I woke up around 2 am this morning, the shelter bright as day, to the sound of something pitter-pattering on the walls. It wasn’t the sound of rain, but a more glancing, lighter blow. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, put on my shoes to go pee and was greeted by a world of white. A few inches of snow had fallen and more was coming down. We’re certainly not easing into this trip.

I spent the rest of the night in a fitful sleep as the pitter-patter grew stronger, the wind picked up and snow started to accumulate on the shelter walls. I’d bang the walls to knock the snow off every 30 minutes or so, and it wasn’t long before the lower opening of our shelter was sealed shut by the snow drifts, warming things considerably. By morning about eight inches of snow was on the ground, enough to take notice and make walking challenging. Today promised tough sauntering over ankle-breaking tussocks, and the prospect of doing that in shin deep snow was less than appealing. So we did what seemed natural, zipped up the sleeping bags and tucked in for a few more hours of sleep.

It doesn’t feel great taking money from the bank so early in the trip, but if there is anything we’ve learned out here, it’s the need to listen to nature and adapt plans. Plans are arbitrary out here – humans propose and nature disposes. Or, as my friend Josh said when I had trench foot a few years ago, “Be like the caribou. Go when it’s time to go. Rest when it’s time to rest.”

The very nature of our trip this year is flexible. The broad goal is to head west from the Canadian border towards the Chukchi Sea, spend at least a couple months out here and get creative with our route choice. Whether we get to the sea is to-be-determined. We’ve already done the “Brooks Range Traverse” (whatever that is) so any external pressure to do that is non-existent. Nobody cares what we do or accomplish out here anyway, and we learned long ago that if we’re in this for outside affirmation, we’re in for a bitter dissapointment. I suppose the purpose of this trip is to get a more thorough immersion in this amazing place, to be completely present, to be comfortable in this wild environment, a little less fight-or-flight, a little more here-and-now.

By noon the snow started to abate and the eight inches had settled to a more manageable 3-4 inches, so we decided to hike. We’re getting better at the game of choosing terrain here – and after close to 100 days in this mountain range we should be better – sticking more to the river beds and avoiding the sponge walking flat slopes that are slightly shorter and so much harder. Walking in the snow-covered tussocks required constant focus to protect the ankles, and the river crossings were cold, but it was all manageable.

Speaking of rivers, the water seems high this year and when this snow melts it’s going to go somewhere. This is a concerning as we have some major rivers to contend with in the next few days and weeks, but we’ll deal with that when we get there and try and make smart decisions. Patience is a virtue here and worrying about the future takes necessary focus away from the present. Of course, this is easier said than done, and because this is a journal, I’m superstitious, and this is going to be really hard, I try and write intent. The enormity of what we’re trying to do leads to worrying, and if I allow it to build I won’t last a week out here. This is my battle…to stay present, to take it as it comes.

We headed up a tussocky pass, where a small herd of caribou crossed in the opposite direction on the hillside above us, eyeing us and perhaps wondering how we could be so lumbering and slow. They’d be right to have these thoughts. If you take away human technology – our guns and machines and creations – modern humans are the most inept creatures out here. We move slowly and most of us lack the ability to truly live off the land. We’re here, but were somehow removed as well, relying on the equipment and food in our packs.

Deep thoughts for another time. It’s quiet, really quiet, the kind of quiet that echos in your head and stuns you. The senses are starting to open back up. We’re still cityfied, but I can feel the change happening. The ability to perceive, to hear, to see is necessary to live here, and the body wants to adapt quickly.

Elaine has become quite the fossil hound and we spent a lot of time picking up rocks and scouring for the ancient. I’m learning to greatly enjoy this part of our adventures, and it’s something I love about her. She’s strong as all get-up, but she makes me stop and smell the roses – or in this case see the fossils – more than I normally would do. We may not hike the fastest or cover the most miles, but that’s not our goal. We need to get where we’re going of course, but our goal is to see all the things. To see everything, one has to slow down, look around and pick things up.

It’s going to be cold tonight. We were fortunate to find a small section of non-tussocky tundra to set up camp on. There is a small creek nearby and it’s all rather cozy. A jaw bone of a caribou sits near the tent. The body feels good and the mind is surprisingly calm and quiet. It’s certainly nice not to be sick right off like I was last year. All in all a good day. Tomorrow we head to a big river, and we’ll see how that goes.