The spiky animal slogged up the bank into the cinnamon ferns, where it gawked back at him, eyes wide and questioning. The right side of its mouth quivered underneath the right eye, creating an uncanny human impression of fear. Then it straightened its head and shambled into the ferns and bog birch. A moment later crows rustled in the tree-tops, their wings like dry newspaper.

The drive from Highway 5 to the shack was eight bumpy-ass miles and mostly a straight run down Julip Road, passing a few bogs within the ever-present boreal forest. Most of the forest on the stretch was second-growth hardwood trees. Red pine, white pine, and hemlock made rare appearances. Fifteen years ago the sides of the road were thick with hemlock but the loggers had gotten those, too. Matt remembered seeing their gnarled branches while looking out the back of his father’s pickup. Now the road was much wider and pine-less. Tourists in sedans and station wagons gave up about a quarter mile down Julip Road from the Highway 5 junction. It was just too much. Those that did make the drive to the Huron Mountain wilderness boundary were few. Sometimes it could be a week before you heard another motor.

A few temporary logging roads emanated from Julip Road. These side roads produced more two-tracks to access even more timber. Most of the forest was penetrated by this cherry stem system. He often wondered how many animals had denning areas disturbed by mechanized activity and where they’d go to avoid it. The answer to that was of course pretty simple: the bogs and remote roadless areas in the Huron Mountains. The bogs held old timber, usually white pine and hemlock. These were often on the periphery or in raised pockets of dry land in the bog’s center. Obviously ideal places for animals to raise their young.

Matt reached the shack property and turned right up the steep two track. Tall grass swished against the chassis of the truck.

In ten seconds he was parked in front of the shack. When he shut off the engine, he was overcome by how quiet everything was. And so still.

He loved it.

The truck door creaked open and he stood to survey the land that had swirled in his blood for so long. Goose bumps peppered his arms as he remembered how he and his father tossed a football around in this very spot.

The shack was an ancient log structure, twenty by twenty feet, with hand-crafted, small diameter logs. An asphalt shingle roof hung over the sides and front by five feet. The south, west, and east walls each contained a single window. All the windows featured simple wooden lattices opened by undoing a brass latch and swinging the panes inward. Ratty curtains made of red burlap clung to the southern and eastern windows.