Happy Birthday
“The thornbush is the old obstacle in the road. It must catch fire if you want to go further.”
— Franz Kafka
I remember collapsing in the pitch-black shelter, dazed and confused. In silent denial, I just couldn’t believe we had lost the fire. Restless, I exited and groped my way to the lake once more, passing by the blackened stump as usual. The stump! Maybe? No. A slim chance? I dropped to my hands and knees and started digging like a madman. Yes! The ground below felt slightly warm. I yelled to Jacques who helped me unearth the roots, at the end of which we hit upon a precious, tiny coal, and managed to blow it into flame just before the rain came. All the while we felt we were acting out the pre-arranged script of a cheap action movie, with our heartbeats as the soundtrack. And, as per the traditional last scenario, we danced, laughed, and screamed at our success. This close call taught us a valuable lesson and from then on we gingerly babied that fire, tenderly feeding it fungi as a precautionary measure. Silence resonated in our brains like the loudest of alarm clocks, whereas sparking wood lulled us to sleep.
In the days that followed, we gradually acclimated to our predicament in the infested boreal forest, like a mountaineer faced with thin air. Our meagre sustenance consisted of fruit picked from Amelanchier bushes, otherwise known as juneberries, serviceberries, or saskatoons. As we expanded our horizons, we found dispersed patches of these, at one point picking a full basket. Nevertheless, our average intake was less than four hundred calories per day, a long way from the usual three thousand back home.
After two weeks we were substantially weakened and fatigued by a weight loss of nearly five kilos each, and daily tasks demanded added concentration. Much of my time I spent like a tramp, vagabonding along the shoreline and begging for a few rich moments. Or peering out the teepee’s triangular door into another dimension, that of drippy wet scenery, where lonely but lovely moments invited deep reflection on man’s place in nature. How neat to marvel at the minute water meteorites crashing into the mud to form momentary craters. And then try to transpose that image to ponder life’s vicissitudes.
Berries as appetizer, berries as main course, berries as desert.
On that occasion, the mini water holes I was observing served as portals into prehistory to reflect on how any human intervention affects nature. I imagined myself as the first man on Earth, in a pure, virgin forest. I was digging a well with my hands, a long and painful process. To help, I tore off a tree branch. This was the first impact, the very first use of nature. To speed up the process, I broke stones to make tools to cut a tree and transform it into a full-fledged but heavy wooden shovel.
But being ambitious, I wanted to go faster still. I fetched iron ore from the mountain. Then I erected a huge clay oven where I melted the metal into a light shovel, which permitted completing the well in no time. Bravo! But then I had nothing left to do. So I decided to carve totem poles to represent my greatness as inventor. Voilà, I had crossed the threshold into unnecessary impacts on nature, unexpectedly driving away the birds that once sat on the tree branches singing pretty melodies.
As I pursued my thinking to reflect on the repercussions of digging wells with gasoline tractor-drills it became quite clear that every produced item, be it need or luxury, destroys a corner of nature. Perhaps we should change the paradigm from production-no-matter-what to minimizing impact on nature.
I looked up at the moving sky for answers. With a bit of concentration, the clouds became stationary and it was me who was in motion, sitting on a planet. And Earth was like a boat sailing on a sea without end, filled with people of all races, religions, and superstitions. And if all these people sitting on this small vessel shared the one giant fish they catch per day, they would all be well fed.
Incomprehensible to me was the actual situation on our boat Earth. The stronger few keep the two fish filets for themselves and leave only the guts to the many others. This creates conflicts and as the enemies kill each other, the hull is pierced by stray bullet holes. Do they not realize that they risk sinking the boat? And that the only solution is to improve the lot of all, fairly?
As I lay there pensive, my mind wandered to the city: stress, noise, speed, pollution, drugs, cigarettes, power, possession, disease. I considered staying in the bush, away from that absurd society. The bark container full of clean water at my side comforted me more than would have a safe filled with money.
Over time we did manage to improve the teepee, slowly but surely, like a farmer sows his seeds. Once the fruit of our labours had matured, whether the rain violently whipped the shelter or softened and teased us with intermittent droplets, we gladly harvested its sweet-tasting security. Particularly appreciated also was the elephantine blanket I had painstakingly constructed from tall grasses dried in the sun, tied into bundles with spruce roots. As were the toque and extra socks I fabricated from the sleeves of my sweater.
