The enraged wind raked up fistfuls of beach pebbles and sand. Gusts scattered the birds like confetti. My walking partner, Rowan Sharman, slogged on, an InReach satellite communication device in his open palm, trying to arrange a pickup by bush plane. A big storm was brewing. It could lock us into the Outer Coast for a week. We were running short of food, and tired from a six-week traverse of the wild coastline. We were in retreat. The walk would be paused for months while gales hammered the ocean footings of the misnamed Fairweather Range.