Stealth was abandoned. Completely.

The obvious game trail had betrayed me and disintegrated into the sloppily woven patchwork of salmonberry and blueberry bushes mixed with young cedar and spruce all of nearly identical size. I hoisted my legs over mossy blowdown and logging remnants. I leaned in, head down and pushed forward. 

The blue line tracking my route told a story I found hard to believe. My struggle was at a 45-degree angle to the intended muskeg and I was now moving away from it. I had decided to sacrifice silence for speed and still ended up going the wrong direction. I was traveling at .6 miles per hour on flat land. I took a breath and pressed.

Productive old growth features trees of up to 300 years old and reach nearly 200 feet high. The key to these areas is the presence of varying ages of timber. This creates a healthy mix of trees, undergrowth and second growth that provides excellent habitat for animals especially during winter. Sunlight penetrates the canopy and allows moss, ferns, berries and other forage to grow. It is easy if not magical to walk through an old growth stand. The magnitude and diversity is clearly wild and you get the feeling you are in a functioning ecosystem that hasn’t been manipulated or insulted by humans. 

 

Old growth stands were historically the most sought after and naivete (ignorance?) drove industrial logging: Trees are a renewable resource, they will grow back. Clearcuts were replanted which temporarily provided forage for animals, but it was soon obvious that productive old growth cannot be simply replaced by planting new trees and second growth timber was not as valuable. Pole-like trees compete for daylight and grow close together closing the canopy, preventing undergrowth and making it very difficult to navigate. 

The scale has diminished, but logging continues even in marginally productive land that abuts open relatively flat areas where water collects and creates a swampy bog known as muskeg. The decomposition of organic material gives muskeg water a brownish hue, though the wet spongy surface of a muskeg, not the water itself, is its defining characteristic. The acidity of the water in and around muskegs stunt the growth of trees and the transition between deeper timber and a muskeg is filled with forage and three-seasons of cover for deer.
That’s where I’m headed, through unhealthy second growth to the low quality timber (but excellent deer habitat) of the muskeg edge. Slowly.

 

I adjusted my course and eventually settled under a cedar tree in a small clearing before the main muskeg that looked like the period at the bottom of an exclamation point. I unzipped my rain jacket to vent heat. It was a rubber rain gear type day, not one for “breathable” technology. Clothing constructed with polyurethane-coated polyester is waterproof and meant for rugged applications such as commercial fishing. Or rut hunting in Southeast Alaska. 

 

By definition, breathable technology is supposed to let air circulate and water is typically repelled in an open area during a short rainstorm but given time, water finds a way through, especially while pushing through brush. It is a matter of matching the application. I have light, breathable rain gear that I would trust to keep me dry on an open trail or exposed ridge for an afternoon. But hiking through brush in rain that will not relent for 48-hours, I’m going with the sure thing because there is a meaningful difference between wet from sweat and wet from rain. Heat wet will evaporate and there’s a chance of staying warm. Soaked from rain means you’re on borrowed time. 

 

I unzipped my jacket to vent some heat and turned toward the muskeg that was thirty yards beyond me. I wouldn’t have a shot through the brush, but I wanted to see if I could move something into my small clearing off the muskeg. 
I gave a soft call sequence meant to travel throughout the edge but not much further. I paused and listened.I heard a rustling in the salal. I’ve been fooled before—squirrels, birds, my imagination. But this continued, these were steps. I reached for my camera and pointed it in the direction of the commotion. 

From the thickest section of the transition between me and the muskeg emerged a buck. I stayed with the camera and shot. The handsome forked-horn buck with a single eye guard paused behind the limited protection of a final cluster of brush. Curiosity drove the buck further and into the small clearing. 

 

 

It stared at me, nose in the air trying to figure out what it encountered compared to what it expected. It stomped the ground without a grunt then turned to walk away. I called softly again. It swung around and stood looking in my direction, hoping for answers.

I continued with the camera. 

I am certainly not the type of person who is so proficient at hunting that I can afford to pass on bucks. Nor do I think I have achieved some sort of insight or moral high ground. I just didn’t reach for the rifle. It may have had something to do with the fact we have deer in the freezer, but I like to think I was more motivated by the moment. 

Eventually the buck evaporated and I was left with the consequences. “Are you going to regret that?” I asked myself as I moved closer to the muskeg. I called, waited and watched, saw tracks, rubs, beds but nothing else materialized. By early afternoon I was back on the beach with my buddy loading up the skiff for the cold ride home.
 

No regrets.

Jeff Lund is a high school teacher and outdoors writer in Ketchikan, Alaska. He hosts the On Step Alaska Podcast. His book BigWild Life was released in the spring of 2025.