One day, out on the sea ice, I left the protection of a temporary building and followed a bundle of electric cables out into a blizzard. The winds were gusting to 40 knots; it was –20°F. I stood for a long time with my back to the storm, peering downwind into the weak January light, fearful of being bowled over, of losing touch with the umbilical under which I had hooked a boot. Both its ends faded away in that swirling whiteness. In the 40-foot circle of visibility around me I could see only ice hummocks. I wondered what notions of “direction” a fox would have standing here, how the
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