In the deep twilight when snow covered shrubs look like ghosts, and wandering deer look like monsters, beyond the cities and the farmlands, the farthest regions of Minnesota forests, and to the Canadian Arctic, nothing seems to appear in its right perspective; everything is too large, too tall, too wild, too ugly, too far, too near, too fierce, thus one never sleeps at ease in the wild of winter nights in the land of gray strangeness, in the land of the forbidding. When the northern lights appear, never are they the same, they, like the cold forest wavers and shimmers like the crossbones on a black flagged ship at sea. The Inuit's know the land and its old legends. Its ghosts, death, for death is common in this place, should you make the wrong, move, turn, step, choice, you must live with its results.

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