Wednesday, March 6, 2013

"Distance is define here in the Arctic, from any horizon, offers no end but more vast distances. Travel is survival with a continuous attention, leaving nothing to chance.  The boat rocks gently on the shore from the soft waves caressing its whale like skin, as the winds drive me forward from the south.  Siberia is just over to the left, out of sight called Wrangle Island, as I make my way to the lagoon to the right. Something tells me to explore this place and all the while keep check on the boat to my southwest, now, just under a quarter of a mile away.  I keep my binoculars just under my jacket to scan the grasses and beaches for any possible bear sign, coming or going as they will notice the boat tied up on the shore line.  It is an obvious beacon for anything on this highway of Arctic traffic leaving tracks in the sands most evident. Deliberately now I move to the lagoon as the sight of the boat is lowered behind the ridge of grass resembling the guard hairs of a Mammoth.  I circle now to the south and walk the shore of the brackish water within the lagoon, not knowing what to expect as I reach down and pull a partially buried Polar Bear skull from black mud. It is ancient, and colored the same as oak in  fall colors, a treasure left for those whom venture to the Far North."

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