Direction Measured in Poplar Bark

"Anytime now, chief," Jordan said, for the tenth time. He kicked at a rotten log, sending a spray of damp mulch into the air. "The 'army-issue' compass telling you anything useful? Or are you just trying to figure out which way is Tim Hortons?"

Noah didn't answer. He closed his eyes, ignoring the vibrating hum of Jordan's anxiety. He tried to feel the faint breeze on his cheeks, tried to smell the subtle difference between pine and spruce, tried to hear anything besides Jordan's mouth. All he could feel was the damp chill seeping through his jeans. They were well and truly lost. Jordan had insisted on a 'shortcut' an hour ago, ignoring Noah's quiet protests, and now the woods were swallowing the light whole.

"Seriously, man." Jordan's voice was closer now, a little higher-pitched than before. "It's getting dark. What's the plan?"

Noah opened his eyes and looked at him. Really looked at him. Jordan, who was always surrounded by a laughing, shoving pack of friends in the school hallway. Jordan, who wore pristine white sneakers that were now caked in mud. Jordan, who looked genuinely scared.

"The plan is you shut up for five minutes so I can think," Noah said. The words were sharper than he intended, but they worked. Jordan's mouth snapped shut.

He scanned the trees. Poplar, birch, spruce. Good. He walked to the nearest large poplar, its bark pale grey and textured. On the north side, the bark was rougher, darker, with more moss clinging to it. A landmark. He looked up, trying to find Polaris, but the cloud cover was too thick. Useless.

"Okay," Noah said, his voice low and calm, the way his Kokum's sounded when she was teaching him to set a snare. "We're not going to make it back before dark. We need to stop moving."

"Stop?" Jordan squeaked. "We need to find the trail! We need to call someone!"

"You have service?" Noah asked, already knowing the answer.

Jordan pulled out his phone. The screen was black. "Battery's dead." He looked utterly betrayed.

"Right. So we stop. We find a dry spot, we make a fire, we wait for morning." Noah's voice was flat, betraying none of the cold knot of fear in his own stomach. He was good in the bush, but he'd never been out overnight without gear, without a plan. And never with a liability like Jordan.

A Bed of Spruce

He found a small clearing sheltered by a granite outcrop. The ground beneath a thick old spruce was surprisingly dry, the dense needles having kept the rain off. "Break off all the dead branches from the bottom of these trees," he ordered, pointing. "The dry ones. As many as you can carry. Pile them here."

To his surprise, Jordan just nodded and started snapping branches, the sharp cracks echoing in the unnerving quiet. Noah, meanwhile, pulled a small knife from his pocket and began shaving bark from a birch tree. The papery curls were bone dry and flammable as gasoline. He gathered a handful, then used his knife to carve a small depression in a thick piece of poplar.

"What are you doing?" Jordan asked, dropping an armful of branches. His face was pale in the gloom.

"Making a fire," Noah said, not looking up. He found a straight, dry stick and started spinning it between his palms, the end pressed into the depression he'd carved. It was slow, agonizing work. His muscles burned. Nothing.

"Dude, it's not working," Jordan said, his teeth chattering.

"I know," Noah gritted out. He stopped, breathing hard. His hands were already starting to feel numb from the cold. He looked in his pockets. Knife, a half-eaten granola bar, his useless compass. He checked his jacket's inner pocket and his fingers brushed against a small, waterproof container. His fire kit. A tiny ferro rod and striker. He'd forgotten it was there.

Relief washed over him, so potent it made him dizzy. He didn't let it show. He pulled it out, scraped the rod with the striker, and a shower of brilliant white sparks erupted into the birch bark shavings. They caught immediately, a tiny flame blossoming in the darkness. Jordan actually gasped.

Carefully, Noah fed the flame, adding tiny twigs, then larger ones, until they had a respectable, crackling fire pushing back the oppressive dark. The warmth was immediate, life-giving.

They sat in silence for a long time, watching the flames. The woods that had felt menacing now felt... watchful. The firelight made their small shelter feel like the only place in the world.

"How did you know how to do all that?" Jordan finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. "The tree bark, the fire..."

"My Kokum," Noah said, poking the fire with a stick. "We lived on her trap line until last year. Up north."

"Oh." Jordan digested this. "So... you're like, a real 'Indian'? Like in the movies?" The question was clumsy, ignorant, but for once it didn't sound malicious. It sounded genuinely curious.

Noah almost laughed. "No. I'm just a guy from up north. And we don't say that word."

"Right. Sorry." Jordan hugged his knees. "I'm scared of the bush," he admitted, so quietly Noah almost didn't hear it. "It's too quiet. Too big. In the city, there's always noise. You always know where you are."

It was Noah's turn to be surprised. "I'm scared of the city," he confessed, the words tasting strange. "All the noise, all the people. I don't know where to look. Here..." he gestured to the wall of darkness beyond their fire, "...here, I know the rules."

They looked at each other across the flickering flames. The space between them, usually filled with antagonism and assumptions, was empty for the first time. The silence that stretched on was comfortable.

Then, a sound split the night. A sharp crack, like a heavy branch breaking under an immense weight, not far from their camp. It was followed by a low, guttural grunt that was definitively not a deer or a moose.

Jordan's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes wide with terror. Noah froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the sharpest stick he could find. The fire suddenly felt very, very small.