It wasn't long before I lost the ability to generate any power from kicking my legs. From the lack of progress of our raft, it seemed the others were weakening as well. The wind was blowing us away from the shore, negating any progress we had made. Now that I had stopped kicking my feet, my breathing slowed and I felt as though my inhalations were not deep enough to draw in the air I needed. It was as though my lungs were sluggish. A foggy haze began to drift toward me and I knew it wasn't the mist on the lake. I was still aware enough to know if my arms were to slip from the canoe, I would not have the strength to keep myself afloat and would descend quietly into the cold depths below. My shivering stopped.

None of the men spoke. We let the waves bash us, the cold wind freeze our faces, the icy rain numb our hands. It is hard to imagine in a situation like this, one would be overcome with gratitude, but that was my sentiment. Floating there, helpless, I felt the need I to thank my expedition mates for the adventure, for having gotten to know these excellent men, to have shared adversity and joy, to have experienced the land's beauty and marvelled at this wild landscape, to have had the fortune to join them in laughter and pulled together with them when needed. They had became my brothers, all of them, Grey included, and together we would make our final voyage.

I wondered too, if when my arms would soon let go the canoe and I slid beneath, the serpent, the creature who revealed itself to us with the line in the sand, the Great Snake, would be waiting to greet us. Would it let us pass into its spirit world? Or was its duty to guard against intruders like us, to keep the land and water pure, safe from the greed and plunder for which we came?  We would likely try to take the snake to be ours, to own it, tame it, give it a name, use it in our art, sell it. No, the snake should let our souls float somewhere in this black water, suspended between the muddy bottom and the coming ice, our bodies pulled gradually by the current to the Northern Sea. We should have to wait until our God finds us. Our European God, the God of our mothers and grandmothers, the God of the statue of a white man in a loin cloth hanging from a tree. Would our even God know we were here? Would He see it right to pull us from this watery grave and ascend our spirits to His afterlife, somewhere above? Would our God even stand a chance here? 

I would welcome the Great Snake. I would say Jimmy Noland sent me. I wished Jimmy would vouch for me, say I was his cousin. But he'd likely just laugh. I could see Jimmy, hands above his head, jumping.

Out of the fog of fading consciousness and the mist of cold rain and wind on violent water, I saw a vision: a great vessel, a canoe, is suspended, effortlessly and unmoved by the waves and wind, floating above the surface of the lake. In its centre sits a great warrior, ageless and strong. He commands his spirit ship without a paddle. He reaches into the water with both arms and when he raises them to the sky, he holds one of our overturned canoes in his hands. He slips the canoe across the gunwales of his vessel and raising his hands again, turns the canoe upright, laying it across his boat. He commands the canoe to be launched into the lake, upright, and he holds it next to him. His reach now grasps the lifeless body of a man and raises him from the water, like a miracle, and places him into the righted and empty canoe. The saviour repeats his rite with another man and I see the unmistakeable shape of George Gray's body raised from the depths.

The apparition slid to the next overturned canoe and conducted the ritual again, and then to the one after that. This was not the Great Snake of the underworld that we had so feared, the monster we tried to flee by attempting to cross the lake. This was the messenger of truth, a benevolent spirit who would wrap us in his warmth. I felt his hands on mine, his firm grasp on my outstretched forearms. He raised me up, he lifted me, then he placed me in the fur of an animal. I was the bear now, and under the weight of my new skin, I slept.

Awakening was less peaceful. It was Silvester, kicking my feet, yelling at me to not fall asleep. He was sitting on the bench of our canoe, I was lying on the floor of the boat, under a fur blanket. Jimmy's bearskin.

"Hang in there John," he shouted, "we are out of the worst of it now."

I raised my head from the canoe floor and looked around. Silvester was paddling our canoe, empty of all gear, and I was lying in the place of the packs in the bottom of the canoe. Ahead of us, Jimmy, in his solitary canoe, was paddling, towing two boats with men sitting on the floor, huddled together under blankets and tarps. Following our canoe was one other. Wally was struggling to paddle. A limp body was slumped in his bow seat.

The water was calmer over here. Sheltered on the lee side of the raging wind, we slid into a cove and crashed the canoes onto the rock shore. Jimmy sprung out of the boat and pulled each canoe up the bank. The men stumbled out of the boats and dragged themselves up to the edge of the forest and sat huddled together. I could barely move my legs and it took both Silvester and Jimmy, one on each side, to assist me to move to where the others were sitting. Wally and Silvester appeared to have the most strength. They followed Jimmy's order to help the men remove their wet clothing. I had no ability to feel my buttons, and sat helpless as Silvester undid my jacket and shirt and pulled off my soaked and almost frozen clothing. Gray, who was naked now, was placed next to me and the bear skin blanket was wrapped around us both. His skin, pressed into mine, felt as cold and dead as a corpse. Neither of us had the ability to shiver.