Our main worry was keeping the fire under surveillance on windy nights, when we would wake covered with ashes. Twice our beds nearly caught fire.
Blackflies harassed us severely for two weeks before our toughened skin stopped reacting to their fading numbers. At one point I counted seventy-three bites on the back of one leg; I had not noticed the miniature entryway burned into my pants by a flying ember. When Jacques dropped a very rusty can he had found into my lap, I attempted to fight the bugs by dropping a smoky mushroom into the container and hanging it around my neck. The only result was an intense coughing fit. Imagining that someday nature would trust me enough let me in on her bug repellent secret soothed my agony and eased my bitching.
Many adventures punctuated what could have been a quite monotonous existence, mostly because of my inability to stand still. Indeed, my propensity to experiment non-stop soon got me into serious trouble. It all began seven days into the trip, when I started fantasizing out of boredom. Before me, the sea. Ah! If only I could sail freely! How handsome I would be with wind-swept-hair and waves whipping my face! Fishing, exploration, adventure! Mermaids! Why not build a ship? On my first attempt I entered the water up to the waist and using my remaining shoelace and belt, plus a few roots, I managed to tie together several logs. I hopped onto this raft that reminded me of my childhood hero. The proud and experienced Captain Haddock climbs to starboard and holds the helm. Saperlipopette! Tonnere de brest! This nut shell won’t budge!
I ended up with the ridiculous raft a hundred metres further, soaked on the outside and drained on the inside. I sought refuge in the teepee, chagrined by my poor performance. But I hadn’t exercised all of my options. Mille millions de mille sabords! A true captain wouldn’t give up after having been shipwrecked but once! The next day, stubborn Haddock was at it again. What about a simple pirogue? With levers and small logs as fulcrum point, I managed to roll a huge tree trunk into the water, which fell in with a splash. I found another such trunk a hundred metres from the first and dragged it in the water until it lay parallel so I could tie them together.
But as I grabbed a pole and jumped on, the pirogue flipped over and I was tossed into the drink, head-over-heels. Twice. That sparked the idea to add an outrigger, which I solidified through triangulation with a diagonal pole. I was now master of my vessel.
With morning shadows, I took off my boots and tied them around my neck. Standing on my proa-style raft prototype, long slender pole in hand and flat root on deck, I set course for the nearby island to explore it and gain perspective of our territory. Splendid landscape. The raft split the inky calm water gently, silently. On the far side of the lake the elegant mountains proudly stood above the foggy water. What decor!
I wondered what I would discover there, across the lake. The vegetation appeared to be different, with larger trees. I reasoned that perhaps the south sun created a warm microclimate there. The pretty water and prospect of discovery became irresistible. So I sat and switched to J strokes with the rough improvised paddle and made my way across. It was slow going, but painless, until three quarters of the way. Then a light breeze rose, forcing me to paddle on the other side to maintain direction. When the breeze turned into wind, the strain caused a cramp in my left shoulder. Phew! Behind me, only a distant trickle of smoke indicated the position of the camp.
Staring into the deep and black water scared me. I suddenly became aware that I was infringing upon every safety rule in the book. No life jacket! Jacques didn’t even know where I was, and even if he did, what could he do? Paddling faster, I finally docked at the rocky point’s natural wharf, completely exhausted. Where was I to find the energy to go back?
On shore I found a few raspberries, which I gobbled down instantly. Then, to make a long story short, I wasted my time hiking part way up the mountain and looking around, worried all the while I would get lost. As minor positives, I did find a cherry sapling, which I broke off to use as a future hunting bow, and gathered an elderberry branch with the intention of hollowing it out to make a bellows for the fire. But my thoughts were entirely consumed by the scary ride back. And scary it was indeed.
The wind had increased in velocity and the waters were hardly reassuring. Knowing the situation could only grow worse, I jumped onto my craft and the torment began. I had paddled three hundred metres or so before I realized something was amiss. My boots! I had forgotten my boots on the shore behind me!
It took over an hour to fight my way back against the wind to retrieve my precious footwear and get on my way again. The wind was shoving me diagonally, deviating me significantly from the path. So I had to ask my too-short root paddle to maintain a forty-five degree angle to the waves.
Near the halfway point, again as in a movie thriller, the intensity of the wind increased and waves were now washing right over the raft. I was barely progressing, like a snail across a highway. To be blunt, I was scared shitless. And that was before one of the lashings broke and my outrigger started falling apart. I jumped in and used my handkerchief to tie it back up. I managed to roll back aboard and paddled like hell strictly on adrenalin until I crashed aground. Land! To complete the cinematic display I kissed the shore and lay down, dazed, soaked, and exhausted. That night, the cold’s claws seemed sharper than ever.
