by aramatzne@gmail.com | 30 Oct 2023 | Roads Taken
Longyearbyen
Photos of houses and buildings that aren’t falling into the ground are not my specialty, but it seems incomplete to give the impression that there are no people or infrastructure in Svalbard. This is a company town transitioning into a tourist destination. The coal industry is being consciously closed as the government introduces its green sustainability agenda and levies the draw of the north for those who recognize its rapid decline.
The town is nestled in a valley (read never gets sun even when the sun never sets). The north end of town touches the fjord. To the east and west are high plateaus that climb straight from town, level out, and hold the town between their arms. Uphill, to the south, is a glacier. This confuses me almost daily. I expect glaciers to the north, and going south always feels like downhill, according to Ents, so this is a double cross of my wiring.
Housing is mostly company-owned, apartments and row houses in bright colors are nestled below the avalanche fences on the east side of town and the now-derelict coal shuttle structures. Across town and the river, the church takes the high ground. Although it, too, is in a high-risk avalanche zone, no fence has been built above the church yet. Walking into town from the south, you walk toward the fjord, toward another mountain through the ubiquitous street lights – my arch nemesis the world ’round.
The tradition in town is to take off your shoes and hang up your coat when entering many public places, including the library, where I often work. Like kids everywhere, the after-school crowd rarely remembers the “hang up your coat” part. It makes me laugh every day.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 2 Oct 2023 | Musing
The view from here
I’ve been working in the Longyearbyen library almost every day. I stand at the windows facing southeast. When I first arrived at the beginning of September, the morning sun poured through the window, soaking and warming me with light. And then, last week, I realized the sun moved behind the mountain before its light fell through the library windows.
These four photos were taken at 0916 on the mornings of 18, 21, 25, and 26 September. In a week’s time, the sun slipped below the ridge and out of view. It still rides the horizon behind the mountains, and in 25 days, it will drop below the sea, not to return for four months.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 4 Sep 2023 | Roads Taken
Cocktail hour under the red sails
The red sails are a tourist gimmick, but the effect is stunning when fog slides around the icebergs creating a shroud of mystery.
The football pitch
Local kids practice their soccer moves on the Astroturf while Disko Bay icebergs, staunch supporters, look on.
Why it’s called ‘Greenland’
Oddly, it’s not called Greenland because of the intensely lush vegetation or the neon mosses of Disko Island. Rather, it was named Greenland as a ruse to encourage Viking settlement. Like many places, it had a name before it was ‘discovered’ by Europeans. The original name reflects the native connection to the land; Kallaalit Nunaat means “land of the people.” From the rich mosses to the columnar basalt and city block-sized icebergs, Greenland is stunning.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 12 Jun 2023 | Roads Taken
Looking west
The view from Round Mountain to the west includes the town of Round Mountain and its range of protective mountains.
Tailing tales
The view east from the town of Round Mountain is not of Round Mountain any longer but of its remains. In extreme mountaintop removal, gold was extracted in flakes and nuggets, and the mountain was moved, grain by grain, to the valley. The neatly stacked tailings contrast with the geologic structure of the flanking mountains, snow still clinging to the upper crevices.
Down the road
Another mine is relandscaping a different piece of real estate. Rolling slopes and gentle peaks have become unscalable walls and plateaus upon plateaus.
Earth-moving
Can the mountains survive when earth-moving trucks come on tires twice the size of pick-up trucks? Has anyone asked for mountaintop approval?
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 15 May 2023 | Musing
Twenty years from now…
Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowline. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
**H. Jackson Brown, Jr. (often misattributed to Mark Twain)
This year, 2023
I am once again throwing off the bowline and going north. Two weeks of sailing on Greenland’s west coast, similar to the Svalbard residency in 2018, with a smaller sailing vessel and fewer people – many of them from the Arctic Circle. Illulisat and Disko Bay are the area of exploration. Then, a week in Iceland with a dear old friend to share the northern calling and expand horizons.
Finally, in early September, I return to Svalbard. I will stay through the final sunset of 2023. On 26 October, after a day with one hour, thirty-five minutes, and twenty-five seconds of sunlight, the sun will set and not rise again until 16 February 2024.
I experienced 24-hour daylight in Alaska —the long, hyper-stimulating days, the sun circling the horizon, never dipping below its edge. Now, it’s time to try the flip side. The moon will be my ally, the stars and northern lights companions.
I’ve flown over Greenland many times on the way to and from Europe (photos from 2009) – always looking down and saying to myself, someday, I will be there. This time, I’m catching the trade winds to weave among the icebergs. A new road with no asphalt and no driving. I hope you’ll sail along.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 1 May 2023 | Musing, Roads Taken
21 April 2023 camp, XXX Wild and Scenic River
Gorgeous blue New Mexico day. Blustery winds, high river, mud red as it flows below the height of Wall on the northeast side of camp. We put in on Wednesday, unloading gear, pumping up rafts and inflatable kayaks. Loading gear and tying down water, toilet, dry bags, coolers, food. And off, high snowmelt, high wind, blue sky. Herons and ducks, vultures, red rock, bluffs, and walls climbing from the river to the mesas above. Ponderosas, juniper, piñon, slot canyons, side canyons, water always flowing. The first night, a late partial solar eclipse somewhere, and in the morning, I climbed the wall to find the sun before anyone else awoke. I could see across rows of mesa cliffs and upriver, along the canyon above the rapids where we would start the day’s float. A ponderosa eked out an existence on a boulder, mid-river, at the head of the rapids. Water, rock, tree mark time: eternal river time, canyon time, life time.
Tear down camp, load gear, lock it down, move on, another day’s float. Below the walls of red and ochre, tuff or sandstone, blue sky, green ponderosas, and the faint hint of spring among the willows, the sun strong and brilliant, the air cold and the wind biting. Tailwind, headwind, river turn, no wind, headwind, river bend, tailwind. Rapids, rocks, high water snow melt, cold water biting through sun.
Dead elk, antler standing true against river boulder, waves breaking and flowing over the skull, parted by the forehead, rounded above the boulder by the rib cage no longer full of life, full of breath. Canada geese shifting along the bank, starting, flying, swimming, laying their long necks into a kinked line, thinking themselves invisible. Geese with downy nests in open rock crevices above the water, brooding alcoves like so many bees in honeycomb. Cliff walls full of cliff swallow nests. Globes of mud and spit held together against the rock, entry tunnels extending out, open to returning parents.
The accompanying dog running on the bank, climbing aboard a kayak, jumping off again, running the islands, swimming the channels, shaking out on the next beach to be picked up, and packed along again. Once running to the tip of an island only to startle a goose off its nest flush with the grasses, flushed from the grasses, eggs uncovered, dog disinterested, into the water for the next kayak stop pickup.
Rafts swirling forward, backward, around, flowing with the current, working against the wind, with the wind, in no wind, the water moving on, no time to waste, no time to pause. So much sky, so many walls, so many ponderosas. Layers of clothing on, layers off. Sun, wind, no sun, too much wind. Jacket on, hat off, gloves, socks, wind jacket, no jacket. The endless string of pieces shed, and pieces returned to their appropriate body parts. Lunch stop, sun, no wind, rest, warm, eat, laugh. Push off, float, float, float again farther. Hold the water, an impossible task, follow the course, fill your space, fill your soul with red mud water, blue sky, ochre and red walls, green ponderosas. Flow on, flow on.
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