The Northern Lights aren’t real. They can’t be. I’ve looked for them in the Yukon, northern Saskatchewan, Alaska and Iceland, with no success.
At exactly 10 minutes to midnight, the wheelman and the second officer of M/V Anna Degagnés unceremoniously exchange bridge duty for the night.
Annie Anavilok, 61, takes a break from scraping fish. She rests a gloved forearm on the edge of the trough and trails her fingertips in the grey water, watching her co-workers.
On a chilly May evening outside Haines Junction, Yukon, eight hikers march down a gravel road, their rubber boots crunching purposefully over the stones.