Alaska, November: Life in a Painting

What do you tell them, when they ask you? That when you go home, you live inside a painting? That when you approach, the endless peaks appear as if from a dream, their contours glowing into horizon, ridges like teeth, snowless valleys carving rivers into the earth? That every time you press your face, your lens, to the window, trying so hard to catch it? That feeling? 

Earlier this winter, I stopped through my hometown of Anchorage, Alaska, for a few weeks. I did a number of things while there – visited family, edited and launched some new bodies of work, fundraised for a new project (more on that later), skied, prepared for Antarctica, and visited my brother in Fairbanks.

It was there, in Fairbanks – at the Museum of the North, on the university’s campus – that I first laid eyes on an original painting by Rockwell Kent. I was drawn to it as if by magnetic force – the color, the richness, the way the canvas breathed forth the peculiarities of Arctic light that can only so fleetingly be glimpsed. He caught it – that uncatchable thing. I’d seen reprints of his work, read his books, even – but seeing the work in real life was another story.

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The painting made me think of a lot of things. The image itself struck me, of course, because of the parallels it drew to my own daily reality (aboard ships in the Polar Regions), but it struck me also because of the color, that luminous quality and color of light. That single painting made me feel, instantly and forevermore, deeply connected to a community of artists and thinkers, past and present, engaged in ideas of North and northernness. The community had always been there, of course, but it took the painting to wake up to it.

It was a turning point. Since then, the more I consider it, the more important that community feels, and it’s everywhere. No matter what you are passionate about, somewhere out there are people who feel the same, who are driven by the same forces. You are not alone.


I’ll tell you this – as whimsical as Kent’s work may appear, it is in many ways astonishingly accurate. After seeing the painting, I saw it everywhere, in the mountains, the fjords, the sunrises.


On the flight home from Fairbanks, descending over Anchorage at dusk, I was suddenly gripped. Shooting in the dark, through the thick layered plastic of a jet window at thousands of feet, I gasped yet again at the vastness of this wilderness I’d grown up with, the Chugach mountains extending as far as the eye could see. Anchorage, when it finally appeared, seemed so inconsequential – a handful of glitter in the deep.




It was a beautiful November – not much snow, but properly cold, and by the time we returned from Fairbanks, the ocean had begun freezing in its myriad of formations. I’d just gotten a brand-new digital camera, and promptly took it to the sea ice to test it out.


The frozen sea of Turnagain Arm, only a few minutes from my childhood home, had been a source of artistic inspiration for as long as I could remember, but that day on the ice was challenging. No snow had fallen on the surface, and the ice was both slippery and brittle. I moved slowly, cautiously, outwards from the shore, while the moon rose above.


This was it: home. I’d been thinking a lot about sea ice, too, and our relationships to it. Here was a new camera, destined to tell these stories. Here was the first thing it saw. Here are the first pictures it took.


While I couldn’t get as far as I would have liked, alone on that new, fragile ice, it was a beginning. A beginning of something new coming, something more connected. I hope to move forward with a greater receptivity, now, to connectivity – of the things, in these polar realms, that draw us here; that shape us, and ultimately unite us.


Bulgaria: An Exhibition Experience of a Lifetime

Setting foot onto dry land near the end of September this year, I had a feeling things were going to be action-packed. Long field seasons in the Polar Regions, typically, are followed by one of two phases: desperate rest and recovery, or sudden flurries of activity, during which one attempts to cram 4 months worth of activities and errands into a few crazed, busy weeks. This time around, my goal was to somehow fuse the two – but where, when, and what this would entail, were all yet to be unveiled.

First, a bit of backstory. In the early spring of this year, whilst on a ship in Antarctica, I received a peculiar email through our satellite communications system: an invitation to travel to Bulgaria for a solo exhibition of my photography. First I shrugged it off – spam, probably – but then I took a second look. Surprisingly, it seemed sort of real. It looked cool, actually. With a degree of skepticism, I hesitantly accepted the offer – but promptly made a back-up plan, just in case.


