Outfitted with oversized snow suits, balaclavas, mittens to our elbows and snowboots that don’t bend, we embrace the northern outdoors in early morning. The east has been painted by a fairy with angelic brushes of pastel blues and pinks. The day promises to be bright, but cold. A cold so cold that thoughts freeze in the air.
We make our way around the island looking for changes. The ice in one spot has broken in its pregnancy, forming a crack like jagged lightning bolts. Over there, it has forced water up and our malamute hurries to get out of the freezing crystals. He stops on the other side and vigorously bites, ridding his furry pads of ice balls.
The granite boulders of our shoreline have dollops of white, as fluffy and pristine as snow-capped mountains. We round the corner of the island, and a gust of northerly wind announces itself. A cold, so cold I fight back tears. We change directions to hide from the wind breathing clouds in the morning air. We can see the smoke from our chimney curling drifts in the sky. 
