between the Nakvak and the Korok: an expedition to the Torngat mountains. Hiking through the Valley of the cirques, climbing Mont d'Iberville, fishing in the Nakvak Valley, Canada, Torngat Mountains, northern Québec, trek, Nakvak, Korok, icefield, caribou trail, summit, travelogue, trip, travel, hike




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Canyons of the Heart
Part 2: An infinite variety of forever vistas

The landscape of the American Southwest is so deceptive and filled with visual surprises. Long distances between destinations on highways where you rarely see another vehicle give you hours of highway solitude, and make you glad when you finally do encounter another. The highways stretch in long straight lines, without a hill or curve. The open vista goes on seemingly forever, convincing you that it will be this way no matter how far you travel. But then you do pass over a hill or around a curve, and the landscape changes, revealing its own remarkable color palate and shapes. And this one, too, goes on seemingly forever. And then you cross over another hill, and there is a different one. An infinite variety of forever vistas.

Not only does the topography change, but the light changes, though daylight always seems to be intense. The afternoons linger through most of the day, and in the late afternoon, horizontal rays coat the rocks and sand and foliage with their own red hues. At night the infinite landscape seems to open its arms to embrace limitless space and innumerable stars.

After leaving Acoma Pueblo, we drove through Gallup, New Mexico, up to Ganado, Arizona, stopping by an old trading post (a store where traders originally bartered supplies for local products and crafts) that is still in business. The intensely cold wind hurried us through the weathered door to find warm respite inside the old wooden building. We first encountered a room with a little of everything, like a general store, on shelves behind the long counters. Adjoining was a room of Indian crafts, with beautiful bowl-shaped baskets hanging upside down from the ceiling, cases with silver and turquoise jewelry, colorful woven rugs hanging on the walls, and finely detailed pottery on shelves.

It was somehow unexpected when the young Native American women who staffed the art gallery spoke flawless English. Their ethnic identity visually is so clear, and we are used to that correlating with language differences. But here, in this part of the country we think of as ours, we are foreign. And although they speak our language, they also speak their own, as their ancestors did before ours arrived here.

Part 3: Tangled Waters

this travelogue is part of the subside travelzine
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