Ice. It always comes back to ice. Jagged, narrow inlets filled with saltwater hundreds of feet deep. Hills and mountains sculpted and rounded thousands of feet above the lapping waves. Humpback whales feed near the inlet’s shallow moraine, where the currents of Icy Strait and South Inian Pass meet. All because of glaciers that churned through thousands of years prior. The icy deserts have been replaced by a bounty of life that feels limitless in the calm August sunshine.

Our skiff glides down Idaho Inlet, cruising mid-channel and on course for the dogleg turn a couple of miles from the head of the inlet. Our heads crane upwards, eyes probing glowing green ridgelines and the hypothetical routes that lead to them. A few of these green fingers run towards sea level, a deceptive and alluring path that, in reality, is thick with salmonberry and alder. Better to take the wooded (albeit still thick) forests to reach that seductive alpine ridge.

Zach noses the boat towards a salmon stream and Seth leaps from the bow with a nod as he gives the boat a hearty shove. He disappears into the grass before the forest swallows him. I take the wheel, and Zach shoulders his own pack and rifle.

He points at a long rocky beach. “That one.”

I glance at the ridgeline. Sure. If I blink, squint hard enough, and imagine enough switchbacks, I can see a route through the trees to that coveted alpine. If Zach has any questions about the validity of his chosen mountain, he’s decided not to show it.

The keel scrapes the rocks, and he leaps clear.

“Good hunting.”

He waves in response. “See you tomorrow at noon.”

With a shout of, “Hey bear!” He vanishes into the trees.

I spin the skiff towards a small cove on the other side of the inlet. It’s an ideal anchorage in the shadow of another 2,000 peak that culminates in a long, straight ridge glowing in the setting sun.

For a third time, the skiff bumps the rocks. Out goes my pack and rifle before I putter away to lower the anchor. The anchor strikes bottom at 20 feet, and I spoon out several more feet before sliding the boat into reverse and feeling the anchor teeth dig into the soft mud. I brush my teeth and spit over the side, suddenly feeling oh so small.

It’s approaching 9 in the evening, and the mountain looks steep and foreboding. It will be disorientating in the woods. I pray for a game trail devoid of fallen trees and devil’s club. Idaho Inlet cuts into the north side of Chichagof Island, home to one of the largest brown bear populations on earth, and I left my bear spray sitting on the counter at the Hobbit Hole. I’d sooner wrestle a bear than rely on a round or two from a 30.06. It only makes me feel smaller.

I squeeze into a pack raft and splash for shore, shoulder the pack that feels too heavy, and crash into the darkening woods. Sweat soaks my sweater, and my breath comes in gasps as I hop from one deer trail to the next, yelling for the bears to keep clear every couple of minutes.

Why do this?

I pause and look at my GPS. 400 feet above sea level. 1600 feet to go. I’m not going to make it tonight. I look at the forest’s collection of blueberry, skunk cabbage, false azalea, and rotting tree trunks. Nothing looks remotely campable.

“Hey, bear!”

The words disappear with nary an echo. I am over my skis. A wanna-be Alaskan cosplaying as a hunter and homesteader. Discomfort wiggles in my mind, and whispers of self-doubt grow a little louder. I glance at the thickets below and, for a moment, consider retreating. I can camp at sea level and try for the alpine in the morning.

Why do this?

I tighten the pack’s belt and bush upwards. I can’t answer my own question, much less discern where I’m going to camp or how I’ll bear-proof my food while I sleep. Something keeps me climbing, keeps me gasping and sweating and pushing.

Tomorrow is Christmas morning. The allure of fat deer foraging on the cabbage that bears their name. The never-ending ridges of the island in the background. To stand where no one has stood for years (maybe longer). A reminder of the joy of public lands and wild places. The good health and fortune that lets me push higher and higher, one sweat-soaked step at a time.

