Geoffrey Lewis stared down the coast. The clouds hung low and were a darker grey. He saw nothing else. The only sounds were the sharp squawking of gulls fighting over tidbits of rotting fish that rolled in on the waves. Where was that bloody helicopter? Maybe, with weather coming in, they’d have to take the big aluminum boat, the one with the warm cuddy cabin. He hoped so. But all he heard were gulls and waves slapping the shore. Those were getting bigger.
They were supposed to have been here two days ago. Maybe it was him. What with the fever, he could have slept through a couple of days. Note to self; don’t eat a raccoon with spots on its liver. But the dates on the cameras were right. They should have been here by now.
I
There were 10 at first, each placed in a different cove of massive Huaskin Bay at the northwestern edge of British Columbia. Its true name wasn’t Huaskin Bay. Its real name was a secret. The producers kept it to themselves because they hadn’t gotten formal permission to film on this sparse stretch of Canada, or anywhere else for that matter. Last Man Out was a show on a shoestring. The producers had argued that a survival show by its very nature required minimal equipment and minimal budget. But the provincial authorities were adamant; they would have to be provisioned for 1) a quick rescue, with 2) qualified on-site medical personnel, 3) radios that worked this time, 4) and spares, and 5) and at least one helicopter on call 24/7.
The First Nations Act required them to hire a designated cultural specialist from the tribal Council, at CAD$2,500 per diem, to advise on native sensitivities, their natural resources, and traditional living skills. That was on top of a hefty fee for filming there even though the area in question was also claimed by the Crown, the province, and three rival First Nations’ councils. That dispute was currently under discussion and had been for forty-seven years.
The Provincial staff were encouraging, but aloof in a very Canadian way. The producers pushed 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 somewhat soon.” What the producer, Ben Kessler, heard was, “Then you can go ahead.” He ignored the concluding “if we decide.”
“We’d like to get in before, you know, the weather,” said Kessler, the executive producer. Ben’s experience in the wild was confined to a glamping safari in Kenya where the enormous tent had a bedroom, a living room, and full-on bathroom. He’d made his money off a popular reality series that had grossed out people for years. The final episode had peanut-butter smeared contestants lying in a box filled with rats. The one who lasted the longest won $10,000. The person, not the rat.
“Makes sense, what with the weather,” said Ian McBride, the PR guy from BC Parks.
“Maybe you could fly over the area or take a boat to scout it out.” Jane Wright plowed in, “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, requisite camera equipment, basic first aid kit, bear spray, and the all-important 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. His core philosophy was “the more you know, the less you carry.”
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. Everyone opened with the same shot; the boat motoring away with common commentary along the lines of, “Well, there they go.” The $100,000 prize was quite low by the standards of the industry; the winner of Alone gets 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 those shows. Their motivation generally included the belief they could use the exposure to market a series of YouTube videos based on their prowess.
II
Besides Geoff, six men, two women, and one they, aged 21 to 63, started out. Three had military experience, were the largest physically of the set, and emphasized ‘discipline’ when they spoke in front of their cameras those first few days. They growled about getting meat. They 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.
Another contingent was 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 rest were just outdoor enthusiasts, armchair mountain men, up for a challenge, and keen to parse a romp in the woods into a challenge. Geoffrey Lewis, age 27, was in this category.
There was the other Jeff, owner of a bike shop in Fort Collins, who spent his free time cycling paths in the Front Range which explained why his bike shop was closed more often than it was open. One of the items he brought to his site was a bicycle. The 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. Plus, he’d hidden a few joints in the tubes. Producer Kessler thought it would be a good gimmick that could generate sponsorship from a bike company if there was a Season 2.
A Jeff and a Geoff caused some confusion. The medical team would radio in that “Jeff was doing fine” on one of their rounds when they meant Geoff. On the map of the sites at basecamp, “Jeff” appeared twice. Several members of the crew assumed it was a typo or that they’d changed locations but hadn’t bothered to change the map.
By day twenty-three, two more had tapped out, and one was pulled after slicing off a chunk of his calf with a dulled ax. Another was on the brink of starvation, having lost thirty-eight pounds and caught zero fish. The show’s staff, meanwhile, was monitoring the emergency radio, 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. Wright, 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 time scouting out locations.
“Maybe next year,” McBride said.
“If you present more acceptable credentials,” said Wright.
Kessler asked why they’d been refused again and again. Their 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?” said McBride.
Kessler pleaded. He suggested the crews could remain fully supplied with the contestants. 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. 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.”
V
Rafferty didn’t waste any time with the partially wasted team. He made a list for the boat crew of the remaining contestants to pick up. It took several hours to load the survivors on board the vessels amidst protests, tears, gratitude, demands of anything to eat, and a heated argument from one who wanted to stay, show or no show. It was nearly dark by the time the survivors coalesced at basecamp, looked to see who’d tapped out, and answered 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 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.
