I try and allow myself to flow into the tundra around me.  I try to hone my observation skills.  Not only my eyes, but my ears; my whole body.  I try and get sensitized to the creatures and the landscape.  I have moved a long way into that world since I started.  During my first journeys, I was clunky and jittery and even the wind hurt.  Later, you come to the point when your body works well.  Somewhere during a trip, when you aren't as consumed with your own thoughts and your own fears, you begin to sense other stuff.  Things about the animals and the land.

Solitude is the deepest well that I have ever run across, in terms of returning benefits.  I imagine it would be different if solitude was forced on you.  But to choose it is to draw on a well that never goes dry.  It places a person in proper alignment, in their proper order.  It’s the impact of stepping outside with a minimum of things and a great deal of landscape around you.  A great deal of quiet.  You begin to listen to what is around you and also to what is going on inside of you. 

I like the tundra because you can see a long way.  You get shrunk to the right proportion in the expansiveness, when you are by yourself.  Especially on longer trips.  Somewhere in the middle you can't reach backward and you can't yet reach to the end.  And there you are--just in the present moment.  That is so exciting. 

It doesn't matter what your concerns have been over the past year -- they just kind of boil off over the two months.  Like maple syrup.  You get down to some pretty fundamental, beautiful moments where you just catch yourself doing something.  With no prior thought and no afterthought.  You are just caught up in making a fire, cooking dinner or just paddling.  Those are the moments that are the reason I do it.  I just love those moments. 
      - Robert Perkins, arctic paddler, author, filmmaker. From my interview of Robert thirty-odd years ago. Here’s a fun short clip from his film, Into The Great Solitude.