Just sat on the shore and absorbed the ice wall, the grandeur of the place – it seemed like a giant theatre with the sound of birds and moving water circling around and above in the swirling shafts of light and he thought that even with all its beauty this was not a place to live. To spend time.

No firewood, really. Just rocks. And while he had passed some streams coming into the fjord they did not have shore-beaches, even stands of gravel and small rocks, but were mostly waterfalls or springs. Not useful places to set up a camp.

So he would leave this place. As he had left others. He would take slow pleasure and ride the tidal currents out of the fjord, back out into the bay of whales and move north again.

But for now . . .

Just for this, his own personal now, just for this bit of time, he would be in this place, of this place and take the beauty of this place into him.

Just for now . . .

And, maybe, the dream . . .

Dream Story

His trip north had become a movement through worlds. Some of them were harsh, even deadly, and some of them were gentle, even beautiful. He now moved into a time that he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

After a few days he left the ice wall – timing his departure to leave just after a large piece fell off into the sea – and moved fast, paddling, digging into the water hard to move quickly with the outward-flowing tidal current to get well clear of any pressure waves that might follow another thunder-drop of ice.

None came and the weather, which had varied between misty rains and sometimes – often – thick fogs, turned spectacular. The sun shone clearly day after long day, drying everything out, warming Leif down into his bones and he sat without paddling for long periods, just riding the flowing water, working on his story board while the canoe drifted with the current.

He chanced upon a small gravel beach with a stream flowing across it and there was dead wood for a fire so he stopped. There was no bear scat – now the first thing he looked for at any stop – so he set up camp, took ten salmon out of the stream, and set to smoking meat.

Again, it was like he had come home. All of it seemed as home, and with the fire and smoking meat racks and berries that he found it was a home with comforts.

He made hot stew with fish heads and skeletons, flavoured with a bit of salt water, and relaxed into periods of deep sleep. The sleep was timed – along with ravens he was now followed by truly brazen gulls – so he awakened in spots to keep the smoke going, but when he went down, into it, he slept hard.

And dreamed . . .