A recent trip brought me to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. Oftentimes, when the phrase 'Boundary Waters' is brought up, people imagine canoes and paddles. That was not the case. Imagine walking on snowshoes to stay above the snow, while pulling your life behind you on a sled. That's right--your life, meaning everything that is needed for you to stay alive in below freezing temperatures fitting on a sled not much larger than that of a child's toboggan.

It is a helpless experience to say the least. Knowing that civilization is miles away and that, if anything were to go wrong, you had better hope that the solution was on that sled. Besides the mid-January downpour and the numerous trees fallen on the portages, we were fortunate to have a great experience.

Our reasoning behind this madness? Well...trout of course. We were on the search for lakers and brook trout. And trout we found. The fishing was excellent to say the least. I could go on for hours describing experiences of our trip. My reasoning for writing this, though, is not trout fishing or January rainfalls, it is to describe a deer hunt that took place in early January.

This was not your typical deer hunt. No gun shots were heard and no arrows flew through the air. The hunt most likely took place in the middle of the night under the full moon. In fact, no human being even knew that this hunt took place.

The buck was old, but probably large and strong enough to put up a good fight. He had been forced onto the lake where he was most vulnerable. The dominant wolf grabbed

onto the deer's nose while the others pulled at his rump, eventually bringing him down. Dinner was served.

Only a week later, our tracks became the first human sign to disturb the smooth snow that covered Gun Lake. A short adventure around the lake brought us over many paths that had been there before us-wolves, deer, moose, fox, and fisher. The trek eventually led us to a sight on the side of the lake--remnants of a hunt that took place about a week earlier.

As I sat there, antlers in hand, I imagined back to the time of the hunt. It was something that few humans ever get the chance to observe--wolves running down a massive buck, bringing him down and inhaling every last part of him. Some would bitterly say that the wolves beat them to their trophy. Others would say that it is just nature following its course. To each man his own-I have the remnants of a January deer hunt.

- Mike Keller