Fast-forward six months or so, and I was back on a ship, in the Arctic this time. Although the opening date of the exhibition had been set, and Jens had agreed to join me, we had no plane tickets. The date drew closer: One month to go. Three weeks. Two weeks, in which to somehow get from a ship in the Arctic, to Canada, to Sweden, to Bulgaria.

At one week left until the opening, I wrote Jens over the satellite email.

“Forget about Bulgaria,” I wrote. “I don’t think it’s going to happen. We can stay in Sweden, read books and stuff. Rest.”

No sooner had I sent the message than plane tickets appeared in an email from our mysterious Bulgarian hosts. With 5 days left until the exhibition opening, we decided to drop everything and go. As snow began to fall on Greenland and storms descended upon Svalbard, two weary expedition guides boarded aircraft on opposite sides of the Arctic and started the course towards eastern Europe.


Neither of us, I must admit, knew anything about Bulgaria. The whole of the Balkan region was, in my imagination, shrouded in mystery; the little I knew of it was a fantastical world shaped by photographers like Michał Siarek. We just went, operating in the same expedition mindset that defines much of what we do. You go, simply, to find out; and by traveling without expectations make yourself receptive to a potentially endless stream of surprise, delight, and amazement.


Bulgaria pretty much blew our minds. Not only was it real, it was beautiful – far less Soviet concrete (why had I imagined that?) and instead, lush, mountainous, and the city of Sofia full of warm colors, a meeting of East and West. More importantly, we were met at the airport by none other than Denislav Stoychev. All I knew about Denislav was that he was a talented photojournalist and member of the Bulgarian Press Photo organization which had invited me there. What I didn’t know was that he was only 25 years old, hilarious, and probably one of the friendliest and most talkative people I’ve met in years. He would instantly become our best friend, translator, tour guide, and agent throughout our time in Sofia.

“I hope you like interviews,” he said as we rode the subway from the airport. “You’ll be on Bulgarian National Television tomorrow, on the morning show. Local television at noon, National Radio the next day. Maybe some newspapers.”

How does one respond, after three months in the Arctic? The blur of the subway whirred around us, Cyrillic characters flashing by. Jens and I just looked at each other and laughed. What was this dream? How did we get here?

“Why are you laughing?” asked Denislav.


Sure enough, the next morning I was live on the morning show, promptly after breakfast and before actually having seen the exhibition I was speaking about. You can check out the interview here – it was my first experience speaking with a simultaneous translator, but I think it went as well as it could have. As we spoke, the wall of screens behind us displayed a slideshow of my work from Alaska, Iceland and Baffin Island. I imagined these pictures, and these spoken thoughts about the Arctic, glowing from television screens in living rooms across Bulgaria. “Surreal” does not begin to cover it.


The exhibition poster outside the gallery. Loving seeing it all in Bulgarian.

After the National Television experience, we went to see the exhibition that Gallery SYNTHESIS had kindly prepared in advance. The gallery adjoined PhotoSYNTHESIS – a cafe, camera store, print studio, and photo book library, all in one. It was a stunning example of how to make the documentary and fine-art photography worlds accessible and engaging to a wider public, by creating an inviting and multifaceted cafe atmosphere.



Cafe seating in front of the gallery door.


In the spacious upstairs gallery, the exhibition was already installed, combining images from my projects Polaris, Origins and Under the Same Stars. It was refreshing, for once, to have such a large exhibition curated by someone else – and novel, for me, to have all the text written in Bulgarian. The show was expansive, filling three rooms and two hallways, but here is a brief selection of installation shots.






No sooner had we taken a look at the exhibition than it was time for another interview, this time in English, with the local TV station bTV.  Due to the amount of other news stories that day, the clip they actually used was very brief, but it was a fun and engaging experience. Here is the result. 


With the exhibition opening that night, we decided to take a break from interviews and actually spend a few hours taking in the sights of Sofia. It was, after all, still less than 24 hours since we had arrived.


The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, for example, was nearby.


By some glorious accident, we stumbled upon an absolutely legendary restaurant called Made in Blue. Post-Arctic meals of dreams were enjoyed outside in warm sunshine.

