The Fantasy of the Arctic

Photo by Moyan Brenn
by Katy Kelleher
“Go West, young man” is an old adage, one that speaks to that particularly American dream of endless opportunity and infinite space. But I’ve never felt the pull to go west. No, when my mind is taken by daydreams and my wanderlust rears its unruly head, I don’t hear the whispery summon of surf and sand. I hear the crash of icebergs, the muffled sound of snow falling, and the sweet crunch of ice underfoot. I hear the call of the north.
I’m not sure whether this comes from being raised in snowy (yet hardly magical) Massachusetts, though I doubt it. I think i...