If Yvon Chouinard was right when he declared, “It’s not an adventure until something goes wrong,” John Pritchard’s journey across the prairies in 1805 was an adventure with a capital “A”.

On June 11, the young Englishman set out from home at Fort La Souris, east of today’s Brandon, Manitoba, with a friend to deliver some horses at an Fort Qu’Appelle, just west of the confluence of the Qu’Appelle and Assiniboine Rivers. Several days later, lost and regretting having attempted the journey without a Métis guide, they tried to turn back. But after having forgotten to tie up the horse one night, his friend went out to find them and never returned to camp. Pritchard then also wandered from camp, couldn’t find his way back, so opted for finding his own way to the outpost.

It got worse before it got better. He found a creek to follow, but it was the Pipestone (flowing southeast), not the Qu’Appelle (which flows northwest), so he followed it the wrong direction. His boots disintegrated, so he tried using his pants and shirt to protect his feet. Which didn’t work, and left him with no clothing but the hat on his head.

And it was June on the prairies. Mosquitoes, ticks, grasses, blazing sun, starvation. Too much rain to start a fire (oh yeah, in addition to his hat he also had a flint and stone), so no smudge to repel bugs.

Can you imagine?

A couple years ago I explored an ill-advised trail in the Sandilands. It was one of those trails made for skiing in winter, definitely not intended for summer use. As I carefully picked my way around deep sections of muddy bog, I started to feel a warm sensation on my legs. (It wasn’t what you think…) Looking down, I noticed small cuts across my thighs. Turns out the long grass I was wading through wasn’t simple quack grass, it was a some kind of angry velcro grass which tore at my flesh with each stride.

Bill Redekop recounts the story of Pritchard’s wanderings in his 2006 Winnipeg Free Press column, which was later collected in his book, Made in Manitoba. In it he mentions “spear grass”, which I looked up only to find nine different varieties of grass bearing the name. And “velcro grass which tears at your flesh in June in Manitoba” didn’t bring up any search results… If you know the grass I’m talking about, let me know.

Anyway, when I read about a naked John Pritchard wandering across the prairies, this is what comes to mind.

It took him 30 days to realize he was going the wrong way. When he did realize his mistake, he exclaimed, “Good God!” which feels like a very considered response. After 33 days he finally came across people, an Assiniboine Sioux family who graciously made the seven-day 100km trek back to Pritchard’s outpost, transporting him on a travois, a kind of sled pulled by a horse.

They called him “the cheepi”, which means “the corpse”, to give an idea of his state when they found him.

Redekop credits the account of the late Hal G. Duncan in The South-west Corner (which you can read in these archives), as well as his guide and local historian, James Ritchie, in piecing together the details of one of Manitoba’s most incredible survival stories.

Pritchard went on to live as a politician, businessman, farmer, writer, and educator. You’ll even find a school in Winnipeg bearing his name.

If you should find yourself thigh-deep in spear grass, or any flesh-ripping variety of foliage, I hope you find yourself wearing more clothes than dear John Pritchard.