Nunaga [antikvár]

North Toward the Winter WindTwenty minutes north of the mouth of the River of Strangers, and past the bleak settlement the whiteman calls Churchill, the plane passed over the last few stunted trees, and we entered the Barren Grounds. Below us swept a filigree of wind-scudded lakes and naked land, so intermeshed that it was difficult to know whether we were crossing a vast lake clotted with innumerable islands or a vast land clotted with innumerable lakes. On that autumn afternoon a haze lay over the land, even in the sunlight. Except for a narrow ruff of cloud around the horizon the sky was clear and blue.The plane pitched and tossed in the wind. Inside it was cool but not too uncomfortable now that the engine heat was warming up the cockpit. I took off my moccasin rubbers and flexed my toes, grateful for the stream of warm air that flowed around my feet. The pilot raised his eyes from the map spread out on his lap and glanced at me.'Cold?''Not too bad now,' I answered, raising my voice against the noisy engine.He grinned. 'The old Anson takes a while to warm up. They're not built for comfort But if you think this is cold just wait until winter comes.'The radio crackled and the pilot reached forward to adjust a knob, then began speaking into the microphone. The steady thunder of the engine drowned his voice and I turned my attention to the land.