Other highlights of the first couple of weeks were entirely related to the unrelenting search for food. We had observed a couple of red squirrels frolicking about fairly close to the campsite. Jacques advised that I would be wasting my time setting up a squirrel pole snare like those described in survival books. Naturally, like a kid contravening his parents’ rules, I set one up anyway, “borrowing” a piece of wire that served to attach the radio’s handle. But experience proved my companion right, as I observed the squirrel avoid the snare each time he climbed the path.
But a couple of days later, as I was moseying around the next bay, a squirrel attracted my attention and I froze, observing it. Hmm, interesting. It hopped onto a floating jumble of logs and climbed a rotten tree that stood erect in deep water some five metres from shore. It entered a knotty hole, which I presumed was its nest. Picking up a long pole to serve as a lance, I approached by balancing upon one of the log bridges that led to it. The other log paths I pushed away, reducing the squirrel’s access to shore to the single one I was standing on. I positioned the tip of my spear at the edge of the hole ready for a fatal strike and kicked the tree. But in the wink of an eye the lighting-fast animal had leaped out and scurried between my legs into the forest.
Curious that I might find edible nuts, I started shredding the half rotten tree trunk with my spear, when I was surprised by acute and plaintive cries. Baby squirrels! With shrieks having alerted the mother, she came scurrying back to the rescue, passing by me somehow and snatching a pup in her mouth to carry it off into the forest. Watching my supper pass before my eyes like that wouldn’t do, so I ran to get my squirrel pole trap and laid it against the edge of the nest. I hit the tree again and the whining pups called to mom again. Too hungry to dwell on the philosophical issues haunting me, I readied my spear. Unbelievably, the nimble squirrel managed to avoid both my strikes and the snare while reaching her offspring, but got caught in the snare on its panicked way out.
Even the most seasoned trappers acknowledge that seeing an animal get caught in the trap is not quite like gathering it up once already dead. Truly, I wasn’t too pleased with myself. The lean meal I would partake in that night did not compensate in the least for my feeling of guilt at having removed this beautiful beast, mother of needy children, part of this nature I was striving to protect. On the other hand, it was a unique occasion to reflect on the difference between killing to obtain meat or paying others to do so. It is difficult to associate “McCroquettes” with living beings. That, is the duplicity of life in the city. There in the wilderness reality jumped right in my face as I spent a night listening to the plaintive cries of the five pups huddled in my hat, and the next day too, as the wicked and monstrous hunter forced himself to cook them up to respect the survival mantra that states “you kill it you eat it.” Having weighed my meal, I concluded that this must have been the strangest “quarter pounder” ever. Poor Jacques had to leave the scene. Like he had the previous day when I had prepared “Squirrel tripe stew à la rusty can.” As I sat alone in the restaurant, I too had complained. Maître d’! There’s disgusting white foam in my bowl, and the broth tastes like dishwater!
But switching dinners didn’t help. My meal of whole minnows boiled in the same can didn’t taste much better. Not even fit for cat food. I had spent an entire day lugging logs and rocks to fence off an area to trap the million of small fry I had noticed darting about in a shallow spot near shore. Having traded hats with Jacques, I used his net-like baseball cap to chase them down. End result before they scattered: a piddly 175 grams. The weather never permitted me to retry.
Even on the sunny days when it was possible to fill my tank with berry fuel, my motor didn’t run well. I needed some premium gasoline, otherwise my carcass would end up at the scrap dealer.
On day six I was combing the shoreline to the east for I-don’t-know-whats, when once again I heard the loud splash of what I could only figure was a bullfrog diving and admired the pretty pattern of concentric waves. Further on, the phenomenon repeated itself. I imagined another pair of powerful and delicious legs propelling a green slimy body. If I walked with feathered steps, could I surprise a third? Oh! An inanimate object was lying parallel to a floating log. A filiform pike! Another step and splash! It rushed to deep water, striking its tail. The mystery of the invisible frog was solved. Sun-tanning fish!
