ALONE WITH MY VOICE
A story about hunting in the Revelation Mountains
After graduating college, I felt pretty lost, drifting aimlessly, struggling to accept the reality of working in a cubicle. So, to rebel against what was expected from me, I signed up to be a packer at a remote hunting lodge in Alaska. I only worked on one guided trip that fall. The client was a man in his 60s from Nevada. He had bought a Dall sheep hunt in the Revelation Mountains and he was determined to fulfill a life long dream.
If you’re not familiar with Dall sheep hunting, let me tell you—it’s no joke. Typically, you’re flown in by airplane, one designed for off runway landings that only holds two people- the pilot and a passenger. With just ten days worth of food and your basic necessities, you hike through rugged terrain, and a mountain range where the only trails are those carved into the ground by animals over thousands of years of use. As you hike from ridge to ridge, you’re scanning for sets of big curly horns, perched high on the mountain tops as they survey the slopes below for predators. If you spend too much time out in the open, they will spot you from miles away. If you manage to get close and they catch your scent, they’re in a full sprint into the steepest, gnarliest cliffs where chasing them is impossible.
That said, when you get the chance to put the stalk on one, it is one the greatest adrenaline rushes you’ll ever experience. It’s primitive and exhilarating. These animals are anything but dumb, and closing the gap to within 50-100 yards its a different kind of fun.
So the three of us—client, guide, and myself—are dropped off one by one on a gravel riverbed by the pilot. With our packs, all our gear, and ten days’ worth of food, we hike up and over a ridge, descending into the adjacent valley to begin our hunt. Quickly, the client would realize he didn’t fully understand what he signed up for.
We would spend 7 grueling days hiking around this valley, and he was struggling- so was I. It rained five of those days, with highs around 40°F, the wind howling, and no sign of the sun- everything was wet. But we had spotted 4-5 rams that had made the valley their home, keeping us just optimistic enough.
One day in particular, we huddled in the rocks at the top of a mountain for over 6 hours. The wind was ripping, temps dropped to the mid-30s, and the rain turned to sleet. With nowhere to hide, all my layers soaked through, the cold seeped into my bones. The shaking was uncontrollable, my jaw numb. I tried to form a sentence to ask the guide for a plan, but this was the plan—sit and wait for an opportunity. This is fall in Alaska, and if you’re not prepared, it will humble you fast and strip your ego. Just when I thought I had reached my limit, the sun came out. All that suffering disappeared, and I found a new threshold for what I could endure— I haven’t felt truly cold since.
Fast forward to day seven. The client finally quits and wants to head back to the lodge. So that day, we pack up and hike back to the river to get picked up. Relieved, I was looking forward to a real meal, a shower, dry clothes, and a warm bed. The next morning we wake up to the first beautiful day and he convinces himself he wants to give it a second chance. So we load everything back up and head out to a new location. That night, the sun sets, and another storm rolls in. The next morning, we start hiking into the nearest valley under gray skies. Sitting in silence, glassing for sheep, the only sound was the rain splattering on our hoods. Then the client breaks the silence and says,
“I quit.”
The guide, caught off guard, responds, “Sorry, what?”
“I quit. Have the pilot come pick me up.”
There was no convincing him to stay, that was that. So we hiked back to camp and waited for the faint sound of the airplane. When it arrives, the pilot takes the client first, then returns to take the guide. It’s around 9 p.m., and before starting the engine, the pilot looks at me and says,
“I might be back for you tonight.”
He would return 4 days later….
No InReach, no satellite phone, no communication- just me, alone in a very far away place with no idea when the plane will be back to pick me up. All I was left with was my gear, a tent, ten days worth of food, my camera, and a gun.
There is a difference between going out on your own for 4 days and being left out on your own for 4 days. There was no where to walk, because there was no where to walk to. By the time you decide to leave camp, you won’t have enough food to make it anywhere. You’re so far gone that your only hope is that the plane comes back to get you. So, you sit there and wait, trying to entertain yourself, trying not to go paranoid, and trying not to let that voice in your head run away. Controlling that voice is the hardest part when you’re alone in a place like this—especially my voice. It has an evil way of going to the dark places, conjuring the worst-case scenarios.
You don’t want to hike too far because the plane could arrive at any minute—or at least that’s what you tell yourself. At night, I’m too scared to make a noise, one hand on the gun, trying to sleep. With the snap of a branch and the rustling of leaves your imagination runs wild of what could be roaming the valley floor.
Hour by hour, you do whatever it takes to entertain yourself. Sleeping, playing baseball with a stick, chasing ptarmigan that come too close, or seeing what lies under each rock, literally. With no distractions, entertainment, or company, you’re forced to confront that inner voice—mold it, shape it, and most importantly, contain it. Maybe some people’s voices aren’t as active as others, I wish that was my case. But this experience—being left alone in the mountains, far from anything—shaped the person I am today. I use it to face life’s hardships, the struggles that weigh on me: rejection, anxiety, depression, death, loneliness. I’ve learned to understand that all these emotions, like bad times, have an expiration date. And sometimes, the best thing you can do to stop yourself from spiraling, is to just… let go and trust that the airplane—whoever the pilot might be—will be there to pick you up and save you.