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We got dressed up for the exhibition opening and walked through a beautiful park right next to our hotel, full of locals taking in the late-afternoon light.


From there, it was straight to the exhibition opening! For being new to Bulgaria, there was a surprisingly large turnout of photography and art enthusiasts. Denislav and Nadezhda, the curator, introduced the show with a series of speeches in Bulgarian.


There were lots more interviews and photographs and smiling at cameras.


Some lovely ladies from the US Embassy, which had funded the exhibition, arrived to say hi and do some more interviews. (Here’s the one that ended up on their website.) After that, it was time for an artist talk about the Polar Regions, photography, and expedition travel.




Thus concluded one of the most amazing and intensive exhibition days I can remember, marked by the astounding hospitality, generosity, and kindness of our new Bulgarian friends. We ended the evening with dinner with Denislav, his friends, the curator Nadezhda, and the director of the Serbian photography festival Vizualizator, talking about photography, art, and all of its magic.

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The days that followed, while considerably more low-key, were enjoyed to the fullest. There were more interviews, of course, at the National Radio and various newspapers, but there was also lots of time to explore and enjoy the city. Denislav tagged along with us, documenting fervently on Instagram as we went, showing us some of the highlights of Sofia.


I also got to conduct portfolio reviews for some up-and-coming Bulgarian photographers!


That night, we met Tsvetan Tomkchev, director of BG Press Photo, to watch the sun set over Sofia.


The next day, Denislav took us by train to the city of Plovdiv, where we spent the day enjoying the best of Bulgarian traditional cuisine, warm sunshine, and the beautiful cultural scene there.





On our very last day, the three of us joined Bulgarian photographer Vlad Donkov and his friend on a day trip in the Rila mountains! Like Jens and I, Vlad had also spent a significant amount of time photographing in the Polar Regions, and jumped at the opportunity to show us some of Bulgaria’s best wilderness – and swap adventure stories from the worlds’ cold places. After driving an hour or so from Sofia, we made our way up through the autumn landscape towards Malyovitsa Peak.



The trail was sunny, relatively warm – and tough! Jens and I could feel that we had been on ships all summer. It was heavenly, however, to feel our freedom of movement over the earth; to breathe mountain air; and to sense the wildness around us in every direction.


Denislav was representing BG Press Photo, of course. 


While we didn’t make it quite to the top, our 8-hour trek took us through a host of alpine landscapes, past lakes and valleys, and finally up a steep scree gully up to one of the mountain’s saddles. From there, panoramic views fell away from us in every direction. We munched apples and chocolate at the top, feeling the cold evening air sweeping towards us as the sun sank lower into the sky.



Darkness fell over the landscape as we returned, exhausted, to the car. Denislav chatted rapidly into his cell phone in Bulgarian, hanging up and calling, hanging up and calling.

“Tonight we will eat at a traditional Bulgarian restaurant!” he announced happily. “Very, very traditional. Maybe with a singer.”

“Oh no,” said Vlad.


It is difficult to explain the full magnitude of what happened next. We arrived, sweaty with our backpacks, into a restaurant whose seating space also functioned as a dance floor; where a live band performed about 5 meters away from our dinner table, and lines of restaurant patrons wove around the tables in ongoing traditionally dance. Tsvetan awaited us enthusiastically, beaming in his BG Press Photo t-shirt under an assemblage of Bulgarian flags. We laughed and ate and yelled across the table at each other over the roar of the music.

“I love this song!” Denislav exclaimed suddenly, as the jubilant tune changed melodies.

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“Our uprising from the Ottoman Empire.”


It was a cultural dinner like no other. Suddenly, Denislav snuck across the room to speak to the singer, gesturing towards Jens and I with enthusiasm. The next thing we knew, we were asked to come on stage, where the singer gave a dramatic speech in Bulgarian encompassing our life stories – the Polar Regions, the ships, the animals, the exhibition, the photography, Antarctica, the Rila mountains from where we had just arrived – and promptly urged us to dance. The band burst into vibrant song.

What do you do? You dance. Everyone else, it turned out, danced with us too.

