Tomorrow we will drive out to North Country Canoe Outfitters, load a 17-foot canoe with a week's waterproofed supplies, drive deep into the north woods, coax Sophie into the middle of the boat and paddle away from leash laws into a wilderness where we will compulsively keep her tethered. The risk is too great should she chase something and get lost: Any large animal could finish her off, and even coyotes, far smaller than my 120-pound bear of a dog, are capable of luring her away from camp and taking her down as a pack. And wolves -- let's not even get into wolves. My great, lumbering pup, whose presence ensures my security among humans, will be ironically dependent on me in the woods. Perhaps she could survive without me, but afloat for a week with no one to rely on but we three adventurers, we are stronger, faster and safer together.

That, whether we admit it or not, is what has brought us here to the jumping-off point of civilization. Andy and I have been married less than two years and we adopted Sophie at the age of 5. By taking this rash leap into a wilderness that could devour us -- no guide, no cell phone, no safety net -- we are asking how much we can trust each other. Modern life offers so few opportunities to answer that question; there are always hidden agendas and ulterior motives. Basically you cross your fingers when you get married and hope that the weaving of the years will show a good pattern in the end. To find out what someone will do when rain starts pouring into the tent at 3 a.m. or you can't find the trail is valuable information that you can't get easily in the information age.

The first day is sunny and easy. At the first portage we forget our fishing poles and have to go back, but the second, through marshy, uneven ground, we complete with professional efficiency. In our practice paddles Sophie developed the habit of jumping in one side of the canoe and out the other into shallow water, but portaging teaches her new lessons. This time when she jumps out the other side it's into black water that swallows her completely and leaves her gasping and scrambling while we laugh ourselves limp. For the rest of the week Sophie climbs obediently into the canoe and sits. Forget the theories about repetition and reward: When it counts, she learns instantaneously.

As the days pass, I learn new things about my companions. For example: Sophie is inexhaustible at a steady trot. With a fully loaded backpack, doing a 2-mile trail three times because we must carry the heavy aluminum canoe separately, Sophie leads the way as if we were Lewis and Clark depending on her guidance. She is businesslike in her pack, less likely to sniff or wander, and extremely careful to stay between us and the other parties we encounter. The backpack, I imagine, returns to her some ancestral sense of duty and I am touched when she pauses at a bend in the trail or comes back to get me so that we are never separated, even by sight.

My husband's woodsmanship is a revelation too. I knew he could do remarkable things with a computer, but now he's telling stories about Boy Scout merit badges and suspending our gear from trees with elaborate knots. When he gets tired he grows exasperatingly patient and quiet until, if I whine, I hear it echo back out of the stillness and feel ridiculous. Andy takes all this very seriously: He does not take chances, and he watches over me and Sophie with a manly strength and self-assurance I haven't seen in him before. There are things that he can lift and I can't; my small fingers manipulate gear that his fumble with. He pulls the canoe along powerfully; I steer and navigate with increasing skill. We are separated naturally, against all egalitarian principles, by what our bodies can and cannot do, and these complementary roles are inexplicably reassuring as we go farther from civilization, deeper into utter interdependence.

Next page | Crisis in a canoe