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After what felt like dozens of hours of relentless pummeling, we began scouting the grey riverbanks for a campsite. We were just 30 miles north of Abercrombie, and it was challenging to identify a spot that would support a tent on the swampy banks looming up steeply from the water.

Several miles beyond the point where our search for a campsite began, Kocher spotted a farm field atop a 30-foot precipice. “My ass cannot get any soggier,” he explained, having soaked in the mire for at least 10 hours. “We’re stopping here.”

We struggled up the slippery pitch, hauling only the tent, sleeping bags, a water jug, and trail mix. We left the rest of the gear behind in the canoe, which was tied off for the night on a logjam.

We pitched our tent on a truck-wide swath of uncultivated soil, between a meadow planted with soybeans and the edge of the soggy promontory. We spread our sleeping bags, crawled inside the tent, and ate a quick dinner of trail mix and water. By sunset we were asleep, our muddy bodies filling the dome’s dead air with unpleasant aromas.