked lake some 4 or 5 days later, and set up our "base camp. 11 We survived seven straight days of rain by lashing our only raingear to the outside of the tent. Neither of us has owned a canvas tent since. After that, things really started to look up, we began catching fish and having the time of our lives. Having survived those first two weeks we felt like real outdoorsmen.

One evening about dusk we returned from our regular fishing trip with nothing to show for our efforts. It was a very calm, overcast, evening. There was a chill in the air, we decided to build a f ire. As the circle of warmth and light grew, we discussed the days events. With the overcast skies, it became very dark, still and quiet. Only the occasional call of a loon would break the silence. We began to get drowsy and were sitting silently watching the glowing embers when all hell broke loose. The noise sounded like a large tree falling just yards away, but the crash was sustained for what seemed like minutes. Phil and I looked at each other with gaping mouths. Neither of us spoke until the shivers were done caressing our spines.

Then we both brilliantly observed "What the hell was that." We discussed the possibility of a plane crash, but we had heard no engine sounds. We dismissed a falling tree, there was no wind and the crash simply went on too long. We laughingly suggested that perhaps a small alien spacecraft had come down on top the hill. We envisioned two foot tall aliens with seven tentacles arriving at our camp fire emitting strange clicking sounds, and waving their tentacles back towards the woods. But after we were through laughing, we were looking over our shoulders trying to see through the dark. We kept the fire going for a long time that night.

Phil and I became regular visitors to the Boundary Waters. The "crash" became somewhat of a legend. I don't think anyone really ever believed us. We told the story of the crash frequently, and with enthusiasm, preferably on quiet, moonless nights.

It was years later, on a remote lake in the Quetico. I was putting the rainfly on our nylon tent, Phil was engaged in his favorite activity, rummaging through the food pack. A sound made us both look up, standing in the middle of our camp was a huge bull moose. He looked at Phil for a second, turned, and ran. Underbrush, branches and tree saplings were flying everywhere, the noise was deafening. We looked at each other and never spoke a word, but we knew the legend was gone. I was happy to know the answer, af ter all those years, but somehow it seems there is something missing on those quiet, moonless nights.