If only I had a decent hook. Wait a minute! What about the thin metal spring inside my anorak’s cord lock? I ripped it out and stretched it, then broke it into three equal pieces by striking it repeatedly between two sharp stones. Using twisted strands of thread from the inside of a piece of worn out lace, I bent the three sharpened points and tied them together into a treble hook. A folded ten-cent piece added weight to my creation. After several hours of patient twisting of the same threads into a line, I was the proud owner of a brand new four metre long fishing line. I hung a few tadpoles on the hook and roared over to the bay to launch the bait.
I returned to camp empty-handed and shared my findings with Jacques, who was not impressed whatsoever. The previous day, he had seen five such pike sunning themselves and had even managed to touch one with a pole. His patience impressed me. But how to catch them?
If Jacques touched one, I figured I could certainly manoeuvre my hook under one. I returned to the bay just a little too abruptly. Splash! I had to show way more patience just to get a glimpse at one of those elusive pikes. So I slowed down. Way down. I let my feet slip gently, lightly groping the soil. Moving no more than a centimetre at a time, with extreme delicacy, I introduced the grapple in the water two metres from the fish. More gingerly still, I nudged the hook toward the target. Evil blackflies were biting me around the eyes and one was now crawling up my nose, but I dared not move. Five minutes passed. Nice work! The treble hook was now just below the fish, the line touching its side. Jerk!
A knife improvised from a key. The treble fish hook was manufactured from a cord lock spring and a folded dime.
The fish was propelled into the air. But the hook wasn’t sharp enough to pierce its skin, the tip had simply bent out of shape. Damn, damn, and triple damn!
I wandered for three-quarters of an hour scrutinizing the logs before seeing another pike. Same scenario, same result. Then a third failure. All of these immobile fish, within our reach, without being able to capture a single one! I swore that after the trip I would always carry a hook in my wallet.
I continued dreaming about fish. Perhaps I could weave a net to span the three-metre-wide gap between the tiny island and shore? After all, Native people used to do this, using basswood, dogbane, or milkweed fibres. After spending countless hours weaving string from willow bark, I attempted to concretize the project. By nightfall, out of frustration, I tossed the twenty centimetre fishing-net toy deep into the bushes.
The next day, Jacques came into camp relating excitedly that he had almost caught a fish. He had managed to use the partridge catching technique to partially slip a shoestring noose over the fish, but missed because the lace floated out of shape when submerged. I suggested he use the wire from the squirrel snare. That would be cheating, he replied. True, I answered, but just try it to see if it can be done. His thrilled yell that afternoon left no doubt as to his success. Pike! He explained that the trick was to pass the noose head first, contrary to our previous tries, and to pull as soon as it reached the gills, at which point the fish darted forward so quickly he was caught near the tail.
I really enjoyed that quarter pounder of fast food too, all by myself. Picky-eater-Jacques disdained fish and no amount of coercion could convince him to replenish his protein supply. Again I laughed at popular survival literature that suggests eating larvae and insects. No way! Unless at death’s door, no one in our contemporary society will eat such fare. I for one wouldn’t even consider eating earthworms until having sunk way deeper than I was thus far.
Following Jacques’s example, I fished every spare moment of that entire week. After fifty hours logged at the task, I had managed to harvest only two more fish of similar dimensions. Then the weather patterns changed and the floating fish disappeared into the depths.
On day thirteen, Jacques asked me to listen as he pushed the playback button on his tape recorder. I immediately recognized a beaver-tail slap. On the small pond half a kilometre east of our camp, a yearling had begun building himself a home, the telltale sign being the tiny dam he had commenced working on. Jacques swore we would be eating juicy cubes of beaver steak before his birthday, on day eighteen, five days from now.
Fast-forward to August 18th, in the wee morning hours, just before sunrise.
“FIRE! FIRE! WAKE UP YOUR BLANKET’S ON FIRE!”
I leapt up, smashing my head against the sloping roof of the shelter. UGH! What the hell? What was this intense light? The heat! The smoke! Jacques was shouting, madly smacking at my grass blanket with a stick. No! The fire jumped to the birchbark ceiling. The shelter was on fire! NO! We were surrounded by flames! My god!
“GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!”
We dove out of the rising inferno, rolling on the ground to extinguish the sparks on our clothes. Instinctively I grabbed the corner of the fiery grass blanket and dragged it outside and managed to smother it against the damp earth. Crap! I’m missing a boot! Desperately, I plunged inside and snatched the precious item, to exit once again with a judo roll.
