Shot taken in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, Canada. In the Arctic, for several weeks during the winter months, the sun never actually rises but only appears just beneath the horizon. The daylight consists of these sunrises/sunsets where the clouds are lit up from below for about two to four hours. It’s the only brightness you get so it’s a riveting spectacle.
For a bunch of years I was a camp cook in extremely remote locations. When the discovery of diamonds in the Arctic prompted a modern-day gold rush I decided to go. In one camp operated by DeBeers, employees were required to sign confidentiality waivers. This camp was the furthest north I got, which was a 20-minute helicopter ride to the Beaufort Sea.
The tent shacks are erected in a straight line. In “winter”, a thick rope must be slung between them, otherwise one can easily get lost, the storms can be that extreme. When there’s a whiteout, you exit one shack, grab the rope, and feel your way to the next tent shack.
Reindeer Moss on Granite by Margaret Atwood
This is a tiny language,
smaller than Gallic;
when you have your boots on
you scarcely see it.
A dry scorched dialect
with many words for holding on,
and with grey branches
like an old tree’s, brittle and leafless.
In the rain they go leathery,
then sly, like rubber.
They send up their little mouths
on stems, red-lipped and round,
each one pronouncing the same syllable,
o, o, o, like the dumbfounded
eyes of minnows.
Thousands of spores, of rumours
infiltrating the fissures,
moving unnoticed into
the ponderous is of the boulder,
breaking down rock.