When I was preparing to spend my winter alone to become a man, I was on the radio with my father, who was in Anchorage. I went through the list of things needed to complete my preparation for winter: additional traps, a skinning knife, some ammo, some batteries. And then I told my dad, “Don’t hesitate to send me some female companionship.” I was a teenage boy. I chuckled to myself. In my mind, that could be amazing out here in paradise—a swimsuit model who wanted to learn to trap from someone with little experience but a great steam bath.

Days later, I ran outside as a plane touched down on the water. It landed, came off step, and taxied toward the cabin. I was handed multiple cases of supplies. And then a comment from the pilot: “Oh, I almost forgot. You wanted some female companionship?” He reached in and handed me Duchess, a young black Lab puppy. She lived for more than seventeen years. She was an amazing companion and an amazing friend.

Every time I got it right, it was because I paused long enough to ask myself a simple question: Is this fear talking, is this instinct talking, or is this my ego? The pause is everything. The pause is the difference between a story you tell and a story someone tells about you at your funeral.