Geoffrey Lewis looked south where the clouds had gone greyer and lower. Nothing. He listened for the helicopter. Maybe with weather coming in, they’d take the big aluminum boat with the warm cuddy cabin. But all he heard were waves hitting the shore. Those were getting bigger.
They were supposed to have been there two days earlier; he didn’t think he lost count of the days. Maybe it was him. Maybe he slept through those last couple of days with that fever. Note to self; don’t eat a porcupine with spots on its liver. But the dates on the cameras were right. They should have been here by now.
I
There once were ten of them, each placed on a different cove of massive Huaskin Lake on the northwestern edge of British Columbia. Its name wasn’t actually Huaskin Lake. Its real name was a secret the production people kept to themselves because they hadn’t gotten formal permission to film on this sparse stretch of Canada, or anywhere else for that matter. It was a show on a shoestring budget, Last Man Out. The producers had argued that a survival show by nature required minimum equipment so didn’t require a big budget, but the provincial authorities were adamant that they would have to be provisioned for 1) a quick rescue, and 2) qualified on-site medical personnel, 3) with radios that worked this time, 4) and spares, 5) and at least one helicopter on call 24/7.
The First Nations Act required them to hire a designated cultural specialist from the local First Nations Council, at CAD$2,500 per diem, to advise on native sensitivities regarding the use of natural resources, traditional living skills, as well as the appropriately large fee to the Council for use of the land even though the land in question was claimed by the Crown. There was some dispute over ownership and usage rights between the tribe and the Crown, the province, and three other tribes, that was under discussion and had been for forty-seven years.
The provincial staff had been encouraging, but aloof; a very Canadian thing. The producers pushed for a date, a timing, for approval and interpreted the authorities’ enthusiasm as a tacit nudge-nudge-wink-wink. “We think it might be okay,” said Jane Wright, the legal counsel to the BC Parks Film Board, with a condescending smile. “We’ll decide soon to somewhat soon and then you could be able to go ahead” was what they heard. The concluding “if” they ignored.
“We’d like to get in before, you know, the weather,” said Ben Kessler, the executive producer, whose experience in the wild was confined to a glamping safari in Kenya where the capacious tent had a bedroom, a living room, and full-on bathroom at $3,000 a day, US. He’d made that money off a reality series, a decidedly modest hit before it was canceled. The final episode had people lying in a box filled with rats. The one who lasted the longest won $10,000. The person, not the rat.e’
“Of course,” said Ian McBride, a PR guy for BC Parks Commercial Film department. “Makes sense, what with the weather. Maybe you could fly over the area or take a boat to scout it out.” Jane Wright forcefully interjected, “That is before you get the necessary formal permission.”
That was all Kessler needed to hear.
His scout included the contestants with a handful of gear, ten items to be specific, and the requisite camera equipment, basic first aid kit, bear spray, and the radio if they chose to tap out during the experience. The one who stayed in their selected area the longest would win $100,000. They had been vetted for some degree of experience, been given lectures on survival skills – like trapping, fishing, edible and inedible plants, shelter building – and a copy of “Bushcraft” by outdoor expert Mors Kochanski, a Canadian professor of the topic at the University of Alberta. Had the contestants read his book beforehand they’d have learned he had a detailed instructive on a five-pound survival kit that everyone in the bush “must” carry. They would learn about other gear they needed in due course.
The challengers were taken to their locations with the camera crew filming as they got off the boat and the contestants starting their own cameras to record the experience. They all opened with the same shot of the boat motoring away with the common commentary, “Well, there they go.” The reward for the winner, the $100,000, was quite low by the standards of the industry; the winner of Alone would get a cool half-million while the survivor on Survivor had a check for $1,000,000. But the contestants on Last Man Out had largely been rejected for other shows and their motivation generally included the belief they could use the exposure to market a series of YouTube videos based on their prowess.
And why not? Several dozen contestants on the other shows were trying to make a career out of it. They were not alone in wanting to lose profit from the great outdoors. One fellow, who tapped out on Alone after sitting on a porcupine corpse, was rumored to almost be making a living of the survival game though his income was largely on the sale of tee shirts showing a man leaping after sitting down on a porcupine. Alas, the survival business is a catch-22 situation. While attempting to link viewers to merchandise, these wool-wearing entrepreneurs emphasized Kochanski’s theme “the more you know, the less you carry.” In other words, survival experts don’t need much to live on; they should be able to make it with nothing. That’s the point up to a point.
II
There were seven men, two women, and one they, aged 21 to 63. Three had military experience, were the largest physically of the set, and emphasized ‘discipline’ when they spoke in front of their cameras in those first few days. They growled about getting meat and spent their initial precious calories attempting to hunt. They were among the first to tap out. The culprits included a minor injury (fishhook in a hand), homesickness, and sheer hunger.
A smaller contingent were nature spiritualists who sought solace, and food, from foraging plants, berries, and seaweed along with the three fish this group managed to catch in aggregate. One was pulled off by the medical team on their weekly checkup. The others were just enthusiasts, up for a challenge, and keen to parse an outdoor experience into a survival challenge. Geoff, age 27, was in this category.
Then there was the other Jeff, owner of a bike shop in Fort Collins, who spent his free time cycling mountains paths in the Front Range which explained why his bike shop was closed more often than it was open. One of his precious items allowed on the show was a bicycle. The survival experts overseeing things tried to explain that it wouldn’t be of much use, but Jeff said you could do a lot with the parts of a bicycle, had hidden a few joints and things in the tubes, and producer Kessler thought it would be a good gimmick for some variety. And it gave him the idea of possible sponsorship from a bike company.
