February 14, 2011
When I was 23-years-old I worked as a fly-fishing guide in southwestern Alaska. I lived alone in a remote tent camp on the edge of a river called the Nushagak (nush-a-gack). It was 100 miles by floatplane to the nearest town, otherwise known as electricity.
Which made the tent I lived in all the more important. It was large, with a wooden platform, steel ribs, and a tough, white vinyl tent covering. In one corner was a little cot. And in another a cook stove. And in another a little library, which contained two things: a copy ofWar and Peace
, and an old Playboy
One night at 2 a.m. the tent started shaking...