"I sit in wonder and the breezes speak to me in its language of Love, it is Love as I drift to sleep a few times and dream that I am part of this beach and shore. My tent is anchored well with all of my gear stowed under its canopy, as the boat too rests along side the tie straps bracing the entire realm.  I walk along the beach now and skirt the sandy wind stirred sculpted land, looking for evidence of why this place speaks to me. I laugh out loud, and it drifts away in the winds that tell me of an approaching storm from the east. The dark skies offer truth to this, but I will not move until the beauty absorbs me and takes me with it."

"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."

"Dosing off in the summer winds off the sea into the grasses mixed with sands that take flight from waves crashing on the shore.  The rhythmic drumming of surf peacefully lulls him in and out of his dreams as he waits on the beach ridge. The 'snapping' sounds of advancing Caribou awakens his senses as close breathing of hundreds or perhaps thousands of approaching nomads come within range.  He slides down the ridge to driftwood and waits for his moment to rise with his missiles tipped with chert points harder than the best steel.  He listens to the footfall gaining on him as his eyes search low in the grasses for any sign that it is time to rise and hurl his fletched lances at their approach.  Twelve hundred years prior to the name of Alaska, gives him a space nearly void of others save for his small family on 'Sealing Point.'  This day is for him and his success found him sledging back with his burden, his reward...he can just see the mounds of his lodge with little figures dancing around it, the dogs begin their alarm and an arm goes up signaling him...he knows he is home"

"With a great deal of time in this wilderness, on a constant trek and exploration, does uncover amazing results, mostly unexpected. The sounds of Arctic Terns as they dive and resound a warning to step lightly around the nests hidden in the gravels and sands on the infinite beaches, as the Sandhill Cranes trumpet their positions on the tundra.  The waves of shallow brackish water laps the shore into foam at my feet with woven bear tracks filled with overflow from the morning rains. The skull of a wolverine sinking slowly year after year into the mosses and lichen framing it into a treasure most profound.  Prehistory inches under foot, where Mammoth once browsed in peace among those times that only imagination may participate."

"It was worse than previous walks out in the glacier's terminus as even though the winds were partially shielded by the vertical glacier walls, there were no trails back to the habitat.  All day there had been sign of Mammoth, and even the newly driven snows had still craters of footfall from a lone and injured bull. Shifting now from one hand to another were his bundle of lances, tipped with gemstone blades, more than adequate to put down the greatest land beasts in the Ice Age. Bending low into the oncoming winds that ricochet off the walls of ice send him reeling to the drifts of snow cemented in ice as the northern lights play with the reflections in prisms that challenge the most efficient snow goggles sculpted in ivory.  The smell of camp smoke, laced within the searing cold, took him home, even though empty handed, success awaited the hunter with the laughter of children and warm oil lamp reflecting the many faces of the interior of his house braced in tusks and bone, ten thousand cycles around the sun."

"They were on or near the trails of Caribou, Muskoxen, and Woolly Mammoths as they migrated back and forth with seasons of the calves.  Their hunters moved with the wind and crossing the weather as it drove the herds to their advantage.  Dangerous and always alert to the many changes in weather, herd dispositions and with a constant attention to predators also crossing the tracks of their fresh spoor. Caches of stone spears and blades were left on the surface of the ground, on the ridges, overlooking the valleys. These groups living 20,000 years in their world of ice, maintain vigil with the hunt and always listening for any disturbances in the distance.  Old hunters leaned on their spears and with younger boys searched constantly in all directions of the camp. Giant bears followed the scent of the hunt, with lions and tiger cats, all making their way towards the herds, cris-crossing the camp boundaries in the chase. These were dangerous times and everyone stayed close to camp for protection."

"Ice Age tundra, ancient and perpetually frozen, harbors the remains of ancient Woolly Mammoth and a host of the many others that inhabited the Pleistocene.  Drifting these rivers in the high Arctic, with it's clear waters and vast country that no person could traverse within their lifetime. This region offers the 'Most Significant Sculpture Medium in the World.' This region invented quiet, and peace, sings in the winds like trumpeting Mammoths in the great distance. Trails along the rivers are gone but are just under the frozen ice covering ancient sod that once Mammoths fed, and Mastodons as they migrated in and out from the northern glacier chill. I remember in the ancient times, and I relive them again each time I am in this place, I still call home."