Avery and I rode the snowmachine out on the river the other day. I suspect that we got almost to the next village before I turned around and went back because I didnt really want to get lost.As we were riding, we came across this pretty large conglomerate of fish camps on the edge of the river. They looked so rustic, so deserted, on the brink of becoming a victim of the rivers will,
So patriotic, waiting patiently for the ice to break and the river to flow, for the river to renew the life blood of the tundra and its people,
Waiting for the salmon to run and the people to come chasing them, waiting for the elders to bring their grandchildren to a place where it's easy to pass on the native ways,
Only the ghosts of winter occupying this space. I could almost picture what a bustling place this will be come summer.