But the real opportunities went beyond the job sites. I bought my first home. I learned to fly fish for trout, salmon, grayling, pike, and Dolly Varden in waters only reachable by floatplane. And in 1981, I staked a claim on a remote parcel of land offered by the State of Alaska — one of several parcels made available to ordinary citizens willing to put in the effort to earn them.

The catch? You had to conduct an amateur survey yourself. The survey would need to define a five-acre parcel — roughly 217,800 square feet, about 467 feet per side — recorded on state forms and submitted for review. It sounded straightforward enough, until you factored in the conditions: January, remote wilderness, and ten degrees below zero.

I rounded up two guys from the job sites, loaded a single snowmobile into my Econoline van, and drove out to the end of the road. From there, we transferred to the snowmobile and a sled in tow, and pushed out into the wilderness. Once we located the desired parcels, we thrashed a trail around the perimeter, taking compass readings and measuring as we went. After submitting the paperwork and making a few adjustments, I was awarded the land.

The survey itself was memorable. But the ride home was something else entirely.

On our way back to the van, we stopped to chat with two men who had set up a tent camp on the frozen lake. After a brief exchange, we set out to cross Papoose Twins Lake. Three-quarters of the way across, the snowmobile began to bog down. Beneath the surface snow lay a layer of standing water on top of the ice — a hidden, freezing trap. We pushed and pulled and tried everything we could think of, but the machine wouldn't budge. The water rose above our boots. Darkness had settled in. We were soaked, rapidly losing warmth, and stranded in the middle of a frozen lake with no way out.

We weighed our options. Make for shore and hope a small cabin was close enough? But was the shoreline stable? After a quick assessment, we turned back the way we came — back toward that tent camp. The two strangers didn't hesitate. With their help, we towed the snowmobile free of the ice, stripped off our wet gear, and slowly came back to life in the warmth of their tent.

Once dried out and restored, we gave it another try and made it safely onto the correct trail. The van — and home — was finally within reach.

I was riding the sled, picking up speed down the trail, when something caught my eye in the headlight beam. Something shiny. I reached out as we flew past and came up with three frozen cans of Miller High Life, still attached to a six-pack ring, lying there in the middle of the wilderness like a gift from the trail itself.

We never did drink those beers. Some things are better left as symbols. Those cans were the trail's way of telling us we'd earned the day.

That was forty years ago. It still lives in my mind as one of the finest adventures I've ever had.