Camp at the Fork

Southwest we look toward the confluence of the rivers. Beyond is a 4125-foot unnamed mountain. We are at 1149 feet elevation. Ahead of us is 127 miles of wild and remote river. Wolf tracks, criss-crossing the sand of our intended campsite, told us that we were the strangers in this wild land. Grizzly bears, too, left their enormous prints - testament to their right to this remote tundra. A porcupine, in his deliberate pace, comes to our campsite to investigate. Seeking food or just to satisfy his curiosity, after a few minutes it ambles off to the north. We camp. Two tents, two inflatable canoes, and a round raft - all we possess to survive until we reach our destination seven days away. Nighttime and our little campfire bravely tries to hold off the impending darkness. We take turns tending the fire - each doing two-hour shifts. The temperature drops to 28 degrees. The fire does little to dispel the cold but its little light is comforting and reassuring. A wolf's cry wakens us in the middle of our fitful slumber. A rustle in the willow woods just beyond our camp. A bear?

Copyright © 2004 by Enrique del Rosario
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