Apparently, I was the last person to see David Carver alive. I can’t remember if he froze or starved to death; it’s been too many years.

It would have been late November. We had a storm come in from the south on Thanksgiving, melting most of the early snow into slush and knocking down widow-makers. I took my four-wheeler out, looking for fallen trees blocking paths. I could throw aside any fallen branches I found, but the fallen logs required me to break out my chainsaw.

Past the deer blind, but before the river, a large oak fell onto the trail. My saw is only so long, so cutting where it entered and exited the path took a while. When wrapping the chain from the four-wheeler around the log, I made the mistake of getting on my knees at the wrong spot. My knees sunk into the mud, sapping all the warmth from my knees. A horrible feeling, but at least they weren’t wet enough to drip down my leg.

Far from eager to make any more cuts, I hoped a solid tug from the four-wheeler would be enough to make progress, but instead made deep ruts in the mud. Traction may have failed me, but my stubbornness had not, so I backed up and tried again. The engine’s revving peaked and fell in the rhythm of a conversation, almost as if the engine itself was talking. Then I realized someone was talking.

The voice belonged to a young man with his hands in his pockets. His black hair contrasted his red, windblown cheeks and nose, making him seem younger. I wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone, so it took me a moment to process that his sounds were words.

“Can you run that by me one more time?” I asked.

“I said, you look like you could use a hand or two.”

“I suppose a spare hand couldn’t hurt,” I continued. “Help me unhook the chain. Then I’ll get another cut in before we try moving it again.”

We made small talk as he helped, and he introduced himself as David Carver. I continued my dance around the log, returning to the rhythm of cutting, and grew careless on a downward cut, letting the chainsaw dip into the dying grass, jamming it. I swore and set the saw on the log. I removed the cover and began pulling out grass as more small talk emerged.

“Where you from, Carver?”

“Indiana,”

“You’re on the wrong side of the Lakes. What brings you to Manitoba?”

“Call of adventure, you could say,”

“Aye, this is the place to look.” I readjusted the chain and put the cover back before continuing, “Did you come up here on your own?”

“Yup.” He made no move to continue, so the conversation dropped. A kindred spirit, I suppose. Take two fellows who would rather spend time alone outdoors, and you aren’t likely to have the talkative sort.

I worked up a sweat, so I removed my coat and returned to cutting. Once the logs were separated, Carver helped move them, and I couldn’t help but notice all he had on his hands were those dainty knit gloves.

“How’d you hold up in the storm?” I asked him once the logs were out of the way.

“Wasn’t much fun,” He responded with a sheepish look. “I’ve been using a canvas for a shelter, but when that storm came, I slept in that shed thing. Hope that’s okay.”

“The deer blind? It’s all good by me. We usually don’t get too many campers in the colder months. The whole north side of the river is pretty much inaccessible once the snow begins to stick. How much longer do you plan on making your trip?”

Carver just shrugged. Between his light jacket and knit gloves, he was not prepared for some of the colder weather that would eventually come. He hardly seemed prepared for the current weather.

“I have always found mud and rain to be worse than snow,” I continued. “It’s easy to stay dry in the snow. But cold, rainy days will get you. If you can make it through them, then weather that’s actually colder doesn’t seem so bad.”

Carver nodded at that. It was the worst piece of advice I had given in my entire life. It was accurate advice, but he could have used discouragement instead. Maybe then he would still be alive.

I wandered over to the four-wheeler where I had set down my coat. It was a well-worn thing, patched at the elbow and a button missing at the top, so you know it was reliable. Otherwise, I would have gotten rid of it long ago. I tossed it to the kid and said, “This ought to keep you warm. That jacket of yours won’t do nearly enough without the layers to back it up.”

“Oh, I can’t,” he began, but I wouldn’t let him continue.

“Don’t worry, my wife just bought me a new one. Same goes for the gloves,” I said as I tossed my gloves over to him. He stood bewildered for a moment but couldn’t refuse the aid. “Besides, I got to repay you somehow.”

“I’m just happy to help, sir.”

“Well, now you can be happy and warm. You like sunflower seeds?”

“Can’t say I’ve had them often.”

“I got them to help me break my smoking habit, but I don’t like them much, so you might as well take them.” A lie. I mean, I’m still trying to break my smoking habit, but I do enjoy chewing on sunflower seeds. It was just the only food I had on me.

“Thanks, sir.” He put on the coat, felt through the pockets, and took out a lighter. “Do you want this back?” He asked.

“Nah, keep it. Like I said, I’m trying to quit smoking. Besides, you can never have it too easy lighting a fire in country like this.” He thanked me again, and we said our goodbyes.

I intended to drop by again in the next few days, but it didn’t feel urgent then. We had a cold spell a week into December, and I thought it was a fantastic opportunity to go ice fishing. I gathered the auger, tent, folding chair, pole, and bait and was ready to go before dawn. Then I decided I might as well pack a spare pole and chair in case Carver was still around.

Dawn was still beyond the horizon, but its light reflected back and forth between the fresh snow and the clouds, illuminating the woods into a serene land of wonder. A serenity that puts your guard down, making you forget that Mother Nature never intended humanity to see such sights so far north.

I saw no sign of Carver at the deer blind or around the clearing by the river. Not wanting to waste the best hours of fishing, I went to the lake, returning in the late morning. Eventually, I found the remains of Carver’s campfire, but it was fully covered in snow, so he must have left the area before the snow began falling. I assumed he had his fill and gone home, not even considering that he would cross the river, going deeper into the woods.

Winter turned to spring, and some hunters crossed the river and found a body curled up in an old, patched coat with a button missing and an empty lighter in its pocket. The body would have died sometime in February. I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t helped, would he have given up and gone home, or just die sooner?

I like to imagine our paths crossing on that December day. We would go to the lake together and fish. I would have drilled the hole while Carver set up the tent. Then we would have fished in relative silence, like two owls sharing a branch.

Eventually, we would reach our limit of fish and realize he didn’t have a license, so I would have pretended to the game warden that I was the one who caught all the fish, but of course, the game warden wouldn’t actually show up. I’d convince Carver to come to my home so I could show him how to filet the fish. My wife would come down to get her morning coffee, and I would introduce the two and convince him to come by for Christmas.

I can respect a man who wants to do stuff alone, but it pains me to think of his final days spent alone, unable to take care of himself.  I know in my bones that he came to the wild for solitude, but I could have been an exception.

– Leif Capener