Dazzling flames were already soaring several metres into the air. My glasses! I needed my glasses! I tried to leap into the hellhole a second time, but the fire was too intense. Maybe I can rip through the wall of the shelter from the outside to reach the spot where I had hung them last night. Quick as a rabbit and with the fierceness of a wolverine I slashed and gashed at the grass and bark structure. YIKES! Our recorders are in there too! And the camera! Jacques helped me in a frantic but futile attempt to pierce the fortress. The jostling heat forced us to retreat several paces.
We were appalled by the power unleashed before us. The scorching tower rose to the height of the largest trees surrounding us. They trembled violently, threatening to ignite. No! Please, no! Not a forest fire!
The shelter crumbled. Phew! We could finally approach and hook a few long logs to pull them out of the fire. Little by little, we took control. The danger had passed.
We were still in shock. Jacques ran to the radio:
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, this is an emergency call. Mayday, does anyone read me? All stations, all stations, Mayday, this is an emergency call, please answer, please answer. Damn! No one hears us!”
Motionless and silent, we contemplated the giant red circle that had closed in on our treasures. My beautiful basket overflowing with fruit! My little green sleeve-socks! The cameras, the voice recorders, our friction fire kit, the other baskets, our homemade ropes, the weigh scale, the thermometer, Jacques’s t-shirt, my handkerchief, my eyeglasses, our key-knives, our belt-buckle axes … everything, everything, everything was gone!
5:15 a.m. I didn’t yet fully realize the consequences of the fire. Must our journey end thus? I was trying to analyze the situation. Could we continue? Jacques was obviously hooked on leaving. He continued to call for help, over and over and over again, but there was no response. Security my eye, this radio!
A lazy stroll along the shoreline will do me good. A smiling log invited me to sit. I drank and thought. At least my scientific data was spared! Good thing we had taken the habit to store the 35mm film canisters and the voice recorder tapes with the radio in the waterproof bag.
I compared our situation with that of the first day. At least we had fire. Too much of it that morning, mind you. Flies were less voracious. We were on a fine site, despite the fact that it was now rather depressing. We’d toughened up. On the other hand, we’d much weakened since the beginning of the trip.
Perhaps the media would perceive this misadventure as newsworthy, which would help Jean-Claude promote Nature’s University. In a sense, maybe the fire wasn’t so bad after all. The day before I was bored to death; now I faced a good challenge! Okay, it was decided. I was staying. At least I could endure a few more days.
Jacques was still trying to establish communication. It was his birthday, poor devil. He must have thought the candle was a tad big! He looked so depressed! I suggested a diversion.
“Say Jacques, why don’t we go check out your beaver trap?”
“Okay. This cursed radio won’t work anyway.”
“Tough on the psyche, eh?”
“No kidding! Let’s not talk about it.”
We clambered up to the pond. The rudimentary deadfall trap hadn’t budged, and therefore neither did Jacques’s morale. It must have been frustrating beyond belief for him to have failed capturing the beaver after five days of attempts. Alas! As I suspected, it wasn’t so easy to substitute wooden deadfalls in lieu of standard metal traps.
I didn’t know what to do to cheer him. Personally, the fire incident didn’t bother me anymore, I had already accepted it. In fact, I felt as strong as a bear. The only thing that annoyed me was not seeing clearly. If only I could have saved my glasses!
We returned to the desolate campground scene and like anthropologic scavengers we started poking around in the fire. We discovered the remains of a weigh scale base, the skeleton of a Dictaphone, and a piece of plastic melted around a camera lens. A camera lens? Wait a minute, didn’t the glass burn? That meant my eyeglass lenses lay somewhere beneath these ashes! We sifted through the hot cinders with sticks and found one, then the other. But their surface was completely charred — they were opaque and useless.
I began making plans for the new shelter. Because of the cold end-of-August weather we were expecting at this latitude, we decided it should be much smaller with a fire in front; the best shape would be a triangular lean-to. When the fire died down, we would scrape the remaining embers aside and build the shelter in the same location. At least the ground would be dry.
For the time being, there was nothing to be accomplished in that sense, so off we went berry picking. This was the first time we went together, since for once there was no danger of losing the fire. That precious fire that until then had provided us comfort, warmth, and security had now literally turned against us. Why? I suppose that white can’t be fully appreciated without black to compare. It’s nature’s way. A good excuse to not blame myself, obviously.
