In my book, a ranger does not give up so readily, but rather thrives on exploration, learning every nuance of the lay of the land, what dangers and resources there are, whom to protect and from what or whom to protect them; he or she is proud to excel at the expert use and maintenance of all the tools of his or her trade even when that requires traveling the lonely road a bit longer.
With this in mind and upon learning that my arrows now logically needed to be fletched with feathers before I ever left the Broken Highway of the deep desert, I looked up for any sign of flying, thus feathered creatures. And having spotted vultures circling in the hazy distance, perhaps even some of the very same wretched things that had tormented me upon that forsaken cross, I set forth.
With naught but my grim determination, a rudimentary stone pick and weathered waterskin at my twisted twine belt, the latter containing but a few hot, stale dregs of its sustenance; the detritus from a handful of insects between my teeth and a bit of hastily woven coarse threaded rags to protect my skin, I made my way, one slow step at a time through the burning sands, all while the unforgiving rays of that treacherous sun hammered upon me in relentless waves.
I met the base of the rocky cliffs and peaks that divide the broken ruins of those desolate sands from the very outskirts of the life giving river valley and I glared balefully while growling my defiance! And I climbed. Every loose handhold and each rough foothold more precarious than the last; my breaths coming in ragged gasps and my stamina all but spent. What a pitiful husk I would have seemed to the proud man I was once.
I grunted through gritted teeth and persevered, matted hair, bruised limbs and broken nails my only companions, but by Crom, I made it! And upon reaching the coveted high places, I was rewarded with the sight of abandoned nests brimming with the glorious gold of my trade; fine black feathers.