The Saddest Story I Ever Heard

I was in the Bahamian settlement of Stella Maris, plodding down the scorching one-lane road in ninety-five degree heat to buy a six-pack of Kalik when this story popped into my head. Heat and lack of beer will do that to you. My good friend Bernie, who now calls himself “Bee” (less syllables) told it to me many years ago. (That's him in the rear with his buds back in their stagecoach robbing days.)
We both grew up in Miami; land of sun and fun and all that good stuff. Bee, however, craved the cold. He constantly talked about moving to Alaska. We thought he was nuts. After graduating from the University of Florida with a degree in range management (and a minor in mushroom consummation), he up and moved to Montana. 
Bee’s inaugural job in the Mountain State was to observe and log the winter migration of the elk herds. The setting was an isolated section of the Bitterroot Range in the state's far Northwest corner where he was given a pair of snowshoes and a cabin to winter in. I saw the picture. It was the size of a tool shed with roughly five tons of wood neatly stacked next to it. Bee would rise each day as the gloriously freezing dawn broke. After forcing the ice-packed door open, he’d trek out to the nearest bluff. There he would squat watching for the herds. On and on this went, day after day: Bee in his down parka studiously jotting down the number of elk that passed by, along with their size and sex. After four months of this, he started to go bonkers. Just like we’d warned him. 
Bee carefully analyzed his situation. He concluded a bottle of bourbon was the tonic needed to restore his spirit and sanity. However, the nearest town was forty miles away. Just getting to the highway was a three mile struggle through deep snow. Undaunted, he gave the fauna a day off, strapped on his snowshoes, grabbed his pack and a flashlight and began tramping through stinging sleet. After he reached the highway, he waited. An hour later a truck passed by. He had his ride. Once in town, he bought a quart of Old Granddad, then he stuck out his thumb in the waning afternoon glow. Fat flurries stuck to his long beard as he stood on the side of the snowpacked road waiting for another lift. This time it was a dump truck. He hoisted himself up into the cab and slammed the heavy door, carefully stowing his prized possession in his backpack which he tucked firmly between his legs. While they rumbled back up into the Bitterroot Range in the dusk, Bee was tempted to open the liquor, just for a taste. But he relished the idea of sitting in his little tool shed, cracking the cap and savoring his hard earned reward. So he waited. 
They arrived at the path back to the cabin at twilight. His tracks had already been erased by the ongoing snowstorm. Bee grabbed his pack, thanked the driver and stepped down from the vehicle right onto a patch of ice. He heard the slightest “tink” as he hit the frozen ground. The canvas pack swiftly absorbed the alcohol. Not even a drop remained. I can't imagine what that three mile slog back to the cabin in the dark was like. A tear forms in my eye just thinking about it. The next day Bee went back to studying the herds. He made no further sojourns into town. Once had been enough. 
The Spring thaw began in late May; his ordeal was over. A government truck radioed him to meet them at the road. Bee packed up his gear, bid the tool shed goodbye and easily trekked the three miles in the slush. He turned in his paperwork, picked up his pay and bee-lined it to the nearest bar. There he sat for six hours straight, downing bourbon until his body tingled and a long-absent smile spread across his lips.