Through squalls, into wind waves; slower in the big ones, faster in the small chop, I made my way. When a blustery shower loomed ahead, I ducked into a side channel, pitched the mega-mid, and made some hot tea. The storm passed. On I went.

Whitecaps forced me to shore at 6 pm. Two hours later, I was finally out of my drysuit and comfortably in shelter. Attempting to pitch the tent on the breezy gravel bar was pure comedy; stakes pulling, nylon flapping, poles bending. I failed to see the humor. Moving to the buggy yet sheltered forest seemed the best option. Only after clearing a space in the bushes, hauling cooler, food bin, and drybags up the steep bank, and then pitching the tent, did I notice a game trail out my back door, and bear tracks in the mud below. I was camped on a bear trail. Too late now, I kept the bear spray nearby, and went to sleep with famous last words—”I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

No bear mauling by morning, so I weaved through the maze of the Flats, dodging the wind, suffering the rain. At 4 pm the sun came out, electrifying the world into a pleasant palette and inspiring me to stop in Beaver Village, population 80. The first person I saw offered moose soup and fry bread. Sitting in the warm two-room house in my drysuit, a toddler stared at my strange visage while classic rock played on a portable stereo. I fought off sleep while eating hunks of fry bread and chatting with Theresa, my host.

Fuel consumption was higher than anticipated in the stormy conditions, so I queried Theresa about any gas in the village. No luck, but when I returned to the cabin to retrieve the wool cap I’d forgotten, she reported, “My nephew Shay can get you gas.” I found him fixing a fence with two other young men. A tree had fallen on it during the big windstorm. I gave him $30 for my three gallon can. That’s right, $10 a gallon. He disappeared to find an extension cord, for the pump, I presumed.

Buoyed again by my native friends, I ran long into a tranquil never-ending northern dusk.