At a chintzy motel north of Vancouver’s International Airport, they spent a day discussing what happened, how Kessler was already getting permission for a return trip – next year – and filmed the contestants talking about their experience. Kessler thought he might get a good trailer out of it. He 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 inquiries from the crew looking for other work. Within a week, the crew and contestants of “Last Man Standing” were back to their old lives or looking for new ones.
All, except for Geoff Lewis.
VI
Geoff Lewis waited by his cove, shivering. He glanced at the sky, wondering if they’d hit bad weather. He’d been there too long; 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 made 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 whispered.
“Tomorrow.”
Geoff was particularly keen for a visit. On the last check, the show’s doctor had left behind a bag with a sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, and two power bars. 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-thankingin 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 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! Not a giant, but salmon nonetheless! Geoff conked it on a rock and stared at it. He collapsed there, put his head down, and cried. When they got here, tomorrow, it would have to be tomorrow – he’d tap out.
He stuck a stick through one side of the salmon and held that over his fire. Its skin bubbled and cracked and smelled wonderful. He changed his mind about tapping out; maybe next week. Geoff wasn’t even thinking about singing. It just came out.
“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. A bolt hit a tall spruce on a distant hill and he 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.”
Geoff started shaking when it hit him that Karen Carpenter died of starvation. And he thought how hungry he was, how he wished the checkup team would get here. For the hundredth time that day he was tempted 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. 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.
VII
He couldn’t blame the snare. It was made with the good cord that could have secured the PLB around his neck. That would have been much safer than putting it in his pocket because it could fall out of his pocket, especially the one without a flap. And if that happened on the 40-foot cliff he’d just climbed, the PLB would be bouncing off the rocks like a super ball in a squash court, smashing into a dozen pieces, making it inoperable and useless. Which is exactly what happened.
Geoff stared down at the cracked cover of the orange device. He 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 or a rabbit. He’d climbed, 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 when they came. 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 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.”
VIII
The cackle of a loon woke him. 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, rubbing some life back into his torso.
Geoff got the water boiling in the pot – one of the 10 items he was allowed – and finished the salmon. It was smoky and dry on the outside; just as he intended. He was getting good at this.
The tide was out, allowing him to check his gill net. He was thrilled to find a decent salmon struggling. Two in two days! He thought it was a 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 location. 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. You can use a rock to grind the bones. Calcium, fat. Eat it all.”
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. He put down the salmon, 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 let it splash back into the pool, then ran back to camp, got a camera and tripod, and reenacted the whole event, down to clocking the salmon on the head and again corralling the sole.
Geoff had been lax about filming this last week. It was fun at the start, a bit self-conscious, but he got the knack, 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 waxed and enthusiasm waned. Still, it was in the contract; 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.
Ah, but the fish, the fish…he had three, and if he maneuvered the salmon back into the net and made-believe he just stumbled on the sole, he’d get a good 20 minutes. In other shows, 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 up the shot 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 already dead. Looking at the lens, bloodied fish in his hands, he yelled, “tha tha that’s all folks” and then reset 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 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 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. The shadows were getting longer.
Midday. That 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 out in 30 minutes. He counted the notches in his tree calendar again and added a 33rd. Where the hell are you?
Geoff realized there must be a problem. A problem to his advantage. They had to get someone off! Maybe more than one had tapped out! If fewer were making it, 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 waiting on a branch – “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 fitting. In survival training, they said to use everything.
Like fire. Fire gave him light, warmth, cooked food, made water safe, and dried his gear. Smoke kept mosquitoes at bay. Smoke made his fish last longer. And smoke made his stinky clothes smell better. A smoke bath he called it. Smoke could signal for help in a real survival situation. Isn’t this one real enough?
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 wild berries he found for a sauce. He was tempted to take a swatch of salmon skin and grill that. The skin held a layer of fat which would get crunch; it 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 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. Geoff had learned the hard way. In the first few weeks, he kept his fish too long. They probably smelled off. He would have smelled that, 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.
Geoff was finally full. He thought about what would have made the meal better. Ah, a glass of chardonnay. A cheap one would do; he wasn’t a snob. Maybe asparagus with butter, fresh pasta, fettuccini al Fredo. No, that didn’t go with salmon, but he wasn’t choosy. He’d joke with the medical crew tomorrow – smoked salmon for a bottle of wine seemed a fair trade. He fell asleep easily on a full stomach and dreamt about a wine tasting with him, filthy, in rags, refusing to spit out the wine.
