We expected the electrical storms, and we were prepared for the cold, gusty wind. We were ready, too, for the rain and snow, which rendered the final traverse a terrifying solo across wet, slippery slabs. Matt and I were ready because we’d been waiting to climb Mt. Moran -– or anything, for that matter – for over a week, and finally, out of sheer boredom, decided it’d be more fun to get soaked trying than to wait any longer. It would be an adventure. So there we were, soaking up the alpine conditions on the CMC route. We’d tagged the summit, negotiated the 4th class descent, and endured the 5,000’ trudge back to Leigh Lake. But there we were surprised. Leigh Lake, which we had canoed across to get to the mountain, was covered in whitecaps. This we had not expected. Because we were not eager to risk a shipwreck in the middle of the frigid lake, and because rain was still coming down in sheets, we did what anyone would have done. It was the only thing we could do. We hunkered down underneath our canoe, and waited.

I emphasize this decision because hunkering is an oft-overlooked, but almost categorically-defining element of adventure. Think about it: why is the first winter ascent of Denali so remarkable? Because Art Davidson and his buddies hunkered down in a snowcave at 17,000’ for a week, waiting for the wind do die down, and they survived. Why is Shackleton’s failed trip to the South Pole so awesome? Because his men hunkered down for 22 months on the barren Elephant Island, and all 22 of them survived. Why is Herman Buhl’s first ascent of Nanga Parbat so amazing? Because he hunkered just below the 8,000m summit by standing there until the sun came up. Hunkering down is an activity reserved for challenging situations far out in the wilderness, where every decision counts. Hunkering down takes honesty, strength, creativity, resolve, and patience. Hunkering down takes respect.

It’s worth differentiating between hunkering and mere bivying. Bivying is what you do at night, and you can plan on it ahead of time, and even bring food and shelter to make the situation more amenable. Hunkering is for unforeseen occasions, at any time of day or night, where it’s too cold, too windy, or too snowy. Hunkering is for when you’re lost, or stuck. Hunkering is for when you’re exhausted, or out of food, or maybe even injured. In other words: Hunkering is far more versatile than bivying. It’s a valuable skill to have.

According to the OED, hunkering is properly is done like this: you “squat, with the haunches, knees, and ankles acutely bent, so as to bring the hams near the heels, and throw the whole weight upon the fore part of the feet”. Like a coiled up spring, you become both a small target and a powerful force ready to make a break for it. Realistically, though, hunkering isn’t always so bad. On most of my hunkers, I’ve stretched out a bit, gotten somewhat comfy, settled in for the long haul. Beneath that canoe, Matt and I cleared out a small pit (so that we could sit up straight), and stacked up two protective rock walls (to block the wind and rain.) Perhaps it’s fitting that the word hunker is of Scottish origin.

But the dictionary definition doesn’t really do justice to hunkering, because hunkering is about making the most of what you’ve got. It’s about improvising. When Walter Bonatti found himself midway up Dolomite walls as night fell, he used to wrap his rope around himself and stand there until morning. When John Muir got stuck in an October snowstorm on Rainier, he hunkered down beside a steam vent, so that his left side roasted while the other half froze. Enveloped by a Kansas tornado on a solo cross-country bike trip, I once hunkered down in an abandoned Honda Accord. (I was freaked out, and my bivy wasn’t gonna cut it.) The character in Jack London’s “To Build a Fire,” acutely aware of his predicament after having just fallen into an Alaskan stream midwinter, tries to kill his dog and hunker down inside him. But that’s a last resort, of course. Most hunkering experiences are more mundane. I’ve seen many people, surprised by thunderstorms at Wild Iris, hunker down under the Frankenstein boulder. Once, while waiting to catch the sunrise on a mountain in New Hampshire, I hunkered down inside a pile of pine boughs. (If only there been a fire tower up there!)

The best thing about hunkering is that it’s easy to become an expert hunkerer. With hunkering on your mind, you’ll be much more attuned to potential hunkering spots, so that if the situation arises, you’ll end up better positioned. I, for example, consider myself an expert in locating nooks and crannies in which to hunker, but I dream of hunkering in two particular places. I’ve fancied hunkering down inside the fuselage of a B-52 that long ago crashed up in the White Mountains because I’m sure it’s nice in there. My all time favorite, though: I’ve always wanted to hunker down just below the summit of Teewinot, in the cave that extends, miraculously, straight through a few hundred feet from the south face to the north face.

But back to Matt and I hunkering underneath the canoe: an hour passed by, and then another, and as the wind began to ease up, the whitecaps on the lake vanished, When we righted the canoe, it was still pouring, and not long after we started paddling, it grew dark. Not long after that we were soaked to the bone. But then again, we were on our way.