NORTH
I stumbled out of the tent on to the grass for my middle of the night nature break. We were camped next to the Aichilik River, a beautiful, wild, braided flow that emptied into the Arctic Ocean, 30 miles to the north. Above the river was the full disk of the sun, a finger breadth or so, about two degrees, above the northern horizon, its light’s shimmering on the water. Two weeks from the solstice, and the midnight Sun was right where it should be at 69 N.: two degrees north of the Arctic Circle, two degrees above the northern horizon. Above the Arctic Circle in June, it’s daylight all night, and the Sun circles the sky.
I’m Up North. For me, north is my favorite direction, along with upstream, uphill, beyond the wilderness boundary. There is north, and there is Up North, a special construct in my world, sometimes referred to as “God’s country.” Minnesota outdoor writer Sam Cook wrote, “Up North is a map on the wall, a dream in the making, a tugging at one’s soul.” Sig Olson referred to it as “beyond steel, and roads and towns, where they will find release.” “They” is defined below.
My Up North is coming around a corner of Obsidian Trail in the volcanic area and seeing Middle Sister suddenly fill my vision. It is big water of Agnes Lake in the Quetico, stretching as far as I can see, open horizons that Olson wrote about, remembering head winds, rain, snow and the beautiful campsites on the Canadian Shield. Up North is seeing Mt. Adams from Timberline Trail; behind Upper Trestle Falls; the tors, granite poking through the ground, in Serpentine Hot Springs on the Seward Peninsula. It’s standing hanging to a tree at the top of Lowder Mountain, looking down at Karl and Ruth Lakes. It’s the vastness of Drain Creek Valley in the Refuge; the incredible view of the forests below Diamond Peak, seen from Hemlock Butte. It’s a hermit thrush in camp or being so high one can look down upon a golden eagle in flight. It’s autumn where the trees have more colors than just yellow, seeing the lake ahead when the portage is almost over, the primal feeling when you hear rumbling of thunder at night when camped in the wilderness. It’s Virginia Falls on the Nahanni.
All was well. It was normal nighttime cold, which always struck me odd with the sun out. We would hike on aufeis later that morning, frozen water that expanded out of the riverbed, providing a decent highway for hiking on the North Slope in June. We’d likely cross the river a few times. Wet feet are a given up here. If you were lucky, that’s all that got wet. That’s part of Up North. Wetness. It’s difficult, but it wouldn’t be Up North without it.
Up North is paddling the Yukon River into the vastness of Lake Laberge that Robert Service memorialized in “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” It’s understanding that “sweat and toil, hunger and thirst, and the fierce satisfaction that comes only with hardship” are why some of us —“they”—go.Olson didn’t add soaking wet, which I would be in 2 days, when we hiked in pouring rain, seven of us piling into a small cook tent for lunch where we had hot soup and briefly forgot how wet we were. The sun came out that afternoon. Up North is the feel of the warm sun on your soaking wet body, watching everything dry while you drink something hot. Up North is a solitary, haunting loon call down the lake.
See you on the trail. May you find your own Up North.
“Up North is a map on the wall, a dream in the making, a tugging at one’s soul. For those who feel the tug, make the dream happen, put the map in the packsack and go, the world is never quite the same. We have been Up North. And part of us always will be.” (Sam Cook)
Middle Sister from Obsidian Loop Trail
Open Horizons from Agnes Lake, 2005, my last time there.
Tors, granite poking through the ground, Serpentine Hot Springs, Alaska, 2016
Karl and Ruth Lake, Three Sisters Wilderness, Oregon, 2014
Caribou on aufeis, Aichilik River, Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, 2009.
Boreal B[l]og 
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