Thank you, Bulgaria. Thank you Denislav and Tsvetan, for inviting us; thank you Vlad, Nadezhda, BG Press Photo, the US Embassy, and all the others who made a 5-day whirlwind trip an experience that we will never forget. I came to Bulgaria thinking it would be an exhibition and nothing more; I left with an overwhelming sense of the warmth of humanity, feeling that we have made friends for life.

Sometimes, you just have to drop everything and go.

Making a Living, Making a Trip

For the fourth year in a row, alone on a hilltop facing the sea, I looked out over Ilulissat Icefjord in West Greenland. The tundra, browning and withered, was preparing itself for winter; the taste of snow alighted on the wind. Below, beyond, and in every cardinal direction, stretched an endless expanse of glacial ice, dense as land.

Ten minutes was all I got, this time, to listen the silence and to watch the ice. It was colder this year, the crowberry faded, the ponds frozen over, but the ice was still there, choking the fjord in an illusion of solidity and permanence. Clouds played and warped over the lunar world of spires, mountains and monuments, patterns of light dancing across it in slow-motion.

The sight moved me not for its magnitude (a startling awareness of human smallness, futile warmth), nor for the worlds I imagined within it (the depth of crevasses, the underwater ice labyrinth below). The view shook me because it was different every day. The ice was alive, unknowable, and constantly shifting. It was a world that humans could never know or traverse – and an overwhelming, visceral metaphor for the nature of life.

Every year, now, I had come, at the end of long seasons guiding in the Arctic, in what felt like a personal pilgrimage. In the moments before the Icefjord – the output of the fastest-moving glacier in the northern hemisphere – the full weight of the summer’s experiences could begin to sink in. My thoughts would return to the early summer, to the days of midnight sun, across frozen oceans and continents to where I stood now, at the cusp of winter.

This year I thought, first, about Svalbard, where we had begun, aboard the m/v Ocean Atlantic, our home for the season. (By we, I mean an expedition team working for Quark Expeditions – a tight-knit group of talented polar professionals who I already knew and already loved). Light and time had no relation to each other; daylight prevailed in every hour of every day. I learned to look harder. Use binoculars, better. Spend hours on the ship’s bridge, searching. Not that I ever spotted much – the competition was too great, other eyes better trained – but one day, I will.


In the course of five expeditions to Svalbard this year, the island archipelago secured a firmer place in my heart. Nowhere else in the Arctic, by ship, have I had such incredible encounters with polar bears, walrus, reindeer. What’s more, as a guide, we visited familiar places again and again. The day arrived when I could wake up, look out my porthole, and know intuitively where we were. I grew confident leading hikes, navigating, carrying a firearm, interpreting in the tundra and on the sea. We had wildlife experiences that still linger in my dreams.


We made five expeditions in Svalbard, back-to-back. Ice, tundra, glaciers, flowers, birds, bears, animals, light, sky, time. Again, again, again. I felt – and this is rare – that we could keep going, there, for a long time, following the season until it faded to fall. But there were more places to go, and the ship was headed west, and we, living aboard it, followed.


In August, we sailed to Greenland. Crossed oceans, borders – to the places where I started, living this life, wide-eyed and new – and places that are still marked by that feeling of newness, of exploration, of discovery.

It can be difficult to convey why is it that Greenland, and the Canadian Arctic, exert such a hold on the imagination. Why these trips, more than any others we undertake, embody the idea of what I feel expedition should be.

Certainly, it is because the regions have been inhabited for nearly 5,000 years. Every thing one sees, experiences – tufts of cottongrass moving in the wind, a circle of stones, the movements of birds – everything is tied to human experience, full of meaning. I call traveling in these regions learning to see – reading into the subtleties in the land, the light, until the experiences become so powerful that you are lost for words.


Our first expedition in Greenland and Canada was marked by incredible weather and warm air, fjord systems so overwhelming that one felt in danger of losing one’s sense of space. It was also marked, in the onset of autumn, by the return of sunrise and sunset, of watching days begin and end again. And so we ventured into uncharted waters, to land on unknown beaches at dawn, to witness sunrise.

