And what a landscape it was. The forest spread out before him, the uneven canopy painted in sunset hues. A blue heron skimmed the trees, heading east, the distant granite outcroppings of the Huron Range glowing in various shades of pastel.

Matt shivered, then turned to split an aspen log. The inside of the wood was dry and smooth. The last log, a grungy balsam fir, took many more chops.

Breathing hard from exertion, Matt hunched over the pit and arranged the fresh kindling into a teepee. He separated pages from the newspaper and rolled them into cones, then inserted each piece into the teepee’s base. His tongue crept between his tightened lips as he did this, and he caught himself and sucked it back in. He was a grown-up now, not some little kid.

Almost dark now. Matt thumbed the lighter, the wheel spikes compressing his skin. He lit each paper cone as he circled the pit. You need synergy, his father always said. If you don’t have synergy, you don’t have shit.

Soon the birchbark popped like Rice Krispies. Embers flourished into the sky and disappeared between Altair and Venus. Matt pulled up one of the fat stumps that circled the pit and sat.

Night swept in on him, obscuring the Hurons and the lower forest. Guttural sounds came from downhill to the west, out in the bog. Maybe a moose, but he wasn’t sure. He knew of the struggling moose population, and that this area was part of the core population zone. The shack stood only a few miles from the reintroduction site in the Huron Wilderness. The ancient cliffs that made up the border of the wilderness lay out there in the night, protecting virgin timber. If value was indeed determined by rarity, then the Huron Wilderness was priceless by Midwest standards. Unfortunately, the wilderness was only twenty-five thousand acres, surrounded by a sea of logging roads and second-growth forest.

Regardless, Matt took great comfort in knowing it was there.

To him, all of this country emanated from that wild core. Everything was better off from the existence of wilderness, including him.

The grunting from down in the bog intensified, and a branch snapped. It sounded like an elephant cracking a femur. Whatever it was had inched closer.

Keeping his gaze on the low forest, Matt reached into his flannel pocket and pulled out his elastic headlamp. This style of lamp freed his hands for camp chores and working on his truck. It beat lipping a flashlight and slobbering all over it. Matt pressed the switch and gazed downhill to the west. A saber of light followed his every move. That was the beauty of it.

Soon, two tennis ball sized-eyes shone behind the wall of choke-cherry and tag alder. Matt followed the shimmering eyes to an enormous rump.

A black bear. A huge black bear.