One hundred and sixty miles from the nearest village and all I could think about was oatmeal. It had been four days and 35 miles of tundra since the plane, quivering in the shadow of the earth’s serrated teeth, had fallen from the sky and bounced across the spongy hummocks of Alaska’s Brooks Range. Once it had lurched to a stop, the five others and I disembarked onto the desolate tundra, our boots squelching as they sunk into the water laden ground 150 miles above the Arctic Circle. Then we watched as the small plane gained speed and climbed back into the ashen sky, its prop wash tearing leaves from the coarse shrubbery, raining down a plume of debris. The drone of the engine faded and we were alone. Now, as I faced the narrow valley, the North wind funneled down, carrying with it smells of freshly thawed snow and decaying groundcover, and whispering quietly in my ear a warning of an impending storm. As we hurried to set up camp, the wind ceased to whisper, deciding instead to howl. In our rush to fortify ourselves, stacking rocks against the tents to anchor them against the violent assailant, our procession…show more content… While others fetched bottles, pots, and dry bags to fill at the river, I couldn’t help but sense that there was a more efficient way to gather water. When my bleary eyes, watery from the stinging wind, settled on the damp earth near the west side of the ledge, I knew how to help. The wind clawed with icy fingers at the heat contained within my jacket, but I was not deterred; the thrill of the challenge had already filled me with a greater warmth. Rocks bounced and exploded in shards of grey as they tumbled down the sheer face of the gorge. They fell in much the same manner my mother envisioned my nine-year-old body would, should I lose my balance, and she called to me, during a pause in the wind’s onslaught, to be