These latter trips are also expedition, to me, because our travels are dictated by the place itself, rather than a set itinerary or pre-arranged schedule. The ice, the weather, the spirit of our companions, our teamwork, the ship, the season, and more than anything, the dreams – these are the things that shape the voyage. Plans are constantly in flux, changing as fast as the glaciers churn out their oceans of icebergs. By learning to live with this, by adopting a constant readiness to adapt and respond, you attain a presence of mind so rich that you feel no earthly event can ever shake you.

On these voyages, a reason to go somewhere might be a story you heard. An idea you had. A legend of an amazing place that spreads amongst the collective imagination of your group until you have to go, be the waters charted or not. It is an amazing feeling to arrive in a place of legend, like a myth coming to life, and find it to be real, whatever it is. Hundreds of whales. A Greenlandic music festival bustling in a remote fjord. A pair of polar bears on a jagged island in the middle of the sea.


These experiences, every one of them, are irreplaceably unique journeys that will live on in our imaginations forever. But this is also how we, polar guides, make a living. I’ve been reflecting a lot on that phrase, making a living. What does this mean to each of us? There is more than the money one earns to literally survive. There are, also, the experiences that imbue your life with richness, purpose, and reverence. To have these things combined is something that fills me with endless gratitude.


So it is that another Arctic season has drawn to a close – not without challenges, of course, but full of so much beauty and wonder that I scarcely know where to begin. If there was time enough for reflection I could write endless articles on the encounters we’ve just had, out there, on the sea. But this I know of life: like the ice, it is always changing, always moving, and so are we all.

The next months will be full of travel, full of change and stories, and I am running towards all of it. I hope there will be time for sharing. I hope to write things down.

Spring in Sweden: Friends, Forests and Photo Shows

A few weeks ago, I got on a plane to Sweden.

Things had transpired quickly. I had returned from 4.5 months in Antarctica, purchased my first car in Oslo, and driven for three days to northern Norway over terrifying winter roads and mountain passes, white-knuckled and tense. I crossed the Arctic Circle at dusk, in a snowstorm, the purple glow of twilight pressing over the empty and windswept road. I drove 1,347 kilometers alone, successfully without incident, only to discover the car couldn’t make it up the gentle slope of my driveway. I left it as it was, stuffed with belongings, and walked the last hundred meters to the house.

I arrived, and I finally had a car, which is essential given the sheer distance of the house from virtually everything else. Some weeks passed, and I attempted to settle in, and settle down, and adjust to dry land after all the months at sea. Some weeks passed, Easter came and went, and then it was time to go.

For about a year, the plan had been to exhibit my photographs at Galleri Elf in Gothenburg, co-run by my artist friend Dan Isaac Wallin, with whom I shared a house during an artist residency at Villa Lofoten a few years ago. In the meantime, I had made another friend from Gothenburg, a polar wildlife photographer named Jens. We had worked together in Antarctica, and suddenly going to Gothenburg became a reunion, a collision of art, photography, and polar travel. Here are some pictures.

I am the kind of person who enjoys interpreting things as signs and omens. This, at the Narvik airport, was a good sign.


Jens picked me up from the bus station, dressed appropriately in a Svalbard sweater. (If you know what it is, you know what it is). He lived on a street that translates to “Seaman’s Way,” with a family who also spent a lot of time on ships. It was refreshing to be amongst the company of people who truly understand that lifestyle – the allure, the freedom, the joy, and the challenges. They also had a wonderful cat.


The next morning, we loaded a massive quantity of artwork onto a bus, and then onto a streetcar, trundling clumsily over the cobblestone streets of Gothenburg with a rolling suitcase full of frames. We met Dan at his art studio, and set about framing my series Polaris for the exhibition two days later.


It’s one thing to have an assistant when preparing an exhibition – borderline essential – but having assistants who know what they’re doing makes a world of difference. With two professional photographers tackling the frames, the process was as efficient and stress-free as I have ever experienced. We were done by lunchtime.

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Upon arriving at the gallery, the first course of action was to promptly sit down and have a fika, a relaxing coffee break with baked goods and friends. Got to love Scandinavia.