IX
It was a clear morning, bright and cold. Not yet freezing, but close. He made some soup, smoked salmon soup, adding 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 toward the ridge where he might find more berries. Higher up, they’d had a freeze. The berries were sweeter after a freeze, a treat. He’d have competition from birds and 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, I’ll wait.
Geoff cut another notch on the tree; 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! My God, my family.
Or maybe some epidemic wiped everyone out. Here he was isolated, 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 in.
He built up his fire, higher, bigger. It was a waste of wood and collecting it had become such a chore, using up muscle, daylight, energy. He had to go further and further afield to get fuel. But he wanted a big fire, a huge one, a bonfire. It kept him company, and with the colder 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.
My luck. My fault. No, their fault. They were supposed to check in on him, give him a new beacon. Or maybe they’d say he’d broken the rules and force 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 something in his head he couldn’t quite pin down and picked at the bits. He’d cut himself on the edge again. It was sharp. Sharp. He could use it, a knife, or an 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. Don’t think so far ahead.
X
“What the hell!” he shouted. Geoffrey Lewis had woken to the first dusting of snow. His “What the hell!” turned into a full scream. It was back to work, getting wood, and 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 his part of 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’ll be 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 wove 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. 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 should 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. “Save it for later.” That last thought had him looking down at his boots. “Just do it,” he yelled. Then, in a whisper, “Just do it.”
He was interrupted by the loud honking of geese, heading south in vee formation. His eyes followed them to where they disappeared in the distance, wishing he, too, could 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 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. Into his head came, “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 down, settling 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 more snow on those peaks. The smile left his face.
XI
Kessler contacted 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 good footage?”
Rafferty was only too happy to oblige and included his film crew’s addresses in his response. “I’m pissed 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 before, during, and after the experience. 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, posted that he was back in the woods, camping with his grandkids, in a tent, and loving it. The 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.’
The Facebook group caught the attention of a young producer, Paul Reynolds, at a PBS station in Portland, Oregon. He got a kick out of the clips, especially the outtakes – but then they were all outtakes. His station wanted to do a story on what they were calling“The Show that Never Ended.” Reynolds got in touch with the contestants, 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 emoji 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 the 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.
XII
Geoff Lewis collected as much gear as he could into the duffle bag intended for the camera equipment. He had food for a few days – smoked fish, roasted acorns, mushed berries in a bark container – plus 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.
He left everything else behind.
The loss of the beacon wasn’t part of the plan, 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 allowed himself to get cheered up. Maybe the loss of the beacon wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Geoff set up a camera showing him strapping clothes to his duffle. He made a huge arrow with driftwood 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 tied to his shelter, festooned with strips of orange plastic he found floating in the cove. That should attract their attention when they came back. If 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 400 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. PPS bring food.”
Geoff put the duffle over his shoulder, and stood one last time where he’d stood every morning for thirty-some days, looking down the coast for a boat that wasn’t coming. The gulls were still at it, fighting over whatever the tide brought in. The waves still slapped the shore, bigger than they used to be. He’d stared at this same grey water so many times he’d stopped seeing it. Now he made himself look, once more, the way you’d look at your home for the last time when you move on.
Lewis pissed on the shelter and walked.
XIII
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 along the coast. 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 prickled his skin.
Stepping over one boulder, he slipped on a patch of slick seaweed. His knee hit the rock; he fell 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 five.
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 from birch trees 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 mosquitoes at bay. I’m rich.
Geoff picked up a curved stick to boomerang it at a bird lying stock still, blending into the underbrush. It was the bird’s only way of defense. He didn’t notice the bird until it blinked, its red eyelid giving its presence away. It was so still. He, too, stood stock 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. He figured it weighed maybe a pound – it was something. When he settled for the night he plucked it, gutted it, skewered the heart and the liver to boot and roasted it all. And managed a decent sleep on a nearly full stomach.
XIV
Kessler mused for a moment; what if he was the only one to recognize Lewis’ absence? His mind spun out to getting the show off 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 repeatedly. 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 were 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, in a zig-zag 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 you doing?” asked his supervisor.
“Hunting out of season,” said the ranger.
Sweet Jesus,” said the supervisor. “It’s a life-threatening situation! It’s legal!!”
“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 rapped his knuckles on the ranger’s forehead. “Anybody home?”
XV
Geoff kept looking over his shoulder towards the coast. He was prepared to make a quick fire with the birch bark he was carrying. He’d cover that with spruce bundles to create dense 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 like an idiot. He’d gotten extremely good at lighting fires. That Chaga helped. And he still had some ferro rod left. 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. 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 this late in the year it could have just been a fat black ahead of hibernation. Either way, he wasn’t about to get close enough to ask. Instead, he made a smoky 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 in a split stick in his hand and found a couple of handfuls of cloudberries the bear didn’t eat. They were dry, but sweet and revived Geoff’s flagging energy.