Jeff and Geoff caused some confusion. The medical team would radio in that “Jeff was doing fine” on one of their rounds when they meant the Geoff. On the map at basecamp, “Jeff” appeared twice. Several members of the crew assumed it was a typo or that they’d changed locations and hadn’t bothered to change the map.
By day twenty-three, another two had tapped out; one was pulled with an injury after slicing off a chunk of his calf with a dulled ax. The other was on the brink having lost twenty-eight pounds and caught zero fish. The show’s staff, meanwhile, was monitoring the emergency radio for the signal that someone wanted out, sitting around basecamp bored to tears, and mainly enjoying the cases of Brador malt liquor they’d brought in for that very contingency when Kessler called in on the satellite phone.
III
He had just gotten off a call with an apologetic McBride and stern Wright who, in a most Canadian way, explained that the permit had not been approved, would not be approved, and that wasn’t it a good thing they hadn’t wasted too much time scouting out locations. “Maybe next year,” McBride said.
“If you present more acceptable credentials,” said Wright.
Kessler asked why they’d been refused in multiple ways. The responses didn’t vary; they didn’t have enough funds to allow for rescues, they didn’t have any prior experience, the survival instruction in the prep class came from a Boy Scouts Merit Badge book – verbatim and not the Canadian version – that was woefully inadequate for a late British Columbian fall, and they filled out the multitude of forms wrong. “Why do you Americans put the month before the day? Makes no sense,” said McBride.
Kessler tried various approaches including allowing the camera crew to remain fully supplied with the contestants, but Wright pointed out that was quite different from the original plan for individuals to be alone and would put too much stress on the ecology. Kessler countered that with several million acres – hectares Wright reminded him – there wouldn’t be a dent in the ecology. Had they been face to face, Kessler would have seen Wright’s thin-lipped smile. “Next year,” she said. “If you were scouting the area, you need to stop. Right away. The Provincial Park Authority would frown on that. Quite heavily, eh?”
There was no mistaking. Wright had fired a warning shot across Kessler’s bow. He might have replied, “Got it. I’ll get things in order for next season,” if nausea hadn’t risen so dramatically up his gullet. Instead, he breathed out a barely audible, “Understood.” Then vomited into a convenient trash bin.
IV
“Come again?” replied the on-site director, Bill Rafferty.
“Pull out,” Kessler repeated. “Pick everyone up asap. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“What, like now? We can’t even finish the season? That’s bullshit, Ben, and you know it.”
“I tried, I swear. I even called Bear Grylls’ people, but they wouldn’t pick up. Not after what you’ve been saying about him.”
“But he’s a fraud,” said Rafferty “A fake. Asshole stays in a hotel for God’s sake. We’re for real.”
“I’m just saying, from their point of view, I mean they’re not going to support us when we’ve been saying what a wanker their star is.
“He’s a wanker!”
“A wanker with a show, which is something we don’t have right now. Sorry, but we have got to pull the plug. We’ve got, what, five, six guys left? Four tapped out, right? Bring ‘em in. We’ll make up something about real survival versus TV survival and maybe get a pilot someone will pick up. I don’t know. Anyway, call me when they’re in and we’ll figure a way to close off.”
IV
Rafferty didn’t waste any time amongst the partially wasted team. He made a list for the boat crew of all the remaining contestants to pick up. It took a few hours to load the survivors on board the vessel amidst protests, tears, gratitude, demands of anything to eat, and at least one heated argument from a one who wanted to stay, show or no show. It was nearly dark by the time the survivors coalesced at base camp, looked to see who’d tapped out, and took roll call. Jeff by this time was downing his third Brador on an empty stomach and answered twice, louder the second time, when his name was called thinking that this was one sorry film crew. The next day they were all bundled in the boats after a scramble to clean up the camp – Leave no trace was the rule in BC, and leaving no tracks was vital lest the show’s jumping-the-gun came to light.
The remaining crew and contestants were joined by Kessler at a chintzy motel north of Vancouver’s International Airport where they spent a few days discussing what happened, how Kessler was already getting permission for a return trip – next year – and filmed the contestants discussing their experience. Kessler thought he might get a good trailer out of that if he could avoid mentioning the exact location they’d been in. He also teased the reward might be doubled and was gratified that most of the contestants said they’d do it again albeit with different gear. Fishing rods and lures were top on the list. Hugs were made, hands were shaken, backpacks repacked, and tickets distributed. There were phone calls home, saying they’d be returning sooner than expected, and calls from the crew looking for other work. Within a week of closing the camps, the crew and contestants of “Last Man Standing” were back to their old lives or looking for new ones.
Except for Geoff Lewis.
V
Geoff Lewis waited by his cove for the check-up boat, glancing at the sky and wondering if they’d hit bad weather. It was getting late, but he stayed, tossing in a line he’d tied to the end of a long willow branch. If he caught enough fish, he’d hang them near the smoky fire; smoking fish kept them almost palatable for a couple of days at least. His spirits rose when he heard the sound of a motor on the other side of the long, thin, island a few hundred yards across the cove. And then nothing. “Wind,” he figured. “Weather coming in.”
Lewis half-hoped he’d fail the physical when they did show up, that he’d be pulled off the island. He had told his family and friends he was on an adventure and would be out of touch for a while but now worried that they’d be worried. “Months?” said his mother. “Where on earth will you be?”
“It’s an adventure thing, Mom. I’ll be safe, with doctors and all, so it’s not dangerous. Just out of contact.” He wanted to surprise them, all of them, when he won the money. He cared more about that at the beginning. He wondered if the other contestants felt the same way.
Returning to his shelter, he counted the notches on the tree….32, he hadn’t counted wrong. They should have been here. “Tomorrow, then,” he said to himself.
“Tomorrow.”