At 800 feet, it’s too dark to climb any further. I cast around for anything resembling a campsite. I cram the tent against a hemlock perched on a ledge. At least the tree will catch me before I tumble should I roll over in the middle of the night. I’ve worn too many layers, and the bottom one is soaked through. I crawl into the tent without bothering to put on the fly. It’s been a soggy summer, but the last few days have been hot and dry, a forecast projected to continue tomorrow. I hear a stream tumbling down a gorge and murrelets returning to their nests. I brace against the hemlock and fall asleep.

Alarm at 4 am. I don’t bother packing the tent and hustle up the mountain with just the essentials: trail mix, rifle, extra shells, hunting knife, plastic bags, and Wild Berry Skittles. I pop out of the woods and into a mix of muskeg and yellow cedar, greeted by the rasping call of a doe.

My muscles tense as I slide rounds into the Springfield and watch the last one lock in the barrel. I squish through the muskeg, eyes trying to see everything at once. I am faced with the hunter’s dilemma, forced to choose between covering more ground or moving silently. Despite the doe’s call, the ground around me is sparse on sign, only a few trails and dry piles of scat. Discarding stealth, I bolt for the summit, already feeling a warm breeze as the sun inches towards the shady peaks. Idaho Inlet spills beneath me, a sinewy waterway that looks no bigger than a river. A jolt of anxiety runs through me as I imagine a poorly set anchor line and what it would be like to step out of the woods and into an empty cove. That’s a problem for Sea Level David hours down the road.

I bring the scope to my eye and work the ridges and meadows with as much patience as I can conjure. Two deer pop against the ridge 200 feet above. They weave through the rocks and grass, velvety antlers evident on the one in the lead.

My heartbeat quickens, but another peculiarly warm gust brings disappointment. The pair are traveling downwind, and the only approach for a biped is upwind. With no other deer visible, I begin to climb, hoping for a change in the wind.

I pause at the summit. The Fairweather Mountains explode from the other side of Icy Strait. Even from this distance, the 14,000-foot sentinel’s tower over my quaint little hill, blinding white peaks stretching north. Again, I feel small, but not in the diminished, intimidated manner of the day prior.  The wildness of my home reverberates in my chest, and I barely mind when I realize the deer have disappeared around a steep and wooded point.

There’s no chance of following them without creating a ruckus, and the wind won’t stop blowing their direction. The ridgeline is a deceptive mix of mountain hemlock and yellow cedar the consistency of a hedge grove. I quietly push through them and feel the temperature drop. Minutes before 6 am, the promise of a sweltering summer day is already palpable. Too much sun means sheltering deer and poor hunting. The clock is ticking as I step out of the hedge on the west side. If I were a deer, this is where I’d be. Three mountains rim a bowl of alpine and sub-alpine habitat still sheltered from the rising sun.

I give the distant muskegs a scan, but a lip in the hillside keeps me from seeing the ground beneath me. I re-enter stealth mode, every step deliberate as I try to watch my feet and the emerging muskeg. I glance right, take another step, look down, and freeze.

A deer’s winter coat is grayish-brown and melts into the old growth, but its burnt orange summer one pops against alpine green.

The rifle jams against my shoulder. My god, he’s huge. A belly full of summer forage swings back and forth. He stands broadside to me, but when he raises his head, I can see broad, illustrious antlers culminating in three points on each side. The sort of deer Zach and I talk about after our fourth whiskey while snow falls on a gray January evening.

I take a breath, squeeze my eyes, and am overjoyed when the buck is still there when I open them. My mind freezes, and time slows to a halt as exhilaration mixes with the pressure not to blow this. He hasn’t seen me, but at this angle and distance, I’m not comfortable taking the shot without a brace. I can’t lay prone on this steep hill.

The pack slides from my shoulders, eyes on those antlers. The safety clicks. When I first started hunting, I anticipated some sort of moral conflict to play out inside me during these deliberate, pre-mediated actions. But there’s never room in my head for that. Once the safety is off, I’ve made my choice, my brain and heart acknowledging that we’re taking a shot. To take a life to sustain life. My inner monologue is filled with the same trite phrases:

Don’t blow this. Don’t blow this. Don’t blow this. It’s too hot. This is your one chance. The next 30 seconds will decide this.