With a whole team of people there to assist, the hanging of the show went flawlessly. I had had two new, large prints made in Gothenburg, and was very happy pleased with their quality and attention to color.

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With everything hung and ready to go, and advertisements hung in the windows, it was time to relax for a day before the exhibition opened.


The recent arrival of springtime in Sweden called for utmost enjoyment of the decent weather, and we celebrated with two barbecues in one day. After grilling an astounding quantity and variety of meat with Jens and his friend Eddie, we took Eddie’s daughters for a walk in the forest, where flowers were blooming in thick blankets over the forest floor.


It was cold and windy when we got home, but we put on all our clothes and went back to the barbecue, because it was spring, and because we could.


The next day, Polaris opened at Galleri Elf. There was a steady stream of visitors throughout the day, including a handful of folks who also work in the Polar Regions! Worlds collide! The show looked great.


After five hours of energetic small talk in Swedish (a language in which I was surprised to discover I am actually conversant), we thanked our friends at the gallery and left town. We drove immediately into the forest to grill more meat and drink beer with Jens’ family.


Never did I imagine a world in which a fine-art photography opening ends with sitting around a smoky bonfire, toasting champagne and eating barbecue, and taking a sauna with three generations of a family one has only recently met. It was one of the most enjoyable opening days I can remember, full of warmth, inclusion and low-key good times. The sunset was beautiful, too.


Then it was time to go, again, to pack bags and get on busses and planes, because time off work is scarce and you’ve got to make the most of it while you can.


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On the morning of my twenty-seventh birthday, I awoke in an empty house in a remote fjord above the Arctic Circle where no one really lived anymore. The house, having stood there for over a hundred years, was beginning to tilt, its fences rotting, its water tasting like marsh and moss and the deepest center of the earth. Outside, a herd of reindeer grazed by the seashore, the same herd that came every year and foraged in the tundra surrounding the house. Sometimes they were asleep in the yard when I awoke, their silver bodies nestled in the dewy grass. There was a fox, too, huge and red with a tail that seemed to float behind it over the dead, brown fields.

I stepped onto the porch, and the cold, clear air was alight with tiny snowflakes, glittering in the sun, like powder. I wanted spring, and growth, and for the buds on the trees to unfurl into brilliant green foliage, but the people who knew me best laughed and said that the weather was singing me happy birthday in its own, sweet way.

I stepped into the snow, barefoot and sleepy, and realized that I was not going to live here anymore. I realized that at twenty-seven, a person needs more than the company of reindeer and magpies and gulls; that the allure of places stems often from the people we share them with. When the people are gone, they take their magic with them, and you cannot spend forever dancing circles around your memories, no matter how dear they might be. It is time, I realized, for a new chapter. Something, somewhere, is waiting, and soon it will be time to go.

For now, it was a good, quiet birthday, bright and shining with this new clarity. One of the highlights was a surprise email from a reader, who read this blog back in the days when I wrote often. I’ve gotten a number of these emails over the years, personal letters of gratitude, of inspiration, that the writing helped them see the positive things in life, or encouraged them to apply to art school, or that they miss it and wish I would continue.

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And you know? I want to write more than almost anything else. Every day that I am home, I get up and write for two or three hours – but now that project is a bigger one, a different one, and it may not be finished for years, but good things take time. All the same, I have missed this blog and the effortless way the entries fall onto the keyboard, the way it helps me process and document this beautiful life. For large parts of the year, it is hard – very, very hard – to find the mental space for things like this, but I think, maybe I will give it a try, again.

I’ve got a couple weeks here, now, to (hopefully) finish a photographic project I started a few years ago, while I’m still around. After that, it will be time to go back to the Arctic, aboard ships for the summer, amidst the ice and the midnight sun and all the animals of the sea. And after that, who knows? Time will tell.

For now, I know this: that spring above the Arctic Circle is a beautiful thing, that even in the past three weeks I’ve been away, the transition to summer light has come. When I sleep, the sky is full of the bright colors of twilight, the ocean still. In the morning the sun is already high in the sky. There is a profound tranquility and comfort in these Arctic nights that you’ll never know until you feel it yourself, and now, this season is upon us.

