It was a chilly and drizzly evening in the north woods...the kind of drizzle that was not quite rain, not quite fog. The sun goes down early in October and I was returning to my solo camp a little later than I had planned. I had spent the afternoon in a remote gravel pit shooting 12 ga slugs, about 50 of them, practicing shots at different ranges and elevations. I had planned to buy dinner and some firewood at a little place I had been to many times before on the remote Mooseline Trail. With anticipation of a warm place and a hot meal, I crested the ridge in my truck. Almost there, I could see the old sign on a long pole. I felt like I was starving, and a hot roast beef sandwich and a beer was now in my sights. As I got closer in the dim light I sensed something wrong; the sign was there but where was the building? It took my mind a minute to comprehend what I was seeing; my little refuge in the woods had burned to the ground. There was nothing else around and now feeling cold and hungry, I needed to return to my soggy camp and make a fire. I would need more firewood than I had in camp. I had a saw and a large camp hatchet in my truck, and I took the hatchet into the dripping wet woods. I found that the repeated impact on my shoulder from 50 rounds of high-brass slugs had rendered my right arm almost useless. In the rain I couldn't hold and swing the hatchet safely. I went back to my truck and got my small Swede saw. It saved the day, and soon I had a stack of firewood and a nice little fire going. Without that saw, it would have been a cold and wet evening in camp. Lesson learned, plenty of firewood under a tarp in my camp now, and a shiny new small backup swede saw in my gear......Hotdogs in the rain never tasted so good.