Geoff was particularly keen for a visit. The show’s doctor had left behind a bag with a sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, and two power bars the week before. He kept the power bars, just in case, but devoured the PB&J after they left. If it had been deliberate, he thought ‘Thank you Doc.” If not, it was “thank you, God.” He’d done a lot of God-thanking in those 32 days, though not nearly as much as God-damning.
They couldn’t eliminate him if someone left food, could they? The rule was you could use whatever you found. Surely that included stuff found because the checkup team left it behind. Maybe the PB&J was a test. But they hadn’t cast him away yet. Cast away, that’s funny he thought.
He was laughing when his line went taut. The willow branch nearly doubled over as the line cut through the water. It was big, a fighter, and he was sick with the fear he’d lose it. But the line held, the fish tired, and he dragged it to the rocky bank. A salmon! A small salmon but salmon nonetheless! Geoff conked it on a rock and stared at it. He collapsed there, put his head down, and cried out. When they got here, tomorrow, it would have to be tomorrow – he’d tap out. After cleaning the fish, and roasting part of it over his fire he changed his mind, maybe next week. “I need you, protein, I need you.” He held the stick steady in the flames as the salmon’s skin bubbled and cracked. He was singing to himself.
“I need you, like the flower needs the rain
You know I need you, guess I’ll start it all again
You know I need you like the winter needs the spring
You know I need you. I need you.”
He made a face as his fingers picked at the steaming flesh. “God, I’m alone, I’m hungry and I’m singing America. I HATE America.” He racked his brain for other songs but all he could think of were songs by America. “But Oz didn’t give nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn’t, didn’t already have.” He tried to eat more, relishing the fish, but in his mind he heard, “And cause never was the reason for the evening. Or the tropic of Sir Galahad.”
“Stop it,” he screamed. “STOP.” And the music did stop for a second only to return with, “Well, I keep on thinkin’ ’bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise.”
He racked his head for anything else and came up with “I want to make it with you.”. “Bread, I like Bread,” he said. Then he thought about bread and how hungry he was. And then songs that had food in them. “Bye-bye Miss American pie, I’m so hungry, I’m like starving, I could eat a pigsty.” It became a game. “I am the walrus, I am the egg man I need an omelet, goob goober peas!”
Geoff slipped off his perch in hysterics half thinking he was going crazy when the wind plunged in. He saw a bolt hit something on a distant hill and counted, one, two, until the thunder clapped. It was pouring now. He closed the woven door to his debris hut, but couldn’t fight all the rain coming in. He covered himself with a poncho, required gear, and continued finding songs somewhere in his brain. “When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads” and then “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.”
Karen Carpenter died of starvation. And he thought how hungry he was and how he wished the checkup team had come. For the hundredth time that day he wanted to press the button on the PLB, the Personal Locator Beacon, his ‘only-use-once-and–we’ll-get-you-but-you’ll-be-off-the-show’ last resort. One press, done, out of there, a meal, a hot shower, more food, and home. He’d been there for 32 days already. He didn’t need to prove anything. Who cared, who really cared? “Last resort,” he said. And started laughing again.
VI
He couldn’t blame the snare. It was made with the good cord that had secured the PLB around his neck which was much safer than putting it in his pocket because it could fall out of his pocket, especially one without a flap, and be lost, creating the same problem as if it had fallen 40 foot down the cliff he’d just climbed, bouncing off the rocks like a super ball in a squash court and smashing the electronics into a dozen pieces making it as inoperable and just as useless as if he’d lost it.
Geoff stared down at the cracked cover of the orange device and pressed the button once more as he’d done every few minutes over the last hours. Useless. He’d scrambled up that cliff, thinking there’d be some sort of food nearer the top. Berries. Maybe a rabbit. He’d gone up, stupidly, wasting calories, throwing sticks at birds, and using the cord for a snare. The snare, like all his snares, didn’t work.
They’d give him a new one, on their next visit. It was, the instructors had emphasized, his single most important piece of equipment. And it was waterproof, fireproof, idiot-proof. Its signal would project to the heavens and reveal his location within five meters. And the rope, parachute cord, could hold 300 pounds.
He turned the thick plastic blaze orange cover over in his hand, cutting himself on a sharp edge. “Goddamn,” he said sucking the blood off his finger. He pressed the button again and again until it pushed through and popped out. “My Potemkin village PLB,” he thought then threw it into the shallow water of the cove. He could just make out the blaze orange through the water.
Maybe he should have kept it. We’re supposed to find a use for everything. Ah, but then they’d be there soon enough, and give him a new one. He’d just have to be careful and stick around camp. He heard the instructors in his mind, “Never, I mean, NEVER be without it. We catch you you’re disqualified. Off the show. Understand? Say it.” All the contestants nodded their agreement and in unison, said, “Never be without it. Ever.”
VII
The cackle of a loon woke him early the following morning. The rain had stopped, replaced by a cold front that gave him goosebumps as he peed outside his shelter. He got his fire going, higher, bigger, and spread his hand over it, and rubbed some life back into his torso.
Geoff got some water boiling in the pot – that, he was allowed – and finished the salmon. It tasted smoky and was dry on the outside; just as he intended. He was getting good at this.
The tide was out allowing him to check the gill net he’d been given and was thrilled to find a small pink salmon struggling. He thought it was pink salmon but wasn’t sure and couldn’t care – he didn’t pay too much attention to the lecture after the instructor told them any fish they’d likely catch would be edible – the bigger the better. “Likely or lucky?” asked one of the contestants forcing a round of nervous laughs. “Likely,” said the instructor. “The water is filled with them, which is why we chose the locations. Lucky is if you get enough. Don’t be picky either. Flesh, eat it. Skin, eat it. Eyes, eat it. Head? Boil it with the bones. Then eat it. You can use a rock to grind the bones. Calcium, fat.”
