arctic - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The artic summer is here and the flowers of the tundra bloom as far as the eye can see. They come to greet the warmer air after so long slumbering in ice. And with them comes the life, the animals who can fill their stomachs and thrive while their petals are present, natures flags to flutter in any wind.
There is nowhere on earth I feel the miracle of life stronger than the arctic. To be of warm flesh and bone amid the swirling white is like being a splash of ink from the heavens, a mere dot in the diary of mankind. We are dust brought into being by love alone and without it we'd be better off as dust. So like a fool I take the scarf from my face to whoop into the wind, feeling the sting of the cold, but not enough to make me regret it. In this place so stark for the winter, being alive feels awesome.
The arctic was a grassy tundra just weeks ago, tenacious life springing into the cold air. There is no longer any colour, only white, a giant blank page. The knowledge that precious flower and grass seeds sleep beneath the thick blanket, waiting for the long dark winter pass, is what I need to keep going. Though the night seems never ending and the bitterness bites harder with every passing hour, each one is a step closer to the return of the tundra. Until then I have a job to do, and I will do it to the best of my ability.
In the arctic winter there is nothing to hold the mind, no familiar thing, no comfort. Yet knowing that there is soil below and a brilliant sun in the sky above is medicine to me. I feel the wind, touch my fingers to the breathtaking crystals, close my eyes to take in the perfect aroma of cleanliness. There is no place on earth like this and to be here is a privilege few will experience.
For some the arctic in winter is barren, but it is barren in the same way a fresh page is white. To look out on the brilliant white is a shot of adrenaline I can never get enough of. The winter will be dark, it will be bitter and there will be problems ahead; but I was never one to back out of a challenge, especially when there was a possibility of getting a great result. This experiment is going to knock their socks off back in London, I just know it.
In this brittle air even my hope shatters. I am lost in the swirling white flakes on absolutely white ground. There is nothing to guide me back toward base. Even the comm-link to my only life-line, our ice-rescue team has become victim to a coldness that could even steal the heat from an ice-cube. Despite the latest in thermal technology my limbs are becoming still with the cold and I know that if I don't find my way back soon I will likely remain here until the weather warms and my body is left to thaw on the tundra. This opportunity of a lifetime may cost me mine. I would say my farewells out loud but they would simply be stolen by the howl that is the wind. This place can be so hauntingly beautiful, but it is also unforgiving and cruel. I have maybe twenty minutes before my body starts the shaking, after that I will be swallowed into unconsciousness.
Off to my left, in that vast bowl of stillness that contains the meandering river, tens of square miles of tundra browns and sedge meadow greens seems to snap before me, as immediate as the pages of my notebook, because of unscattered light in the dustless air. The land seems guileless. Creatures down there take a few steps, then pause and gaze about. Two sandhill cranes stand still by the river. Three Peary caribou, slightly built and the silver color of the moon, browse a cutbank in that restive way of deer. Tundra melt ponds, their dark blue waters oblique to the sun stand out boldly in the plain. In the center of the large ponds, beneath the surface of the water. gleam cores of aquamarine ice, like the constricted heart of winter.
The arctic winter is getting to me. Summer was cool and short, now there is only the endless cold and the dark. The sun barely rises at all and when it does the snow reflects it away. It gives me no warmth and no comfort. Sometimes it does not rise at all and I am left here in perpetual night. Just me and my thoughts, churning, repeating, paranoid, neurotic. The temperature outside is below minus fifty celsius and the rampaging wind whips the snow into the air, which even with goggles on it's blinding and stings any skin it can reach. I'd leave here right now if I could, but I'm on a contract to take scientific measurements. This was my dream job, it's what I studied for, now I can't wait to be back in a cosy laboratory with a cosy teaching contract at any university at all.
In that wasteland of white there was nothing for their minds to hang onto. There was no familiar sight, no sound other than the howling, even the light they needed to warm them was instead blinding and no match for the wind. Only the hearts beating in their chests stopped them from becoming as frozen as the landscape. When Lucy whirled around to at least see the tracks they had made, there were none. The only way to navigate was by the sun and in only a few hours it would sink below the horizon, leaving them shivering under the stars.