Direction Measured in Poplar Bark
Forced together on a land navigation exercise, two boys—one from the city, one from the bush—get dangerously lost in the autumn wilderness. As darkness falls and bravado fades, survival depends on trusting the last person on earth either of them wanted to rely on.
EXT. BOREAL FOREST - DUSK
The light is failing. Ancient PINE and SPRUCE trees form a dense, suffocating canopy. The air is cold, damp.
JORDAN (17), wearing pristine sneakers now caked in mud, kicks at a rotten log. A spray of damp mulch flies into the air. He’s vibrating with anxiety.
JORDAN
> Anytime now, chief.
NOAH (17), quiet and focused, ignores him. He holds a small, cheap compass, but his eyes are closed. He’s trying to feel the breeze, to smell the air. All he feels is the chill seeping through his jeans.
JORDAN
> The ‘army-issue’ compass telling you anything useful? Or are you just trying to figure out which way is Tim Hortons?
Noah doesn’t answer.
SOUND: A nervous, rhythmic snapping of a twig in Jordan’s hands.
Jordan moves closer, his voice a little higher now.
JORDAN
> Seriously, man. It’s getting dark. What’s the plan?
Noah opens his eyes. He really looks at Jordan—the popular kid, now just a scared boy lost in the woods.
NOAH
> The plan is you shut up for five minutes so I can think.
The words are sharp. Jordan’s mouth snaps shut, stunned.
Noah scans the trees. Poplar, birch, spruce. He walks to a large POPLAR, its bark pale grey. He runs his hand over it. On one side, the bark is rougher, darker, clinging with moss. The north side.
He glances up. The sky is a thick, impenetrable grey. No stars. Useless.
NOAH
> (low, calm)
> We’re not going to make it back before dark. We need to stop moving.
JORDAN
> (a squeak)
> Stop? We need to find the trail! We need to call someone!
NOAH
> You have service?
Jordan fumbles for his phone. He jabs at the screen. Nothing. It’s a black, dead rectangle. He looks at it, utterly betrayed.
JORDAN
> Battery’s dead.
NOAH
> Right. So we stop. We find a dry spot, we make a fire, we wait for morning.
Noah’s voice is flat, betraying the knot of fear in his own stomach. He turns and walks deeper into the woods, leaving Jordan to follow.
EXT. GRANITE OUTCROP - NIGHT
A small clearing sheltered by a massive granite outcrop. Beneath a thick, old spruce, the ground is surprisingly dry.
Noah points to the dead, low-hanging branches on the surrounding trees.
NOAH
> Break off all the dead ones from the bottom. The dry ones. As many as you can carry. Pile them here.
Jordan just nods, his arrogance gone. He begins snapping branches.
SOUND: Sharp CRACKS of dry wood echo in the unnerving quiet.
Noah pulls a small KNIFE from his pocket. He peels paper-thin curls of bark from a birch tree, gathering a handful of the flammable material. He then carves a small depression into a thick piece of poplar wood.
Jordan drops an armful of branches, his face pale in the gloom.
JORDAN
> What are you doing?
NOAH
> Making a fire.
Noah doesn’t look up. He finds a straight, dry stick and fits it into the depression. He starts spinning it between his palms, fast and hard.
CLOSE ON Noah’s hands, rubbing, spinning. The friction is agonizing. His muscles burn. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cold. Nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.
JORDAN
> Dude, it’s not working.
His teeth are chattering.
NOAH
> (through gritted teeth)
> I know.
He stops, breathing hard, his hands numb. A wave of despair washes over him. He shoves a hand in his jacket’s inner pocket... and his fingers brush against a small, waterproof container.
His fire kit.
Relief hits him like a physical blow. He keeps his face impassive as he pulls out a tiny FERRO ROD and a metal STRIKER.
He scrapes the striker hard against the rod.
A shower of brilliant WHITE SPARKS erupts into the pile of birch shavings. They catch immediately. A tiny, fragile flame blossoms in the oppressive darkness.
Jordan lets out an audible GASP.
Carefully, Noah feeds the flame. Tiny twigs, then larger ones. The fire grows, crackling to life, pushing back the shadows.
The warmth is immediate, life-giving.
They sit in silence, watching the flames dance. The firelight makes their small shelter feel like the only safe place in the world.
JORDAN
> (a whisper)
> How did you know how to do all that? The tree bark, the fire...
NOAH
> (poking the fire)
> My Kokum. We lived on her trap line until last year. Up north.
JORDAN
> Oh. So... you’re like, a real ‘Indian’? Like in the movies?
The question is clumsy, ignorant, but genuinely curious. Noah almost smiles.
NOAH
> No. I’m just a guy from up north. And we don’t say that word.
JORDAN
> Right. Sorry.
Jordan hugs his knees, staring into the flames.
JORDAN
> (so quiet it’s almost lost)
> I’m scared of the bush. It’s too quiet. Too big. In the city, there’s always noise. You always know where you are.
Noah looks at him, surprised by the confession.
NOAH
> I’m scared of the city. All the noise, all the people. I don’t know where to look. Here...
He gestures to the wall of darkness beyond their fire.
NOAH
> ...here, I know the rules.
They look at each other across the flickering flames. The space between them, usually filled with antagonism, is empty. A comfortable silence settles.
CRACK!
A sound splits the night. Loud. Heavy. Like a massive tree branch snapping under an immense weight. It’s close.
It’s followed by a low, guttural GRUNT. A sound that is definitively not a deer or a moose.
Jordan’s head snaps toward the sound, his eyes wide with pure terror.
