Drifting in
a wooden ship, rucks of ice pressuring and
lifting the keel to musical heights,
with Fridtjof
Nansen and Nansen
Fugan, two exemplary men who lived eleven centuries
and
a world apart—one an explorer of the cold North, the other
of the windy Mind.
For those
few who can stop drifting in circles and set out toward the
Pole,
there is no
farthest North. They continue trekking over
the trackless tundra. I marvelled as time after time he
pulled up beside an insignificant hump in the snow and thrust his
snowknife beneath the crust to exhume a
a steel fox
trap.
I was witnessing, for the first time, two amazing processes:
an Inuk’s
navigation
over great distances of seemingly featureless terrain, and only
when they arrive
where they began, have they gone as far as a human can.