North of 60 There is a mystique to the north. I had heard it in the poetry of Robert Service and seen it in the paintings of Lawren Harris, but they did not prepare me for the grandeur of the reality. It sneaks up on you, moving from dense, boreal forest, to the moasic of forest groves and  patches of stunted spruce and bog of the taiga, to the vast treeless maze of small lakes, bogs, and uplands of the tundra. Small, scattered communities retain a frontier character, some of necessity, some by design and it is hard to escape the legacy of the gold rush where even the scars of massive dredging operations have an otherworldly beauty.

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