Contrast

During the past week I was deer hunting and following the trail of a big buck; I found myself in the very center of a great muskeg swamp. There was much snow and the bottom of the bog was unfrozen and soft. Each step went through into the mush and water underneath and with the heavy snow above, progress was difficult. When I had forced my way through several miles of it and found I was as far from my goal as ever, the joy of the chase was gone and I settled down to an afternoon of as soul-killing and desperate effort as I have ever known.

After a time, I found that I could take no more than a few steps without stoppping for breath and rest. There came a time when I seriously wondered if I had lost all of my virility and if it would not be easier to just sit and wait for the swamp to freeze solid before going further. Progress finally became so exhausting and impossible that I doubted if I would ever get through. As the tracks of my buck became more and more vague and illegible under the thawing action of the noonday sun, I began to think longingly of cam and fire and food and rest and dry clothes and companionship, and wondered if the hardship a man went through in trailing a deer was worthwhile.

Several hours later, I did get out of the swamp onto solid ground, but I was so exhausted that I could barely stagger through the woods toward camp. Just at dusk, I found the cabin, sank into a seat by the fireplace, just sat and sat, reveling in the sheer bliss of not having to move at all.

And as I sat there and thought dully about the events of that long day in the bog, it occurred to me that without the misery that I had gone through, I would not be able to appreciate an iota of the warmth and rest that now was mine to enjoy.

Now, from the security and comfort of my study, I can smile at all the agony of that trip, but just the same, I know that without that sort of experience once in a while, a man never does know when he is well off. Without the violence of contrast, life is apt to be drab and colorless, certainly without the vividness of perception that only comes when the senses have been awakened by extremes of feeling.

I remember long trips in the wilderness when food and tobacco were running low, when the weather for a week or a month had been impossible, and the joy that coming back meant in the satisfaction of long-thwarted hunger and comfort. In the light of reflection, that was the real harvest, something to remember whenever the going gets tough.

And that, I believe, is one of the reasons why coming home from any sort of a primitive expedition is a real adventure. Security and routine are always welcome after knowing excitement and the unusual. We need contrast to make us know we are really alive.