Despite logging, the Ottawa and Hurons managed to maintain populations of wolves. Native wolverines and mountain lions had long been extirpated from the ecosystem, the result of over-trapping and speciesism-based persecution. His community college biology teacher, Mr. Emerson, was always impressed with Matt’s knowledge of flora and fauna, and they often had lengthy conversations about the U.P. These were the school moments he remembered with fondness, the exchanges with teachers where you were equals, just two adults having a conversation.

High road densities in the once roadless forest facilitated the elimination of many predator species via poaching. Former roadless areas were whittled down to nothing over decades. The only remaining unroaded lands were a few twenty-thousand-acre wilderness areas protected by the federal government.

Matt had plans to explore the intriguing Huron Mountains further, always interested by the possibility they may well be the oldest mountain range on earth and at one point as high as the Rockies. Now they were just two-thousand-foot rocky knobs. But there was always something about them he found captivating. Isolated stands of old growth hemlock reached from ravines and granite-shrouded patches of soil. Wind-battered red pines clung to cliffs. These places were the opposite of the Midwest: scenic. Remote. The old hunting shack he was heading to this very moment sat in the shadow of the Huros, in a wide forested valley cut by the Black River and its numerous falls and glinting pools. The “shack,” as it was known, was surrounded by a defunct apple orchard that now produced miniature, tart apples. Bordering the orchard stood a forest of aspen, alder, balsam fir, and spruce. Springs and bogs supplied the Black River with water all season, refreshing the riverbed even as summer and fall wicked away the water. To the west of the shack loomed Twenty Mile Bog. The rest of the area consisted of thick forest, home to fisher, black bears, wolves, and owls. These creatures made the Northwoods what it was. The idea that they still existed made him smile. Coming from the Chicago suburbs, this was a paradise teeming with life and adventure.

Matt ran his hand through his brown hair and searched for some music to accompany the darkness that had crept over the land. In the fading light, the instrument cluster bloomed like a spaceship panel.

Green Day? Neil Young? Eh . . . not yet. Pink Floyd? Yes. If his parent’s generation did one thing right, it was rock music. No, they didn’t just do it right, they kicked all sorts of ass.

Matt inserted the disc into the Pioneer CD player and “Let There Be More Light” pounced through the speakers.

He rolled down the window by a third and breathed cool North-wood’s air. Such a contrast from Chicagoland.