Take me back to the wild places where the mountains meet the sea, back to the last frontier back to my serenity. How long will it be until the only tracks I see are made not by man but by the animals of the forest the bears, wolves, deer and moose of Alaska. North to where time is measured not on a watch but by the ebb and flow of the tides, my wristwatch is the sun and moon, my calendar is the season. To be watched over by the ravens and eagles as they sit atop of a 800 year old perch sheltered against the squall as I silently stroll beneath across my moss carpeted living room to my bed of cedar bows. How long will it be before I am home again?

James Crawford, January 2010