He knocked the salmon against a rock, reset the net, and stuck a finger into its gill to carry it back to the shelter. On the way, in a shallow tidal pool, was a splash. Putting the salmon down, he leaned over and with his hand corralled a nice sized sole, a rock sole, or maybe a flounder, a good two-pounder, and flipped it onto the rocks. “Yeah, baby.” He gave it a light knock on its head and put it back in the pool. That done, he ran back to camp and got a camera and tripod and reenacted the whole event, down to clocking the salmon on the head.
He’d been lax about filming this last week. It was fun at the start, a bit self-conscious maybe, but he got used to it, would ham it up, and did a couple of nude scenes, too, knowing they’d be cut. And, when he got bored, which was most of the time, it gave him something to watch until the crew came with replacement batteries. But filming had become more of a burden as his hunger and enthusiasm started to wane. Still, it was in the contract he’d signed; x number of hours had to be collected. He forgot how many x was, so was getting into the habit of filming nothing; just him sitting or cooking. There wasn’t much else to film. And he was tired, weak too, from the lack of food.
Ah, but the fish, the fish…he had three and if he maneuvered the salmon back into the net and make-believe he just stumbled on the sole, he’d get a good 20 minutes out of it. In other shows, they showed they seemed to like it when people caught fish and jumped up and down like maniacs. They also liked it when people broke down and cried.
He set the camera and walked over to the gill net yelling as much like an idiot as he could, a waste of good calories, but good footage. He danced with the fish over his head, hoping that the swaying would convince the camera it was alive, then brought it down hard, smashing the head on the rocks. It was a silly way to kill a fish, especially one pretty much dead. Looking at the camera with the bloodied fish in his hands, he yelled, “tha tha that’s all folks” and then set up the camera to capture him with the sole, still alive, barely, in its pool. He caught it again, flopping it around to make it look lively, and said to the camera, “Hmm, sole meuniere or maybe sole manure…either way, this will be delicious. I’ll smoke the rest of the salmon to keep for a rainy day, which means almost every day in this outdoor washing machine and have the sole tonight. Protein.”
He kissed the fish on its nose, looked into the sky, and said “Thank you great spirit, for this life. Thank you fish, for giving your life to me,” and then to the camera, “It worked for the Indians.”
It was midday, more or less. He could tell because the stick he’d stuck in the ground barely cast a shadow – the sun was directly overhead. He’d made a rude clock with that stick and its shadows pointing to various rocks. In the weeks since he started, he had to inch the rocks further out…it was getting late in the season. The shadows were getting longer.
Midday bothered him. They usually showed up in the morning, did their checkup, asked some questions – what’s your name, who is the president, what is the airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow –and were done in 30 minutes. He counted the notches in his tree calendar again and added a 33rd. They should have been here yesterday. They should have been here.
Then Geoff realized there must be a problem. A problem to his advantage. Maybe they had to get someone off. Maybe more than one had tapped out. That meant fewer were making it which meant he was that much closer to winning. “That’s why they’re not here, of course,” he whispered. Then to the trees, the rocks, the cove, and an osprey that hung out looking for his fish scraps – “I’m going to win this thing!” A bit of guilt followed, “I hope they’re okay.” He crossed himself though he wasn’t religious or even Catholic. He’d been crossing himself a lot, thinking it odd, funny, and fitting. There was logic to it. In survival training, they said to use everything you could. Something that had more than one purpose was a gift.
Like fire. Fire gave him light, warmth, cooked food, made water safe, and dried his clothes. Smoke was important. Smoke kept mosquitos down. Smoke kept his fish edible for a while. And smoke made his stinky clothes, smell better. A smoke bath he called it. Smoke could signal for help in a real survival situation.
And crossing himself? Thanking the fish for dying for him? Heck, if it helped, who knew. Use everything.
He gutted the salmon, opening it up like a book, and pegged it to a cedar plank he’d made next to the campfire, careful not to cook it – he only needed it smoked and preserved. The sole was difficult to clean, so he just planked that next to the flames, baking it and crushing some wild cranberries he dried for a sauce. Still hungry, he took some of the salmon– he figured he’d had at least two pounds and could spare it. He was tempted to take a swatch of skin and grill that. The skin held a layer of fat which would crackle and bubble and get crunchy and would go well with the lean sole. But no, the skin also held the salmon together, and he didn’t want to risk losing any. If he’d caught more, maybe he’d spare some skin. One way or another, he’d eat it. He’d eat everything.
All he had to do was keep it down, which he mostly did. Geoff had learned the hard way. In the first few weeks, he kept his fish too long. They probably smelled off, and he would have smelled that he thought, if it hadn’t been for his allergies. So, he had a rule – smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, four days late use ‘em as bait. He also learned to blow his nose without a tissue and no longer thought it disgusting; one finger squeezing the side of a nostril, lean over, blow.
It was a treat to be full. He thought about what would have made it better. Ah, a glass of chardonnay. A cheap one would do; he wasn’t a snob. Maybe asparagus with butter, fresh pasta, fettuccini Fra Diavolo. No, that didn’t go with salmon, but he wasn’t choosy anymore. He’d joke with the medical crew tomorrow – smoked salmon for a bottle of wine seemed like a fair trade. He fell easily asleep with a full stomach and dreamt about a wine tasting with him, filthy, in rags, refusing to spit out the wine.
