They portaged into the Minnesota wilderness for six hours that day. They carried the heavy canoe through the narrow, wooded trails, sometimes a mile or more, until they could put it into the water again. Each time they came to another portage, where shallow rapids flowed over exposed rocks, they climbed out of the canoe onto a muddy, sucking bank, hoisted their gear onto their backs, positioned the canoe on their shoulders between them, and trudged to the next spot in the river that was deep enough for the canoe. This was where the mosquitoes hit hardest, in the cool shadow of the trees. It was a misery of fluttering attacks. A constant, terrifying buzz around the face, eyes, and ears that at times brought a scream to her throat. She felt silly, though, so she choked it down and kept walking.

She had assured him that she could do it. He had been making this trip with his dad and brothers since he was a teenager and wanted to share it with her. Such a tender and eager offering. The stories he told about jumping off rocks into a crystal lake, fishing silently in the crisp hours before dawn, and frying fresh, battered fish in the cast-iron skillet while the sun burned down the horizon. Their dad yelling at them ten times a day to “zip up the tent!” while grumbling about mosquitos. Pranks played on each other; years later they still laughed about them until they cried. He beckoned her across the threshold of these stories and she, hungry for something that would bind her to him, agreed.

Crossing the lakes was her favorite part, despite hours of paddling that turned her arms to jelly: vast, dark water stretching endlessly before them; ancient hieroglyphs chalked on passing cliffs; a tree line bursting into a million shades of green. It all welcomed her, an initiate on an alien planet. He pointed out a moose on the far bank, dipping its antlers low for a drink.

“He looks tiny from here, but up close he stands higher than a 6-foot man,” he said. “Aggressive as hell, too. A moose will charge you just for looking at him sideways.” He grinned. She pushed hard on her paddle and stared at the moose as they glided past. He lifted his head from the water and stared back.

They made camp on a small outcropping with a magnificent view of the lake. “Nobody else for miles,” he said. “We have the whole place to ourselves. No electricity, no cell service, complete privacy.” He grinned again and wiggled his eyebrows, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck. She laughed and wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

He set up the tent and unpacked the food while she shuffled among the brush and pine needles looking for firewood. She brought back an armload that seemed fine, but he shook his head and said, “Too green. That won’t burn.” He showed her how to spot aged kindling, dry enough to start a beautiful fire under a starlit sky.

The storm came up in the evening, so fast that even he was taken by surprise. They were sitting on a large log they had dragged over to the fire, eating a dinner of rehydrated beef stew from an aluminum pot. She noticed the sudden uptick in humidity and looked up to see black storm clouds racing across the lake toward them, fists bared. The wind whipped her hair hard around her face.

“It’s okay, just some rain,” he said. “Let’s clean up and get in the tent so we don’t get wet.”

But the moment they stood, the rain descended in a screaming wall of white. They were instantly soaked, their clothes heavy with water. The fire was gone, just a small line of smoke snaking up through the sheeting rain. Lightning crashed, branches snapped, and she felt rather than heard tree trunks being ripped from the ground. He grabbed her arm and shouted something at her, but she couldn’t hear. He pointed to a large flat rock at the edge of the water line away from the trees. He got to his feet, dodging flying debris, and pulled her toward the shore.

Suddenly she heard a crack! and up ahead saw a thirty-foot tree break halfway up its trunk and tip toward them. He saw it too, and in one swift motion stepped back while he pushed her hard to the side. She fell out of the way of the tree and watched as it smashed down on him, pinning his legs to the ground. She cried out and scrambled over to him, cradling his head in her lap. His face was twisted in agony, his mouth open, eyes closed tight. She pushed her shoulder against the tree trunk, but it was like pushing against a cliff face. She didn’t know what else to do so she hunched her body over his, shielding him from the pounding rain as best she could while the storm tore the land apart around them.

The storm’s fury wore itself out eventually. The rain slowed to a stubborn patter, then finally gave up and stopped altogether. She looked around at the broken branches, the overturned trees, the rivulets of water crisscrossing their campsite. The canoe was on its side near the shore, filled with water and sand. He groaned next to her and opened his eyes.

“You’re pinned under a tree,” she said.  “Can you move?” He tried to shift his body and gasped in pain, closing his eyes again.

“Bring me my backpack,” he said, panting. When she retrieved the backpack, he pulled out a small collapsible shovel and pushed it into her hands. “Dig me out.” She crouched down and dug under and around his legs. When the earth was loose enough, she dropped the shovel and grasped under his shoulders and pulled. After a few tries she slid him out from under the tree. His legs looked wrong. They jutted at strange angles that made her suddenly nauseous.

“Your legs are broken,” she said, and started to cry.

“You have to splint them.” 

He talked her through it; she found some sturdy branches and ripped apart one of his cotton shirts into strips, which she used to secure the branches against his shattered limbs. She placed a stick between his teeth and he clamped down while she tied the splints firmly in place, but still he screamed. When it was over, she wiped the tears from his cheeks and stroked his head. He slept. When he woke, she gave him four Advil from the first aid kit. He slept again.

When he woke again, she asked him. She couldn’t wait any more. “What are we going to do? You need to get to a hospital. Maybe if I can get you into the canoe…?”

She saw a strange hard look in his eyes. He was afraid, but there was something else. Anger. Disappointment.

“Even if you could somehow carry me through the portages, which you can’t, we would need the canoe to cross the lakes. You can’t carry both.” 

“Won’t someone come across us eventually? What about forest rangers?”

“It could be weeks.”

The next morning, she cleaned out the canoe and packed enough food and water for one day. She settled him as comfortably as possible under a makeshift shelter made from a tarp that had survived the deluge. She left him the first aid kit with the bottle of Advil, the remaining food and water, and an emergency blanket.

“I’ll be back for you in a day and a half,” she told him. Her voice trembled. “You said I can get back to town by tomorrow if I make good time, and I’ll call the forest service. We’ll find you.”