He had a backpack, a sleeping bag, a space blanket, a sheet of plastic, his shotgun, a can of tuna, and six pieces of bread. Not much food to sustain him on an eighty-mile hike, but he was counting on hunting along the way.
“You’re going to be okay?” the bush pilot asked.
“Sure,” he answered. “I’ll be okay.”
“See ya then,” the bush pilot said.
He’d only been walking for a mile when he came upon a grizzly. The grizzly had rolled in a caribou kill, and even at forty yards, he could smell the bear. The raw stench almost made him retch. The grizzly hadn’t caught his scent though, and instead of pressing his luck, he stayed downwind. The bear never even knew he was there.
The first night he came upon a no-name creek roiling with spring runoff. He knew he had to wait. If the water went down overnight, he would try to cross in the morning. If not, he would hike up to the headwaters. It meant ten extra miles, but that was better than drowning. Besides, he was in new territory, and he liked the look of it—the 6,000foot mountains, the occasional Dall sheep sure-footing its way over the scree, the tall white spruce lining the river, and lots of wolf sign.
He built a lean-to, covered it with the sheet of plastic, and grabbed his gun. Walking for eighteen hours across a waterlogged landscape of forest, tundra, and tussock had taken its toll. He had planned to shoot some ducks, but he was past being picky now. He would settle for anything, even a ground squirrel or two.
When he spotted a small flock of ducks swimming lazily in a mountain lake, he hoped his luck was about to change. It would have to. He had to cover another sixty miles and he was already out of food. He put in five shells of No. 4 birdshot and ground-swatted them, splattering BBs across the water. He squeezed off three shots before the ducks flushed and fled, and he shot one last time as they flew away. Then he waded out into the lake to retrieve his dinner—two drake bluebills. He had meat.