Return, Balance

Every time, it is striking – the return, inevitable, to what could be called “civilization.” A connected world, alive with the pling of devices, the rush of traffic, the immensities of urban populations, bewildering onslaughts of urgency, humanity, values, time. For a while, I called it “real life.” I don’t use that term anymore. What is real? Who is to determine what, if anything, is any more real or valid than anything else?


I no longer have answers when people ask me where I live. I reply: I live here, now. Most often, now, here means on a ship, an expedition vessel, sailing the Arctic or the Antarctic, where I now work most of the year. These frozen seas, their vastness and their magnitude, the mountains and the ice, wildlife elusive or abundant – it comprises the world, most of the time. From our floating home we watch the polar seasons pass: the return of life with the melting of the sea ice, cycles of birth and growth, migration and desertion, the onset of cold. The sun, both summer and winter, skirts the horizon in its tightly wound circles, round and around again.

“You’ve been bitten,” a family friend remarked recently.

“I was bitten a long time ago”, I told him. “Some of us call it being bi-polar.”

It used to be – when all this was still so new – that returning, coming home, shocked me. Moving, anonymous, through airports and trains stations and crowded streets, I would stare in bewilderment at the civilization I found myself amongst. Advertising, consumerism, the whole structure of it seeming designed to constantly remind people of what they don’t have, how they are somehow not good enough. Left and right rushed suit-clad professionals with extra-large coffees and briefcases and beeping devices. Do you know what I have seen? I would think, feeling the experiences must be visible, I must be marked, somehow people must know. Don’t you realize that this isn’t real? Don’t you know what the earth is?

That feeling, of the astronaut’s return to a wayward and confused planet, may never go away, but it has balanced. The world will not change. Coming home is coming home in a way that does not confuse. I jump into taxis with confidence and walk streets like I’ve always been here. Smell flowers, shop for groceries. But inside you know it’s temporary, you know it’s building, you know we’re leaving again soon, the ships are provisioning now and people are packing their bags, we’re going, going, the sea is there, the animals are migrating, the ice is fracturing and starting to melt.

To travel in the Polar Regions is a gift, and to have arrived at a greater understanding of them imbues life with a richness of meaning and purpose. Yet these regions are so vastly, widely, misunderstood. Maybe you should write about them, someone said.

Maybe I should write about them.

It Has Been Some Time

Outside the rain pours. Wind thrashes the house and roars in trees, waves tear across the lake, stars grin hidden behind veils of clouds and, across the earth, ships pull into port. Coming home. Journeys ended, journeys begun. And so it is time to write, again, as it often has been and often will be.

Readers, it has been some time.


Often these days I see my life spread out before me as an long and unknowable journey, a vast horizon, for which my bags are only just now packed, a journey which, after all these travels, has only just begun. It is not weariness. It is a calm awareness that to truly see, to experience and learn, in this life, is to eventually understand how little one can ever know about anything, and how sweet it is that we ever thought we knew in the first place.

Readers, it has been some time, but it has not been without things worth writing about. Nearly constant adventure, whether grand or subtle, has marked these months with something comparable to fury. (Perhaps, I often think, it is the subtlest adventures, quiet and unseen, that change us the most.) I will only tell you that I have lived on the sea. To traverse cold oceans, to sail the realms that most closely encircle the poles of the earth, has become a way of life.

For a while, it was delicious to hold the experiences close, to let them go unpublished and unshared in the great flow of time, day in and day out. To sit, for example, on Antarctic mountaintops and savor the knowledge that no one knows I am here, no one, and no one needs to. But the words piled up and the pages all filled. Here I sit, now, renewed, six hundred days older, ready to write.

We shall not cease from exploration, wrote TS Eliot. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. 

And so the ships pull into port and the ships set sail again. On the other side of the world a new day has already dawned, tomorrow’s destinies already unfolding, somewhere, in the here and now. The earth turns and tides rise and fall, foliage begins to turn color towards autumn. As night falls I wash the salt from the weathered things that I own, and prepare, already, for inevitable departure.