Jimmy, who had disappeared for a while, returned to the group, arms full of sticks and logs and, moments later, a great fire blazed in our faces. Orange flames soared to the heavens, embers and sparks exploded and cracked, landing on my cheek and on the bearskin. I felt my face tingle.

How Jimmy was able to start a fire in the conditions that day is still beyond my comprehension. Everything was wet, the forest soaked from rain, our gear, except that which was carried in Jimmy's canoe—was lost. Somehow, Jimmy was able to, in no time, build a raging fire. A life saving fire. Eight white men, naked and helpless, sat huddled together under Jimmy's blankets, a tarp strewn overhead.  Across from the fire, Jimmy Noland stood with a long driftwood stick in his hand. He pulled a pot of hot liquid from the fire and placed it, steaming, on a rock next to the blaze. Then he stood tall, and looking down on us for the first time since we departed from the other shore of the lake, in what seemed to be another life, Jimmy laughed.

That night I dozed fitfully while Jimmy tended the fire and served us hot tea. We discovered that all our provisions, what little food we had left, had been lost during the capsizing of our canoes. Jimmy's canoe carried most of the group gear, so we still had tarps and tents, pots and pans, axes and the like, as well as some survey equipment and tripods, although they would serve no purpose any longer. Jimmy assured us that those packs would have sunk to the bottom, and would never be recovered. All of our information, the notes, the journals, the scientific facts and evidence, the results of four months of work, the very purpose of our journey, was lost forever, taken by the lake. Gray said nothing, only stared at the fire.

Our objective now, Jimmy explained, would be to try and get to the Hudson Bay Post at Fort Mattagami. He had never been to the fort himself, but told us of how, as a child, a group of Hudson Bay men from Mattagami arrived to the Fredrick House Post on Nighthawk Lake, where he and his father had held up one winter, years ago. Jimmy figured that Fredrick House, which he said was no longer in operation, would have been about a four day journey from Mattagami, so that would likely place the party's current location, about one day's paddle to the fort.

In the morning, frost covered our entire campsite. The tarps were stiff and ice had formed in the water pot. The fire burned hot and Jimmy was standing in the same spot he stood the previous night, still tending the fire. Our clothes had dried somewhat, but my trousers and over-shirt still retained enough moisture to be frozen solid. My legs were shoved into the stiff pants, the shirt cracked as it was placed over my head.

Those men who were most able, helped break our emergency camp. Gray, DeMorest and myself seemed to be the worst, and while warmer now, we still were without the strength to walk to the canoes without assistance. We were placed on the floor of each canoe while those who had some strength were given the task of paddling from the stern. Jimmy tied the four canoes behind his boat so the group would stay together. Like a family of mergansers on a summer outing, we followed Jimmy's canoe out into the lake.

The wind had subsided, although it still pushed a thick mist into our faces as we plodded north. I tried to paddle a few times but could do little more than move my arms in a futile attempt to help. Movement failed to generate any noticeable body heat from within me. Although my mind was dull and my vision groggy, I knew I would not be able to survive another frigid night.

Jimmy did not let up. He never once lost a paddle stroke as he pulled our sorry fleet down the lake. We did not eat, did not stop to relieve ourselves. The men urinated in the canoes or in cups while Jimmy towed them.  I never saw Jimmy once break the rhythm of his stroke. He only laughed, but not very often.

Dusk set in and the wind calmed and progress was more noticeable. I drifted in and out of consciousness, never entirely certain what thoughts were fantasies of imagination and what was actually happening to me. My recollection of the entire season's odyssey, it seemed, was subject to a similar unclarity.

So when I saw the shimmering fires of the fur trade post in the distance and the shouts of our men and the clanging of pots and the banging of paddle against gunwale, it seemed to be yet another vision in the half-sleep of my imaginative state. As I sat on the floor of the canoe that endless day, I imagined what it was like for eight men and one Indian to set out in June of 1900 on a four month expedition to map and survey the wilderness of New Ontario. I imagined these men following the leadership of the mighty George Reginald Gray, Timber Surveyor from Oro-Medonte Township, son of John Gray the rebellion-crushing hero, husband to Florence Lee Sheridan of 50 Isabella Street, Toronto, world champion Putter of Shot. I imagined a little man we called Jimmy—dark, weathered skin, a toothless smile, a grin, and a laugh. I imagined the coming together of fact and fantasy, of history and speculation, of science and superstition, the natural and the supernatural. I could not tell where the line was between each of these, only that there was a line. I saw the line. It is in the sand of Mattagmi Lake and of that I am, to this day, most certain. What I am uncertain of: which side of the line I am on now?