I rest the barrel on my pack and kick my legs to the side. It’s awkward, but the rifle feels manageable with the pack holding the weight. I shift, and the buck looks up the hill. He fills the scope, and I stare covetously at his antlers. Ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later, and I would’ve missed him. I’d never claim to be a good hunter, but luck has been with me more often than not the last couple of years.

Deep breath, let it out. Wait. Wait. He keeps staring. Crosshairs split those beautiful, perfect antlers. Downhill shot, 200 yards. The bullet’s gonna drop. Compensate. I raise the barrel slightly just as the buck turns away to look at the alpine bowl beneath the mountains. The clock hits 6 am. A finger twitches. The blast echoes off peaceful peaks.

I unbolt the shell and catch the spinning casing. Another slides into place. Before I can stand, I know another shot won’t be necessary. His twitching slows as the nerves fire.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Oh, thank you, deer. Thank you.”

The safety clicks on. I fall more than run down the hill. The adrenaline letdown means everything is shaking. Balance and hand/eye coordination have become optional. My knees and hands tremble as I grip the fuzzy antlers that so filled my mind.

I mumble platitudes, take a deep breath, and get ahold of myself. As crucial as the last five minutes were, the next couple of hours are just as vital. The buck is too unwieldy to drag to sea level. The meat will need to be harvested here, the bones and fur left for scavengers. But not yet. I let the contradictions of my life run wild.

I’ve grown to fiercely love deer, finding them beautiful, gentle, charismatic, and, yes, delicious. To introduce violence and death upon a creature I treasure is something I fail to fully comprehend. Nothing is stopping me from climbing a mountain and simply watching these animals. No one would think less of me. I am not participating in some blind race for masculinity and affirmation.

Why do this?

I bury my fingers in his fur and bow my head. Because to eat of deer is to eat of the forest and mountains that make up my home. Because few things bring more pleasure than sliding a burger across the counter to a neighbor or loved one. Because there is something prehistoric and feral braided into my DNA that wants to hunt, catch, gather, and grow instead of blindly tossing deli meat in a shopping cart.

“I won’t call this a sacrifice,” I whisper, forcing myself to look into his empty eyes. “Because you didn’t wake up this morning set on giving your life. No, you were in the right place at the right time.” I pause, “or the wrong place at the wrong time. I hope your passing was as painless as it could possibly be. I promise to honor this gift and use as much as I can. I’ll think of you and this day every time I eat. I don’t know what the afterlife is like for a deer, but I hope it is peaceful and quiet and free of pain.”

I press my forehead against his. Velvet antlers rub my temples. The flies begin to buzz. No words can excuse the violence and bloodshed. But if my gratitude and respect can find a way into the calories I harvest… it matters how an animal dies. How it is treated even after it draws its final breath.

The muscles in my leg cramp, the plastic bags steadily filling with meat bound for canning jars. When the bags are bulging, and the work finished, I drag what’s left of the buck to a large rock, spreading the pelt across the top and resting the head to overlook the mountains he’d been watching. From behind, he could be sleeping.

I shovel Skittles into my mouth and wrestle the pack into position. My knees ache as I reach the ridge and appear in blinding sunshine. I glance back at the burnt orange fur and give him a final nod.

Why do this?

Idaho Inlet waits below. The Inian Islands and Hobbit Hole obscured from this angle. There will be stories to tell, beers to drink, a life to thank and remember as the pressure canner rattles. Tradition dictates that the heart of the deer must be eaten that night. The sort of meal that needs to be shared. Must be shared.

I take an uneasy step down the ridge. 1,998 feet to go. I may not be able to articulate how or why this has become the most integral part of my year, but there’s no going back . Home lays before me, rolling ridges behind, the biting straps of the pack a blessing in disguise.