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“And when that polar bear attacks,” Hal continued, as if it were inevitable, “you’re going to have to unload on him. Pump and unload, right in the skull.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I had never seen Hal emote, but the thought of fighting off a polar bear had him really worked up.

“I don’t care if that goddamn bear looks like a rug,” he went on. “You just reload and empty, again and again. You can’t be too careful. It’s your life or his.”

Hal calmed down slowly, then conceded that there “might not be bear issues,” but only if proper care was taken.

I described my strategy for keeping predators out of camp. “I always string my food pack out of reach, between two trees.”

“Suicide,” he cried out in response, shaking his bald skull and wagging a finger. “You can’t hang your food in the subarctic. The few trees on the tundra aren’t tall enough to hang food out of reach of a polar bear. You lose your food supply, you starve. You need to carry your food in one of these things.”

Hal pointed at the salt barrel I was seated on. Its thick plastic shell and metal locking ring would keep my food safe. He explained how a friend of his at the Department of Transportation had donated the barrels. Hal turned around and sold them to canoeists. He normally cleaned them up and charged $50 each, but he was offering to sell me two for that price, so long as I was willing to wash them myself.