VIII
It was clear in the morning, clear and cold. Not yet freezing, but close. He made some soup, smoked salmon soup, adding some seaweed for greens and a salty taste. He went to his gill net but with the tide up he’d have to wait a couple of hours to see what he’d caught, if he caught, and looked towards the ridge where he might find more berries. They’d be ripe, probably too ripe, dried out, or eaten by something – birds or bears – making him keen to get moving. But the crew would be here today and if he wasn’t it would be a search and that would be an excuse to eliminate him. No chance, he thought, they’ll be here soon.
Geoff put another notch in his tree calendar, 35 days now. He allowed himself to think something might have gone wrong. His mind raced. What could go wrong? Were other participants in trouble? The crew? Did a war happen, a nuclear war? With that moron in the White House, it wasn’t impossible, Geoff thought, even very possible. My god, my family.
Or maybe some epidemic wiped everyone out and here he was isolated, out of contact, the last man on earth. What else, what else could have happened? The things he could imagine were not just bad, they were apocalyptic.
That’s when panic set it.
He built up his fire, high, big. It was a waste of wood and collecting it had become such a chore, using up muscle, calories, daylight, energy. He had to go further and further afield to get it. But he wanted a big fire, a huge one, a bonfire. It kept him company, and with the cooler weather was keeping him warm. A good thing. And the smoke. The smoke would attract the crew if they were around. Or someone else maybe. He wasn’t thinking about the competition anymore; he was thinking about being lost, alone, forgotten. Could they have forgotten him? The crew was nearly a week late. No one ever discussed what to do in an emergency other than pressing the button.
His luck. His luck, he thought. His fault. No, their fault. They were supposed to check in on him, give him a new beacon. Or maybe they’d say he broken the rules and take him off. That was okay. He wanted off. He wanted way off.
When the tide was out he saw blaze orange bits of what remained of his PLB and walked over with an idea in his head he couldn’t quite pin down and picked at the bits. He’d cut himself on the edge again. Sharp. It was sharp. He could use it, a knife, or arrowhead. Something. A large piece had some of the electric parts still attached by a wire. Wire could be used, too, a snare maybe. He’d been stupid to throw it away, stupid and upset. He couldn’t afford that, not now, not on day 35. Or, he tried not to think about numbers, day 38 or 39.
IX
“What the hell!” he mouthed to himself when he woke to a dusting of snow. Then louder. “What the hell!!” turned into a full scream. Then it was back to work, getting wood, fishing, or trying for fish. He’d gotten lucky a few days earlier. He found some oak trees near a clearing amidst the birch, spruce, and pine. They weren’t supposed to be there, he knew, but then he wasn’t supposed to be there. There were acorns on the ground, enough to load his pockets and strain his watch cap. That was straight out of “Survival 101. “Acorns are a girl’s best friend out here,” advised the foraging expert at orientation. “You can’t eat diamonds.” The so-called expert apparently didn’t know oak trees didn’t grow much in British Columbia.
“Acorns have carbs, fat, protein, and they last if you dry ‘em out. The locals would make a kind of porridge with them, or pound them into flour for cakes,” he’d said. “They’ll drop in late September, which means most of you won’t get much of a chance to enjoy them.” That had gotten a nervous laugh from the contestants to which he replied. “I’m not joking. If you’re seeing acorns fall, it’s getting late in the competition so USE them if you find them; you might get an edge.”
He had to leech out the bitter tannins, at least the instructor got that part right. Geoff had constructed a crude basket from the bark of birch trees, bending it into a cylinder, folding the bottom, and sewing the sides together with spruce roots. He’d made an awl from a shard of PLB plastic sharpened against a rock to make the holes. He put the cylinder in the river only to have the acorns spill out in the current; acorns float. After that, he added a large enough rock to weigh them down and wove a net for the top to keep the acorns in and let the water flow through.
It worked. He wanted to be proud, told himself he could be proud, he was learning, he was surviving. If there still was a contest going, he’d make it, he’d win. “Pride goeth before a fall,” he told himself. I can’t be proud; I mustn’t be proud. Just keep at it. Just do, just do, just do it,” he said to himself. That last thought had him looking down at his boots, ‘Just do it,’ he said yelled. ‘Just do it.”
Those words were interrupted by the loud honking of a flock of geese, headed south in their vee formation. His eyes followed them to where they disappeared in the distance, wishing he, too, good simply fly out. “Hell,” he said. “They’ll probably be over a town in a few…hell they’re probably there already.”
Geoff looked back down at his boots. Nike says, ‘just do it,’ Just do what?. Then to the sky, “I am doing it! I am, damn it” and kicked a stray branch into the campfire. It was his boots, good boots, solid boots, hiking boots that he was looking at now. Another song came into his head. “These boots are made for walking….” The words were like a signal from the angels or Nancy Sinatra. “These boots are made for walking and that’s just what they’ll do, one of these days these boots are going to walk all over you!”
“Like hell! One of these days, these boots are going to walk me right out of here!”
That cinched it. He looked south where the sun was poking through clouds. A raven swooped toward and settled on the top of his shelter. It watched Geoff, its head bending as if to say, “you coming?” It was a good sign. “Nevermore, nevermore,” Geoff said. The raven flew east. Geoff watched it, noticing there was more snow on the peaks. The smile left his face.
X
Kessler emailed Rafferty asking for the emails of the contestants. “I want to follow up for next season. Arrange interviews blah blah. Try to get new sponsors. Fingers crossed. PS can you send some footage?”
Rafferty was only too happy to oblige and included his film crew’s addresses in his response. “I’m sorry it ended so abruptly,” he wrote, “But I’m piecing what we have together. THAT might make a story! It’ll be on YouTube if nothing else.”
That email started an immediate exchange and a Facebook group with the usual postings of photos before, during, and now, after. The film crew was off to new jobs if they could find them, and the contestants wrote about how much weight they’d put back on. The 63-year-old, a guy who couldn’t wait to leave, messaged that he’d soon be back in the woods, camping with his grandkids, in a tent, and loving it.
