“Things hoped for have a higher value than things assured.”

By Ben S. Kuchta

Rain is pouring on the tent, and the wind is blowing a gale. I am storm-stayed and hoping for reprieve. My canoe, safely pulled up into the bushes out of reach of the pounding waves, is tied neatly to a tree with a bowline. In my tent I lie in contemplation, clammy, yet snug within my sleeping bag. Everything smells of musty sweat and dirty socks and scattered around my loft is a New Zealand flock’s worth of merino. Next to my wet clothes are arrows resting across the cordage. The feathers on my arrows are soaked and have the look about them of a cat after a rain, matted and grimacing after this morning’s hunt. All my gear is damp to the touch, but I know it will keep me secure tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever this damned weather breaks.

I suppose I could be bitter at my current situation, as the tag I have drawn could easily be hunted by truck with a warm bed and a hot shower at the end of each day. Likely this approach would also lead to a greater chance of filling my freezer. I can’t say that I didn’t consider the easier options when my hunting partner had to cancel at the last minute, leaving me to make my own choices with no one else to consider. But, perhaps against my better judgement, I decided that I must still undertake the 10-day backcountry, no-service, no-motors, water access trip. Yes, I would do it solo: just me, my longbow, and my canoe.