It is early January when for the first time, he goes out into the bush alone. It is only for the day and only a six mile walk out of town, but it is bitingly cold. Snow has been on the ground since that night in late October when he arrived after a two-day train ride north. He had no idea then what thirty degrees below zero feels like; how the whispering breeze caresses his cheeks like a honed blade; how the snot in his nostrils freezes brittle; how the pristine snow squeaks beneath his moccasined feet. Now he knows, and he revels in it. This is what he came for, snug in his goose-down parka and wool-lined pants. Proper adventure. Gone is the dark apprenticeship down the dripping mine, the deafening rattle of rock drills, the stink of gelignite and miners’ sweat, and the tedium of mapping rocks in the semi-dark.
Now he is a field geologist in the great outdoors. And is there a greater outdoors than the vastness of the Canadian North? He thinks not. He stands on the shore squinting in the glare of the blindingly white lake. Somewhere out there is an oddity, something strange though not unexpected. The company flew an air survey and found an anomaly in the earth’s magnetic field beneath the lake floor. Today it’s his job to find it and mark it. He looks at the stake he carries in his left hand – already labelled “MAG 65/1” – the first exploration target of that year. He must trek out on to the frozen lake, find the anomaly and drive the stake into the snow. Later, once the ice will bear it, a drill will be set up on his mark and a diamond bit will bore down through the lakebed into virgin rock and bring up samples of whatever lies beneath – nickel, copper or even gold. ‘Likely pyrite – fool’s gold,’ Doug, his geologist boss said. ‘But it needs checkin’.’
He takes the compass from its leather pouch and checks the map hanging at his chest. The anomaly lies northeast, half a mile out on the ice, on a bearing of thirty-eight degrees. He wades through the snowdrift on the shore and out onto the lake where the snow lies a foot thick except where the wind has blown it clear, exposing naked ice. Holding his compass at waist level, he walks the bearing marked on the map, counting his paces. He knows he takes about sixty-five steps to a hundred yards, so he should find his target at five hundred and twenty paces. Sure enough at five hundred paces his compass needle starts to swing wildly and dip downwards. He has arrived. To pinpoint the anomaly, he walks a rough circle and at its centre drives the stake into the snow. A snowflake settles on his mittened hand. He looks up. It has clouded over, the sun has gone and it is snowing. He turns towards the lakeshore, or where he thinks the lakeshore to be. He cannot see it. All is white and swirling snow. Not to worry, he thinks, I know I stood on the west shore which runs north to south. If I walk due west, I’ll hit it. He looks down at the compass, turns it in his hand. The needle doesn’t swing; it’s stuck, drawn down by the magnetism beneath his feet. The compass is useless here. Panic rises in his throat. The lake is a good eight miles long and at least a couple of miles wide. If he sets off in the wrong direction, he’ll be screwed. He takes a deep breath. His footprints are still visible where he walked in a circle. He’ll have to find his tracks out from the shore, but they are fast being covered by drifting snow. And once he gets away from the anomaly his compass will work. He takes a direction at random and walks head down into the snow which falls thick and fast. He counts paces again. At fifty he stops and checks the compass. The needle swings freely. He has walked northeast. He turns around and backtracks to the stake and sets off in the opposite direction. He crosses his circular walk, looking out for his tracks from the shore. Nothing. The wind has picked up, blowing the snow into low drifts and ripples. He checks the compass again. “Due west and I’ll hit the shore for sure,” he mutters, “if the bloody compass is right.” The wind is in his face as he walks into the blizzard. Wind from the west. That’s right. The panic in his chest lessens. Then in a slight hollow he sees an isolated line of footprints. His? He fits a moccasin into the print. It’s at least a size bigger and there is the faint imprint of a tread. Not his then. Somebody else is out here. Who? Why? This is another world, a world he doesn’t know. Panic rises again. Breathing deeply, the frigid air biting his lungs, he looks up to see nothing but blowing snow. He looks down at the compass in his mittened hand, watches as snowflakes settle on its face. ‘West,’ he says out loud. ‘West,’ and sets off again, following the compass needle. But is his compass working? Is this really west? Is he heading for the lakeshore and the road to town or out into a wilderness of ice and snow? And who else is out here and why? He wants to run but knows that would be foolish. He stops again, bends down, deep breathing hands cushioned on his knees. And then he hears it – the steady growl of a diesel engine. He must be near the road. Relief floods through him as he staggers up the shore where the drifts are now thigh-deep.
Sitting in the warmth and diesel stink of the snowcat cab, he wipes the thawing sweat of panic from his frozen face. ‘Thanks for coming to get me, Doug.’
‘Couldn’t leave you to walk back to town in a snowstorm now, could we?’
He nods and turns to his companion. ‘There was somebody else out there, Doug. I saw boot prints.’
Doug shakes his head. ‘Nah, not in weather like this. Tenderfoot like you sees all sorts of things first time in the bush. You’ll get used to it. He draws on the cigarette held between nicotine-stained fingers. ‘We find a mine out here we’ll call it “Tenderfoot”. After you, eh?’
He nods, grinning and settling in his seat. As he dozes off to the sound of the throbbing diesel, he thinks to himself, “Adventure. Proper adventure, that was.”