Noah freezes. His hand slowly reaches for a thick, sharp-pointed stick lying by the fire.
The fire suddenly feels very, very small. The darkness presses in, no longer empty. They are not alone.
The light is failing. Ancient PINE and SPRUCE trees form a dense, suffocating canopy. The air is cold, damp.
JORDAN (17), wearing pristine sneakers now caked in mud, kicks at a rotten log. A spray of damp mulch flies into the air. He’s vibrating with anxiety.
JORDAN
> Anytime now, chief.
NOAH (17), quiet and focused, ignores him. He holds a small, cheap compass, but his eyes are closed. He’s trying to feel the breeze, to smell the air. All he feels is the chill seeping through his jeans.
JORDAN
> The ‘army-issue’ compass telling you anything useful? Or are you just trying to figure out which way is Tim Hortons?
Noah doesn’t answer.
SOUND: A nervous, rhythmic snapping of a twig in Jordan’s hands.
Jordan moves closer, his voice a little higher now.
JORDAN
> Seriously, man. It’s getting dark. What’s the plan?
Noah opens his eyes. He really looks at Jordan—the popular kid, now just a scared boy lost in the woods.
NOAH
> The plan is you shut up for five minutes so I can think.
The words are sharp. Jordan’s mouth snaps shut, stunned.
Noah scans the trees. Poplar, birch, spruce. He walks to a large POPLAR, its bark pale grey. He runs his hand over it. On one side, the bark is rougher, darker, clinging with moss. The north side.
He glances up. The sky is a thick, impenetrable grey. No stars. Useless.
NOAH
> (low, calm)
> We’re not going to make it back before dark. We need to stop moving.
JORDAN
> (a squeak)
> Stop? We need to find the trail! We need to call someone!
NOAH
> You have service?
Jordan fumbles for his phone. He jabs at the screen. Nothing. It’s a black, dead rectangle. He looks at it, utterly betrayed.
JORDAN
> Battery’s dead.
NOAH
> Right. So we stop. We find a dry spot, we make a fire, we wait for morning.
Noah’s voice is flat, betraying the knot of fear in his own stomach. He turns and walks deeper into the woods, leaving Jordan to follow.
EXT. GRANITE OUTCROP - NIGHT
A small clearing sheltered by a massive granite outcrop. Beneath a thick, old spruce, the ground is surprisingly dry.
Noah points to the dead, low-hanging branches on the surrounding trees.
NOAH
> Break off all the dead ones from the bottom. The dry ones. As many as you can carry. Pile them here.
Jordan just nods, his arrogance gone. He begins snapping branches.
SOUND: Sharp CRACKS of dry wood echo in the unnerving quiet.
Noah pulls a small KNIFE from his pocket. He peels paper-thin curls of bark from a birch tree, gathering a handful of the flammable material. He then carves a small depression into a thick piece of poplar wood.
Jordan drops an armful of branches, his face pale in the gloom.
JORDAN
> What are you doing?
NOAH
> Making a fire.
Noah doesn’t look up. He finds a straight, dry stick and fits it into the depression. He starts spinning it between his palms, fast and hard.
CLOSE ON Noah’s hands, rubbing, spinning. The friction is agonizing. His muscles burn. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cold. Nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.
JORDAN
> Dude, it’s not working.
His teeth are chattering.
NOAH
> (through gritted teeth)
> I know.
He stops, breathing hard, his hands numb. A wave of despair washes over him. He shoves a hand in his jacket’s inner pocket... and his fingers brush against a small, waterproof container.
His fire kit.
Relief hits him like a physical blow. He keeps his face impassive as he pulls out a tiny FERRO ROD and a metal STRIKER.
He scrapes the striker hard against the rod.
A shower of brilliant WHITE SPARKS erupts into the pile of birch shavings. They catch immediately. A tiny, fragile flame blossoms in the oppressive darkness.
Jordan lets out an audible GASP.
Carefully, Noah feeds the flame. Tiny twigs, then larger ones. The fire grows, crackling to life, pushing back the shadows.
The warmth is immediate, life-giving.
They sit in silence, watching the flames dance. The firelight makes their small shelter feel like the only safe place in the world.
JORDAN
> (a whisper)
> How did you know how to do all that? The tree bark, the fire...
NOAH
> (poking the fire)
> My Kokum. We lived on her trap line until last year. Up north.
JORDAN
> Oh. So... you’re like, a real ‘Indian’? Like in the movies?
The question is clumsy, ignorant, but genuinely curious. Noah almost smiles.
NOAH
> No. I’m just a guy from up north. And we don’t say that word.
JORDAN
> Right. Sorry.
Jordan hugs his knees, staring into the flames.
JORDAN
> (so quiet it’s almost lost)
> I’m scared of the bush. It’s too quiet. Too big. In the city, there’s always noise. You always know where you are.
Noah looks at him, surprised by the confession.
NOAH
> I’m scared of the city. All the noise, all the people. I don’t know where to look. Here...
He gestures to the wall of darkness beyond their fire.
NOAH
> ...here, I know the rules.
They look at each other across the flickering flames. The space between them, usually filled with antagonism, is empty. A comfortable silence settles.
CRACK!
A sound splits the night. Loud. Heavy. Like a massive tree branch snapping under an immense weight. It’s close.
It’s followed by a low, guttural GRUNT. A sound that is definitively not a deer or a moose.
Jordan’s head snaps toward the sound, his eyes wide with pure terror.
Noah freezes. His hand slowly reaches for a thick, sharp-pointed stick lying by the fire.
The fire suddenly feels very, very small. The darkness presses in, no longer empty. They are not alone.