Isn’t it funny how different people can use the same set of directions to get to decidedly different places?

This was quite a revelation to me. I’d always figured folks either got to where they were goin’ or else they got lost. I never saw any shades of grey in the matter of route finding. Either you got there or you didn’t and that was that. But when I guided a group down the Albany River not so long back, I eventually realized there were a few other possibilities I’d been overlooking.

If you’ve ever guided professionally, you know that the job can be a little like a game of Russian roulette: you never know what you’re gonna get in the way of clients. You can’t hand pick payin’ customers the way you can your trippin’ buddies. You take what you get.

But I really lucked out on this Albany River trip. I had nine clients, each one nicer than the next and everybody equal to whatever the river had to offer. Not that the river was makin’ things hard for us this time. The water was really high, washin’ out all the smaller rapids and makin’ the big ones too big to mess with. So our backwoods whitewater adventure was sorta downgraded to a wilderness cruise.

With most of the technical difficulty of the river washed out and havin’ such a capable bunch of clients lifted a big load of responsibility offa my mind. I could trust these people to keep themselves outta trouble without too much help from me. I pretty much stopped worryin’ about anything aside from what to fix for dinner and started feelin’ pretty relaxed about my official responsibilities.

Bein’ absolved, as it were, of most of my other duties, I decided I could devote more of my attention to bein’ a fishing guide. One of the fellas on the trip was an avid angler. So I started panderin’ to his desire to be the Great Watery Hunter. I’d show the others where to find the next campsite and send them on ahead after we’d negotiated the afternoon’s final portage. Phil and I loitered behind to terrorize the fish in all those walleye-infested pools below waterfalls.

This worked pretty well most of the time. But once in a while the plan went slightly awry. Like that day I sent the non-fisher folk ahead to a campsite that, unbeknownst to me, was currently languishing under a couple of feet of river water. I had sorta forgotten about some of the implications of high water for island campsites. Needless to say, no one else recognized it as a campsite, looking as it did like any other piece of river. They paddled right on by it.

When Phil and I paddled up later, triumphant with our stringer of fish, we sure were disappointed there was no one there to hail the (fish) conquering heroes. Then I noticed the stones of the fire ring pokin’ up outta the river like a turtle comin’ up for air. And I realized the two of us weren’t gonna get to gloat over our catch until we caught up to the rest of our party.

Fortunately, everybody else soon realized that they had somehow missed their exit. ‘Cause we found ‘em all beached at the head of the next rapids, dismally surveying the rather muddy prospects for tent sites thereabouts. They were all so relieved when I told ‘em there was a drier and more scenic site just a short ways downstream that no one thought to complain about how my leadin’ from the rear had brought them to this pass to begin with. And all the fresh fish for dinner polished off any tarnish remaining on my reputation.

A few days later, however, the story played itself out to a slightly different conclusion. We came that afternoon to the place where the Albany lunged playfully over Miminiska Falls before losing itself for a while in Petawanga Lake. I knew there’d be walleyes - just dozens of ‘em - waitin’ for us below the falls. So Phil and I stayed behind to reel in a finny feast for dinner. Everyone else paddled on down the lake to make camp.

I entrusted route finding responsibilities to a young woman who seemed to have both a good head for directions and a rich endowment of river sense. Marta was one of those lucky people who seem to have a GPS hard wired into their brains. She took a look at the map with me and I had no doubt she knew exactly where we were headed.

Havin’ learned a thing or two from our recent experience with the sub-marine campsite, I at least had the foresight to establish a Plan B before parting company with my charges. That way if the first campsite proved untenable by virtue of unacceptable depth, we’d reconvene on higher ground farther down the lake.

Well, the afternoon was wearin’ away before Phil and I had dinner on the stringer and headed on down the lake. Sure enough, the Plan A campsite was full of water and empty of campers. But not to worry. We just needed to mosey on down to the Plan B site, leap ashore at our already established camp, and start cleanin’ fish. Except no one was there.

We paddled up to that long, narrow island at the far end of Petawanga Lake and found the Plan B campsite high, dry, and devoid of human activity. I was baffled. The directions had been clear - and clearly understood. So where was everybody? We paddled back out onto the lake and scoped the far shores with binoculars. There wasn’t a sign of life, leastways, not human life. And we were fast runnin’ out of daylight for doin’ any search and rescue.

That heavy load that had been lifted off my mind at the beginning of the trip came crashing back down on me now, with a couple of extra tons added. Here I was, the professional river guide, and I had just misplaced eight payin’ guests in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. This wasn’t gonna look good on my résumé.

Our paddling comrades had, at least temporarily, vanished without a trace. And they were just gonna hafta stay lost overnight, ‘cause we couldn’t go lookin’ for them in the dark. Next morning they still hadn’t come to light. And we were left scratchin’ our heads over how eight people and four canoes coulda disappeared so thoroughly in broad daylight over open water.

Well, canoes don’t leave tracks, so we knew we had our work cut out for us, herdin’ our lost lambs back together again. I hoped they hadn’t had too rough of a night of it without me, wherever they’d been holed up. Phil and I paddled back up the lake to a high, rocky point where we could keep vigil, lookin’ for any sign of non-native habitation.

And since it pays to make yourself obvious when you want to be noticed, I rigged up a line on our exposed point and hung out some laundry while we were waitin’. There’s nothing like airing a little dirty laundry to draw attention to yourself. Leastwise, it works for politicians and other public figures, why shouldn’t it work for me?

Well, it did work, like a charm. No sooner had the sun caught the full breadth of a couple of white shirts flappin’ in the breeze than we saw a canoe comin’ toward us across the lake. In it were Marta and Tomas, paddling hard and looking concerned.

"Are you guys OK?" called Marta, before they even reached shore. When Phil and I indicated we were fine, she continued, "Boy, I never thought we’d have to come rescue you! How’d you guys get lost?"

I was totally taken aback by this suggestion. "We weren’t lost," I answered. "We were camped at the second site we talked about yesterday. How did you folks go astray?"

"We didn’t," replied Marta. "We went straight to that island you pointed out on the map." And here she pointed back across the lake to the island Phil and I had departed from that morning. "We’ve been there since yesterday afternoon, waiting for you guys to show up. We thought maybe you two tried fishing by moonlight or something and didn’t make it this far. How’d you miss us?"

How indeed? Now we were all thoroughly bewildered. Phil and I packed up our laundry and paddled over to the mystery campsite. Sure enough, the rest of the troops had followed Marta’s lead to the exact point where I had set my finger down on the map yesterday, the northwest side of the island. A little more exact than I had intended, actually. Phil and I had bivouacked on the southeast side of the island. We’d all of us slept on the same sliver of stone, with nothin’ but the high, rocky spine of the island and our own ignorance between us. If we’d been listening, we probably coulda heard each other snore.

Well, we all stayed happily reunited for the rest of the trip. And the great irony here didn’t lie in the fact that we were all "lost" in the same, designated spot together, but in the disparity of the accommodations. Phil and I had huddled together on the bare, sloping rock of the "real" campsite. Marta and company had sprawled in Caribbean luxury along a beautiful crescent of sand beach. Following my explicit directions, she’d one-upped me and found a better campsite.

* * * * *

Well, ‘til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Rich Furman and Morgan MacBain, 901 East Geranium Ave., St. Paul MN 55106 or editor@canoe-kayak.org. Let me know if you’ve ever gone pleasantly astray in the backwoods. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even your orienteering club.