An ex-marine sent in a photo of himself, stark naked, outside a grass hut saying he’d made the shortlist for “Naked and Afraid” and only hoped his partner would be a ‘hot babe.’ Offers were made to meet up, compare notes, and a few links to bushcraft websites were shared for suggestions on how they might do things differently next time.
The Facebook group caught the attention of a young producer, Paul Reynolds, at a PBS station in Portland Oregon who had been an unsuccessful applicant for a spot on the show. Reynolds got a kick out of the clips, especially the outtakes but then they were all outtakes, and wanted to do a story on what he would call “The Show that Never Ended.” He got in touch with the contestants and film crew and they loved it. “Great stuff, great stuff,” he told them. “I just have one more person to interview. Can anyone tell me how to find Geoff Lewis?”
What followed was a series of question marks followed by comments like “I don’t remember seeing him,” and then an emoticon of a yellow face with a surprised look. “He wasn’t at the motel or on the plane,” wrote one of the paramedics who’d taken a liking to Geoff and deliberately left a sandwich for him. “I would have checked him off the list. He must have been with the guys that came off last.”
That started a buzz. The clean-up crew swore no contestant had stayed behind with them. When Kessler got a text to look at the Facebook group, he read the exchange, and went over the back and forth about getting people for next season with one Geoffrey Lewis notably absent. He reached a conclusion expressed simply as, “Oh Christ.” Then crossed himself.
XI
Geoff Lewis collected as much gear as he could carry in the duffle bag that had been intended for his camera equipment. He had food for a few days – smoked fish, roasted acorns – the gill net, sleeping bag, and the basic tools the show had given him. And one camera to film himself. In case. The ‘in case’ in his mind was that maybe, a small maybe, this was part of the challenge; leaving him alone for longer and seeing if he could survive. He wondered if they had a drone keeping an eye on him.
The loss of the beacon wasn’t part of it, but maybe leaving him alone was. If he filmed it maybe he’d win. Maybe the others were going through the same thing but, like him, would have pressed the button. He was getting excited. Maybe the loss of the beacon was a good thing after all. He’d capture it all on camera.
He set up a camera showing him strapping the clothes he had to the duffle bag and using some logs to make an arrow pointing south, more or less, in the direction he intended to go. He tore a page from his journal — one of the few items that didn’t count under the 10 permitted items — and left a note in a plastic bag that tied his shelter festooned with strips of orange plastic that he found floating in the cove at one low tied. That should attract attention when they came back.
“Dear Assholes, you’d better be dead from some major catastrophe or hope I’m already dead because if not I’m going to sue you for everything you’re worth. I’m headed south. I’ll try to stay within 200 yards of the coast. No promises. Look for smoke. I hate your guts. You all suck. FIND ME. Geoff Lewis. PS find me and maybe I won’t sue.”
Lewis nodded, pissed on the shelter, and walked.
XII
The gravel at the mouth of the stream near his shelter gave way to larger and larger stones which could fairly be called boulders as he headed south. Geoff scrambled over them for less than an hour, sweating from the effort. “Not good, not good,” he said between breaths. Sweat, they’d told him, is dangerous. “It’ll get you hypothermic in no time,” the medical instructor warned. “Don’t sweat. Stay dry.” Geoff had taken off his jacket to let the sweat evaporate. Goosebumps rose in the air.
Stepping over one boulder, his foot slipped on a patch of slick seaweed. His knee hit the rock, he slipped back and dropped his jacket into a standing pool of seawater. “GODDAMN,” he screamed. He grabbed the jacket, wringing it out as best he could, and walked into the forest, away from the sea. He managed to get a fire going with his firestarter, built it high, and put crossed sticks in the sleeves of his coat to spread it out and dry. He made himself into a human taco with the tarp that he’d taken, the sleeping bag inside, and went to sleep. He thought he’d gone ten miles, more, and was entirely exhausted. He’d walked three miles.
The shore was always cold and windy, forcing Geoff inland where the forest gave him some protection. The trees were big, too, old growth, which kept the underbrush down and made for easier walking. Along the way, he picked at bark bark that would help with his fire and was thrilled to see a cancerous black lump protruding from one of them. “Chaga!” Tinder fungus. It would dry out to a hard sponge-like substance, catch a spark and hold it for hours. In pieces, it made a rich tea. People used it as a medicine, though he’d forgotten why. It worked as a styptic. In another season, its smoke would keep the pterodactyl-sized mosquitos at bay. I’m rich.
Geoff picked up a thick stick to knock it off the tree when he saw a bird in a bush a few feet from him. He barely noticed it until it blinked, its red eyelid giving its presence away. It was so still. He, too, stood still lest he scare it. Whack! He threw the stick that stunned the bird enough for him to pounce on it, twist its neck, and admire what would be his next meal. Spruce hen, spruce grouse, whatever. It wouldn’t be much of a dinner – he figured it weighed maybe a pound – but it was something. When he settled for the night he plucked it, gutted it, and roasted it all, skewering the heart and the liver to boot. And managed a decent sleep on a nearly full stomach.
XII
Kessler spent a second wondering what if he’d been the only one to recognize Lewis’ absence. Then his mind spun out to the chance to run the show next year and how inconvenient it would be to find a body, a skeleton anyway, no matter how cool the footage could be. It was a moot point.
Kessler contacted his lawyers, who advised he immediately contact the Provincial Park, maintain he’d get to the bottom of how it could happen, and expect more legal bills. They also suggested that a Vancouver law firm should get involved. “And you didn’t have permission to be there?” asked one of the senior partners again and again. Kessler wasn’t happy with the sound of that lawyer sucking air over his teeth every time he answered, “Not formally.”
