PART ONE: THE BEGINNING Michigan winters are tough for me. The glow of hunting season has fully faded into the rearview, and the humid, halcyon evenings that bring long-awaited hatches lie still far ahead; impossibly out of reach, like a shimmering mirage teasing a parched desert traveler. The days are short, the air is cold, and the sun seems like a long-forgotten friend who rarely calls. This season of hibernal inactivity always leaves me restless and out-of-sorts. To add s

It's well past dark when we finally make the second creek crossing and drop our packs. The halfway mark offers a brief solace. But we still have the big climb – two miles and nearly 2,000 feet of icy elevation before we gain the saddle, then a relatively flat final mile back to the truck. Sitting in silence we down chalky energy bars and nurse the last of our dwindling water. Lost in thought. Recalling what's recently behind and daunted by what lies directly ahead. I tug off