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I lived alone in a tarpaper shack on the far western end of Manitoulin Island, Ontario for 40 days last summer. Overall, it was an amazing experience.
There were spooky moments. When hiking, I was wary of bears and wolves. It also took some time to get accustomed to the pitch dark of night.
It made me oddly sympathetic to pioneers and their animosity toward Indians. The notion there might be intelligent hostiles skulking in the forest, waiting to kill you for your food, is terrifying. Whites didn't hate Indians because they wanted their land; they hated them because they were scared.
Every four days I biked twenty miles to the nearest village, mailed letters, and talked to the locals. Those brief moments of human interaction did wonders to re-establish a basal line of "normalcy."
I made friends with a feisty red squirrel. Fed acorns to him. Became bros. (Pic related.)
Went fishing every three days or so. Caught a lot of perch, some pike.
The rest of the day I read, wrote and explored.
