To the north you have to cross eighty-three kilometres of mixed forest before the next settlement, a hamlet of 133 souls eking out a living from ecotourism and government subsidies. Virgin forest, basically, save a handful of hunting cabins, with eighteen lakes and hundreds of creeks. A paradise for hunters and anglers, though hunting is forbidden on the date I’m planning, since it’s mid-October and the “killing” season ends in three days. Of course, the big game I’m after isn’t covered by any of the permits issued by the province’s ministry of forests, wildlife, and parks.

To the south are swampy wetlands full of tree frogs and pussy willows, all the way up to the highway. Probably the future site of a shopping centre, where you’ll be able to buy an eight-dollar shirt sewn by tiny brown hands. For now, the swamp is the object of a dispute between two municipalities. The legal battle has been raging for four years and involves three levels of government, two citizen’s coalitions, a regional chamber of commerce, and three environmental groups. Yet I’ve never come across a single soul out here.

The plain isn’t completely flooded. It’s still possible to walk around and keep your feet dry if you know the terrain. I know the terrain. I spend hours and hours there, by day and at night, under rain and sun, buffeted by winds. I count the number of footsteps it takes, both ways. Soon I can do the walk blindfolded, without getting stuck in any kind of weather. I’ll be long gone by the time they clear a path in the tall grass and realize they have to call in the dog squad and helicopters or spend weeks mucking around in a swamp.

Aside from a few outliers, most people are completely unexceptional. There aren’t many great scientists, journalists, artists, or leaders. Picture the public figures you know. Then imagine the other 7.3 billion people in the world you’ve never heard of. Finally, add the pile of one hundred billion dead bodies our species has produced since we figured out what little we know. It’s stiff competition. Mes semblables, mes soeurs: we all hold down jobs that we hate to some extent. One popular adaptation strategy to temper the burning desire to gouge your eyes out is soldiering on “for the family.” Good parents are prized under the dominant ideology. You can tell you’re good parents if your offspring survives. It appears that being extremely busy and tired also boosts your child-rearing aptitude coefficient. Keeping kids alive is a full-time job. Imagine the catastrophe when parents realize they’ve produced an imbecile. The law allows you to put your dog down if it exhibits dangerous behaviour, or even if you just aren’t feeling it anymore, but you can’t gas the fruit of your loins when they start displaying clear signs of idiocy.