Life moves quickly up here. Or, rather, life goes at exactly the pace it should and I am the one who is new to the neighborhood. I grew up in the middle of North America, where each season feels distinct and lasts one quarter of the year. Here in my first season of everything above the Arctic circle, if I tried to make expectations of time I would get wistful over what has already passed.
I suppose somebody has decided when some official date of autumn is, but I suspect that nature doesn’t care too much. Smells are softening and hanging in my nose long after I come home from an adventure. Bogs are refilling with water and the streams are running faster. The air feels more tangible. And, hey, the sun sets again.
Marie and I are filling our last week on Kjerringøy with preparations for our next step. Part of that is honoring where we’ve been by taking goodbye tours. Another part is exploring a few more mountain ridges and lakes before. Important for us is to avoid feeling like we’re ticking items off a list (or “stamp collecting” as I tend to call it). Grey days are great days, and so are stormy ones. Perhaps we’ll even make an excuse to light the woodstove once again before we take off.