He was further from the coast than he wanted to be. He’d be more likely to see a boat on the coast, but it was hard to scramble over the rocks, easier to walk over the tops of ridges, easier to find berries and those spruce hens. The occasional pond had fresh water. Fish too. Mainly panfish, easy to catch on gorges he’d made.
It worked like this. He’d sharpen the ends of bird bones, make a small furrow in the middle, tie old fishing line around that, and squeeze on some guts for bait. The fish would swallow it whole, Geoff would pull, and the gorge would hold horizontally in its throat. He never learned to tell one fish from another. He called them all sunfish.
Cattails grew on the margin of bogs. One of the instructors called it the survival supermarket, and he wasn’t exaggerating. Geoff spread the stalks on the floor of his nightly lean-tos to keep off the cold ground. Its brown tops held downy seeds that worked like tinder. The roots could be roasted 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 moment, 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. Ten days? Not more, surely. Add that to the two weeks when he stayed near his original camp. What difference does it make anyway? He was moving, doing something. That’s what counted.
There were a few stars out when he woke. He tore his sleeping bag, crawling out to boost his smoldering fire. 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 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, then 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.
XVI
“Smoke,” said the ranger. The pilot nodded and veered the helicopter toward a pond where a thin column 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. He watched it land uselessly when he heard another thumping – behind him, over him, everywhere at once. He turned and there it was, hanging over his fire like something from another planet.
For a second, he didn’t move. Was he hallucinating? Maybe he ate the wrong type of mushrooms. But he felt the downdraft, was surrounded by dust and leaves the propeller blew around, and ran, waving, as the chopper banked away. They must have seen me! He was screaming. No, no, NO.
He needn’t have worried. The chopper came back, low over tree line. A ranger leaned out and dropped a pack. In it was food and a note: STAY PUT, DON’T MOVE. LIE ON THE GROUND IF YOU’RE INJURED. Geoff gave the Gods two thumbs up and danced. Abba’s “Take A Chance on Me” was playing in his head.
It took over an hour for the boat to get to him. He was sitting by the fire, clinging to the pack like it might evaporate. He stood up when he heard voices, real voices, but sat down again, dizzy from both relief and his exhaustion.
A ranger jogged to Geoff sitting back on a rock, in tears. He crouched and touched Geoff’s shoulder, and that was it – he really started to bawl. A paramedic joined them, his hands moving every part of Geoff’s body, telling him to open his mouth, his eyes, taking his vitals and then nodding his head. “You’re fine,” he said, as if Geoff didn’t know it already.
“Go easy, son,” said the ranger, passing him half a granola bar. “Eat slowly. Can you walk to the boat, or should we get a stretcher?” Geoff said he’d walked over 100 miles without their help. The ranger smiled and didn’t correct him. His map showed Geoff was less than 30 miles from his original camp. “Distances can seem longer out here,” he said. “What with no trail and all.”
The ranger tried to help Geoff walk to the boat, but Geoff would have none of it. He’d gone this far; he would complete the journey. Halfway there, Geoff stopped and looked back – to the pond, his shelter, his still-smoking fire – and gave a wave. Well done, Geoffrey. Well done.
“You saw my campfire?” he asked, nodding to the smoke curling up behind them. The ranger laughed. “Smelled you first. From miles away.”
XVII
The ranger radioed ahead; “Found him. Vitals check. No injuries.”
Geoff was met a few hours later at the dock by a smiling group of provincial park officials and qualified medical staff. He caught himself smiling back like an idiot and didn’t care. 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 the shower, offered to burn his rancid clothes, and found a spare ranger’s uniform that hung on him like an oversized tent. He stood under the hot shower long after he was clean. Because he could.
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 more to settle his empty belly. And one more Brador for good measure. Though clean, full, relieved, and exhausted, Geoff couldn’t get to sleep in a warm bed, in a warm room, and on a soft mattress. 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.
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 and well-wishers, there were members of the tribal council wondering if they’d get paid and keen to stare at 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 a 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 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 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 crowd. He received a scowl from Geoff, who lifted Kessler’s arm and backed away. He said something to Kessler, who gave an exaggerated laugh and mouthed “later.”
Someone took hold of Kessler’s arm. He turned to find an austere woman, petite, with short hair, and the look of a schoolmarm who’d caught a kid deflating her tires. It was Jane Wright, with two bulky members of the RCMP towering beside her.
“Mr. Kessler, could we have a word with you?” She glanced at the handcuffs on the Mounties’ belts before looking back at him. “We won’t need a leash, will we?”