Alone Against the North by Adam Shoalts Page B

Brent with stirring stories of adventure. The conversation drifted from Greek mythology to The Lord of the Rings , history and legend, great men and great deeds, of “immortal longings” and why we had to find the strength and fortitude to carry on. In other words, I pulled out all the stops. In the flickering light of our campfire, I could see the fire return to Brent’s brown eyes; my words were gradually winning him over. He became steadily more animated as I talked of overcoming whatever dangers and difficulties lay in our path, and how a few weeks of hardship is worth it for a lifetime of proud reflection. Somehow I succeeded in building up his spirits again. We went to bed that night feeling better. Brent said he would sleep on it and decide in the morning whether to quit or continue.
    WHEN WE CRAWLED out of our nylon tent into the cool, misty morning, Brent’s spirits were again low. He looked miserable. In the hopes of encouraging him, I quickly made a fire, cooked some oatmeal, and put on a pot of tea. “How did you sleep?” I asked.
    â€œHorrible,” replied Brent.
    An awkward silence followed while I finished preparing breakfast for us. It was demoralizing knowing that all the workof building up Brent’s spirits had seemingly come to nothing. He appeared as lacklustre and shaken as ever. When I could bear the silence no longer, I asked him how he felt.
    â€œI still want to quit. I can’t sleep in the tent. The ground is hard and uncomfortable, and it’s freezing at night. Without sleep, I have no energy. The bugs are unreal, worse than I could ever imagine. The work is too hard and dangerous. I want to go home.”
    â€œYou’ll get used to it. I promise.”
    â€œI don’t think I could ever get used to this. I’m not made for this sort of thing.”
    â€œYou are what you make yourself,” I said. It was my personal motto.
    We argued for some time, more gently and reservedly than the night before, but Brent finally broke down and wept.
    â€œI’ll never make it. I’ll die. I know it. I want to go home.”
    As angry as I was, it was impossible not to pity Brent—he didn’t have an ounce of pride left. He was afraid and made no secret of it. To push him any further seemed not only cruel but certain to cause him to experience some sort of breakdown. I couldn’t force him to undertake the gruelling portage. There was nothing for it. Reluctantly, I agreed to retrace our route back to the cabins on Hawley Lake, some thirty kilometres away. I hoped that on the journey back I could somehow build up Brent’s confidence and willpower enough to continue. After all, Brent was new to expeditions and needed time to adjust to life in the subarctic Lowlands.
    â€œAll right, we’ll head back to Hawley Lake,” I said.
    We packed up our camp, loaded the canoe, and then launched it back into the clear blue waters of Sutton Lake. We had to perform the portage around the rocky gorge a second time.Brent, eager to return home, displayed considerably more zeal portaging back than he had the day before when we were headed in the opposite direction. Thinking that some fresh fish might help fortify him, after we had finished the portage I cast a line in the lake. It didn’t take long to land a good-sized northern pike.
    â€œThis will make for a great lunch,” I said happily. I set the pike down in the bottom of the canoe, where it flopped about. Unsheathing my old belt knife, which had once belonged to my father, I reached down to fillet the fish.
    â€œAdam—” Brent suddenly spoke up from the bow of the canoe, “look at it. We can’t kill it. Don’t you feel sorry for it? Poor fish. Let it go.”
    â€œAre you serious?”
    â€œJust look at how helpless it looks.” Brent’s eyes were full of pity for the pike. He wasn’t joking.
    Not wanting to upset him, given the fragile state of his