He
finished the gorp and, picking up my spoon, began eating my noodles.
He paused for a second and said, in a heavy French accent, "I
thought you were dead." My eyes narrowed as I said, "Excuse
me?" He spooned in another huge mouthful and said, "There
were two otters playing in your kayak at the portage, so I just
assumed you had drowned and it had washed up on shore-but by the
delicious taste of these noodles, I see that I was wrong."
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Then his story began to emerge. He was Kim Haffez, a 27-year-old
Frenchman on a solo, two-year canoe trip from Montreal to Tuktoyaktuk,
on the Arctic Ocean. After he finished my entire lunch, we hiked
down to the bottom of the falls. A mountain of gear was heaped
next to a red, 16-foot fiberglass canoe.
A shotgun, three spare paddles and snowshoes jutted out of the
jumble, as well as a saw and an ax - so that he could build a
cabin when the rivers froze. He told me that he didn't wear a
life jacket or a wetsuit; since he already had to make five trips
over every portage, he refused to carry another thing. He had
been wind bound seven of the last nine days on Superior, and had
run out of food. He had lost 15 pounds before he re-supplied in
Thunder Bay. He had then headed up the Grand Portage, where our
paths now crossed.
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I tried to get him to take my detailed maps of the border area
to replace his one large topo map that didn't have any portages
marked, but he refused. He said he wasn't in a hurry, and he would
eventually find them. He wished me well and, as we shook hands,
I slid my last candy bar into his palm. We departed in opposite
directions.
It was time to go - we each had dreams to chase. |
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