I finally mustered up the courage to engage in conversation with Jacques. I agreed with him that it was tempting to use our misfortune as an elegant doorway out of there. But as I exposed my plan for the new shelter, I managed to convince him that our fate was no worse than it was the day we arrived. I also insisted on the added hype the event may have on the promotion of Nature’s University.
“In any case, Jacques, I think we can at least build the shelter and survive until tomorrow.”
“That’s what’s sickening. I know we can get by until tomorrow without a problem.”
“So?”
“So, damn it, I know that if we make it through tonight, we’ll have to stay until the end of the month.”
We broke out laughing. How funny, we were reading the exact same script. Much worse than our sinister incident was being trapped there for an additional thirteen full days! And as our nerves calmed down, we could truly feel how our rude awakening at 5:03 that morning had added to our cumulated fatigue.
With the rise in barometer we eventually established a communication with Jean-Claude and dumped news of our disaster on him to see how he reacted.
“It’s obviously impossible for you guys to stay out there in those conditions. I’ll send you a helicopter as soon as possible.”
“Very nice of you, Jean-Claude, but we’ve decided to stay. We like it too much here!”
“Huh? You mean to say you want to continue the adventure anyway?”
“Yes, Jean-Claude, we believe too much in the cause. We’ll try to stay a few days more. Do you think it’ll help pass your message?”
“Count on it. I find you guys extremely courageous. You two are aces! Good luck!”
Flattering. How I love surmounting the impossible! To me there is nothing in the world like a good solid challenge. Of course I have to pay the consequences for my sin. What is clear, in any case, is that if I were forced to choose between feeling pain or feeling nothing, I would choose the pain without hesitation. At least suffering shows me that I’m alive.
But Jacques didn’t fare so well; he became doubly depressed. During our radio interview, he could no longer control himself and broke down, sobbing. I had to replace him at the mike. It wasn’t easy.
We began the reconstruction of the shelter. Log by log, the new structure rose. Fortunately it wouldn’t rain that evening, for bark was now rare in that neck of the woods. We built a temporary roof using pieces of wood caulked with moss. It wasn’t much protection, but it would have to do for the night.
We still had to carry wood for the hours of darkness, but I needed a pause really badly. I headed to the beach to recline on my favourite log. The waves on the lake looked like white lambs dancing on a blue pasture. For the first time, the shepherd wind led the herd to the southwest. Does this indicate a major weather shift? How will we fare in our tiny shelter when furious lightning comes to whip the sheep and thunder barks loudly at them?
I took my boots off to rest my feet. I imagined myself barefoot looking for shoes. A pair of sandals woven with bark like those I used in Colorado wouldn’t protect me from these flies. No, better catch a beaver to make leather moccasins. What a job! First, he needed to fall in the trap, Mr. Beaver. Second, we needed to skin it and scrape off the fat, all with primitive tools. Next would come the tanning process using brains, fat, and ashes. Only then could we finally cut pattern pieces and use a bone needle to sew a pair of rough moccasins.
Then I imagined myself in the city, without shoes, and without a penny. After working two hours to check some vending machines looking for forgotten coins, or by picking up bottles discarded by naive or reckless polluters on the side of the road, I would quickly obtain a dollar. A few minutes later, I would leave the flea market, proud owner of old-fashioned but sturdy shoes that would greatly surpass the comfort of the moccasins made in the forest after several days of intensive work.
A hundred metres along the shore lay a few huge rocks we would need. Using the partly demolished raft, I floated them back to camp. These I rolled over to the fire pit. During the night I would use some forked sticks to tumble them over to the inside of the shelter to warm our feet. In spite of our minds’ command to build a bed, fatigue pushed our stop button. At least we still possessed my grass blanket to use as a mattress. It was almost as wide as our tiny shelter floor.
As Mother Nature’s maternal darkness started tucking in the day, I mustered up the courage to go accomplish a final task. An idea had been trotting in my head all day. Using the sharpened key I’d recovered from the ashes, I cut a small plate out of birchbark. On it, I installed a small ring of the same material held in place with a toothpick. I grabbed a few berries and crushed them into a paste to fill the ring. This would serve as the base layer of the “cake.” On top I spread a glaze of delicate white wintergreen flowers. The grand chef was about to create a masterpiece! A few decorations with some red bunchberries and heart-shaped wood sorrel leaves and the cake was finished. Cute! I stuck a miniature bark torch on top and approached the shelter slowly. Jacques looked exhausted, drained, completely demoralized. So I cleared my throat, lit the “candle,” and sang a lively “Happy Birthday.”