Now the going gets tough. The St. Mark’s portion of the Florida historical trail, just off Highway 98, is difficult. The foot path is clogged with large tree roots partially submerged boulders in swamp pools and a plethora of newly fallen in small trees. I barely am able to walk 2 miles in an hour. 
On landing the air was crisp and the midnight sun was already gleaming. Minutes later I realize that my back pack, newly stuffed with food and supplies, was very heavy. Michael’s pack two was jammed with even more debilitating weight. With no alternative we pushed up a steep grade on to the unforgiving tundra just as the evening wind began to rumble.
Up, down, pant, grimace, stop, complain, and sink in the mud perhaps describe best the next three hours. We made camp on a ledge overlooking the mostly frozen Anaktuvuk River. Michael boils my requested instant noodles. He briefly philosophizes about Alaskan anthropology sufficiently stimulating my brain to send me off to my first night of tenant sleeping in Alaska’s vast tundra.