The RCMP inspector in charge of Search and Rescue operations was no more of a comfort. Kessler half hoped for a “Take off, you hoser” when he told his story, but only got the equivalent of a dose of polar air at the other end of the phone. “We want maps, itineraries, description of the missing man, and last known location. I’ll hold,” he said. Kessler relayed what he had and cringed when the Mountie told them to get up ‘there.’ “Yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough,” he said. There was no cuddly ‘eh’ at the end of that.
Within minutes of the call, boats and helicopters were out in the area Kessler and Rafferty’s maps indicated was Lewis’ drop-off point. Several on the search team responded to the details with a “what on earth we’re they doing up there?” but that quickly gave way to the job at hand. Mounties and rangers scouted the remains of Geoff’s camp, calling out through loudspeakers in the hope he’d stayed nearby. One woman was looking around the shelter when she saw the plastic bag on the ground. When she read it to the crew they simultaneously looked south and shook their heads.
Up and down the coast went the patrol boats, flashing lights and shooting off flares to get the attention of the man left behind. They worked in an ever-increasing range, looking for debris along the rocky shore, while rangers on foot and with dogs patrolled inland. Search planes and helicopters roamed overhead, back and forth, in a zig-zag line pattern, back and forth, up and down, for some sign. The foot crew found the remains of a campfire, several days old judging by feathers and bones nearby.
A young ranger eager to get ahead brought out a notepad and started to write. “What are doing?” asked his supervisor.
“Hunting out of season,” said the ranger.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said the supervisor. “It’s a life-threatening situation he’s in! The law says it’s legal in a survival situation.”
“But he’s on a TV show,” said the junior. “If he filmed it, we’ve got him hunting without a license and out of season.” He started to write more on his notepad.
The supervisor knocked his fingers on the ranger’s forehead. “Anybody home?”
XIV
Geoff kept looking over his shoulder towards the coast. He was prepared to make a quick fire with the birch and cedar bark he was carrying. That, he’d cover that with spruce needles to make smoke and attract a boat, or plane, or anything. That was his routine, even when taking a rest; make a fire, make smoke, and be ready to scream and wave like an idiot. He’d gotten extremely good at lighting fires. That Chaga helped; he’d found more and carried a small spark in it as he walked. And if that burned out, he still had his ferro rod. But the rod was wearing thin, and he was afraid he’d break it. It also dulled his knife when he scraped the sparks into his tinder bundles. Anyway, he liked the smell of Chaga, the ease it took to blow a few breaths into a flame. In a pinch, the smoke might keep a bear away.
He saw a bear. He thought it might be a grizzly minding its own business, chomping on a late stand of frozen berries clinging to a bush. It was large enough to be a grizzly but then this late in the year it could have just been fat ahead of hibernation. Either way, he wouldn’t get close enough to ask. Instead, he made a smokey fire and banged on a pot to scare it from the berries. The bear raised its nose, ate a bit more, then waddled away indifferent to Geoff’s efforts. When he’d left, Geoff approached the bush, a flaming piece of bark wedged into a stick in his hand and found a couple of handfuls of cloudberries the bear left behind. They were dry but sweet and revived Geoff’s flagging energy. Maybe they get sweeter after a frost. He kept an eye out for the bear, his left arm holding the make-shift torch overhead. He ate as quickly as he collected and moved away lest the bear return.
He was moving further from the coast than he wanted to. He’d be more likely to see a boat than anything inland, but it was hard to scramble over the rocks, easier to walk over the tops of hills inland, and easier to find berries and those spruce hens. The occasional pond had fresh water. Fish too. Just sunfish, but those easy enough to catch on gorges he’d made with bird bones.
It worked like this. He’d sharpen the ends, make a small furrow in the middle, tie some old fishing line around that furrow, and squeeze some guts for bait. The sunfish would swallow it whole, Geoff would pull, and the gorge would hold horizontally in the fish’s throat. They weren’t all sunfish; there were perch, crappie, and others at the end of his line, but Geoff didn’t know one from another and called them all sunfish.
There were cattails, too. He spread stalks on the floor of his nightly lean-tos to keep off the cold ground, and the roots could be chewed for some tasteless if inoffensive calories. Still, Geoff added another hole to his belt.
When he was lying under his shelter, when he had the luxury of doing nothing for that brief time, Geoff wondered if he should head back, if maybe they’d come for him after all. How long would that take? He lost count of how many days it had been since he’d started walking. Six days at least, maybe seven or eight, not more, surely. What difference did it make anyway? He was moving, doing something. That’s what counted.
There were a few stars out when he woke. The fire had dwindled to smolders and he’d somehow worked his way out of his sleeping bag. The bag wasn’t doing much good anyway. Between sparks from the fire and rips, there wasn’t much stuffing left. He’d try to stuff the insulation back in, supplementing that with residual cattail fluff and leaves. Better than nothing. But it was the fire that did the job of keeping him warm, alive. That morning was especially cold. Ice had formed on the edges of the pond where he’d made his lean-to. When the sun came up, he’d try for more sunfish, and get on his way. For now, he just stoked the fire with wood close at hand, damp wood that gave him a coughing fit. That’s all I need. He set to thawing frozen bird guts and sticking them to his gorges.
XV
“Smoke,” said the ranger pointing away from the coast. The pilot nodded and veered the helicopter toward a pond where a column of smoke was rising.
Geoff was paying more attention to the thumping of a grouse he’d scared up. He didn’t have a chance to throw his stick with any accuracy but threw it anyway. When the thumping came from behind him he looked up to see a helicopter hover over his fire. He ran, waving his arms, as the chopper made a circle and then flew off. They must have seen me! He was screaming and throwing whatever he could pick up. No, no, NO. He couldn’t believe they didn’t see him.
He needn’t have worried. The chopper flew back, and the ranger dropped a pack with some food and a note; STAY PUT, DON’T MOVE. LIE ON THE GROUND IF YOU’RE INJURED. Geoff gave them two thumbs up and danced to the tune of Abba’s “Take A Chance on Me” playing in his head. An hour later a boat was on the shore and rescuers were marching toward the circling helicopter.
A ranger walked towards the pond where Geoff was sitting on a rock, in tears, until he saw them. That’s when he really started to bawl. The ranger was joined by a paramedic who told him to sit again as they checked him for injuries and offered him a very little bit of food. “Go easy, son,” the ranger said. “Eat slowly. Can you walk to the boat, or should we get a stretcher?” Geoff said he’d walked 100 miles without their help already. The ranger said Geoff was less than 20 miles from his first camp. “Distances seem longer out here, what with no trail,” he said.
“You saw my campfire?” Geoff asked pointing to the billowing smoke. The Ranger laughed and said they’d smelled him first, “from miles away.”
XVI
They radioed ahead. “Found him. He seems fine. Vitals check out. No injuries.”
Geoff was met a few hours later at the dock by a smiling group of provincial park officials and qualified medical staff. The latter ushered him into the small office with a storage room that doubled as a first-aid station. The woman who ran the gift shop pointed him to a shower, offered to burn his rancid clothes, and found a spare ranger’s uniform that hung on him like an oversized tent.
The Park’s resident MD, then prodded, probed, weighed, and poked him for blood samples. He’d lost 37 pounds. The MD had him drink, this being Canada, a liter of some vile-tasting electrolyte concoction and waited to make sure he could urinate into a brown plastic jug that she sent off to a lab for analysis.
“All routine,” she said. “It’s protocol when we find lost hikers.” Geoff wasn’t listening; he was reaching for a bag of chocolate-chunk-macadamia-nut cookies the staff had on a shelf. He opened the bag, thought twice, then offered it to the doctor.
“Want one?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she replied.
“Then I’ll eat yours,” he said and proceeded to eat four more.
He stayed overnight, a guest of the park service, who celebrated his return with a cookout, beers, generosity to which Geoff overdid it and vomited most of what he had taken in, including the cookies. Still hungry, he was pleased to find the bag of cookies hadn’t been touched and ate a couple of more to settle his empty belly. And one Brador for good measure. Though clean, full, relieved, and exhausted, Geoff couldn’t get to sleep in the warm bed, in a warm room, and on a firm cot. He took a blanket – wool army surplus – out on the porch surrounding the main office and fell asleep staring at the stars.
Geoff spent the morning making phone calls to assure friends and family he was okay and would be home in a few days. His mother, in tears, said she knew he would be found all along. Then she asked if this meant he’d won the money. Geoff’s eyes widened; he hadn’t been thinking about that but supposed, yes, he was the Last Man Out. His excitement rose when he got a call from Paul Reynolds, the PBS guy in Portland, who wanted to interview Geoff as soon as he got back. “I might have to change the title,” he joked. “Your story has a very happy ending, thank God. You should write a book.”
I think I’ll do just that.
He’d finished his phone calls and second breakfast when the Ranger who’d picked him up knocked on the office door. “Well Mr. Lewis, you up for some questions?” Outside a small crowd had gathered. Beyond the Provincial staff, well-wishers, and curious members of the tribal council wondering if they’d get paid for their input and to admire the man who’d survived their wilderness.
And the press.
Also in attendance was Ian McBride who introduced Geoff to everyone, thanked the Provincial Park rangers, SAR team, and RCMP for their brave and efficient efforts to rescue the intrepid Mr. Lewis. When asked by one reporter if he was scared during his ordeal, Geoff replied “Not as scared as I am in front of all of you.” He then went on to say, though, that he had 40 hours of footage he had filmed and was excited to get that out to the world. At that point, he was interrupted by Ben Kessler who was perspiring despite the cold, who rushed to his side, arm over his shoulder, to say how thrilled and relieved he was to have a member of his “Last Man Out” family back in the fold and teasingly admonished Geoff for hiding out when everyone else left. “We’ll put a leash on you next time,” he said to the curious crowd and a scowling from Geoff who lifted Kessler’s arm and backed away. He said something to Kessler who gave an exaggerated laugh and mouthed “later.”
At that point, Paul Reynolds moved to the front, whispered something in Geoff’s ear, and handed him an envelope. Geoff opened it, read the contents, and waved his arm for attention. “I got some great news.”
What he read was an offer for a six-figure advance for a book deal through Les Stroud’s, Survivorman, agent, and an offer for a series with Les based on his real-life survival. Geoff beamed to the applauding crowd. Kessler cringed and slunk to the periphery.
There he was met by an austere woman, petite with short hair, but a look that resembled a schoolteacher who caught a kid deflating her tires. It was Jane Wright. She held her hand out as if to say stop and offered a smile, not one of friendship. “Mr. Kessler, can we have a word with you” It wasn’t a question. She led him to an office, escorted by two bulky members of the RCMP.
“Oh, and Mr. Kessler,” Wright said as she went up the steps. She looked pointedly to the handcuffs on the Mounties and then to Kessler. “You won’t need a leash.”
Kessler considered himself lucky to get away with deportation that very day and a $50,000 fine, in Canadian dollars. Although the contract made it clear that all contestants’ footage was owned by him, he didn’t contest Geoff Lewis’s YouTube venture which got 276,985 hits in its first week. His mind was already on people spending a night in a haunted house. If he could get a sponsor.