In the Land of the Midnight Sun.

The roads have been rough and winding these last few hundreds of miles, full of motorhomes, fifth-wheelers and campers on both sides. They crowd the gas stations. We're headed to Wasilla, one step closer to Sterling—on the Kenai Peninsula—and to our friend Dan, The Last Frontiersman, Kenai River guide. We stayed at his folks' place there in 2001, parked by the river. The amazing turquoise river, rich now with salmon.

But for this last night, in Wasilla, we had to find an rv park in big city traffic. I should say, I had to; Andre had all he could handle with the challenging drive. There were several state parks, but we wanted electricity, and wi-fi, if possible. There was one private rv park listed; scheduled to open in May, 2005. Then in Wasilla, while Andre was busy pumping 40.867 gallons of gas, I called; they had space, gave us directions. We arrived to find the place still very much under construction. Sorry, no water yet; no pull-throughs, either. (Later, I couldn't get the wi-fi to work.) She led us through the huge, rough gravel lot to one of four completed sites in the far corner, then tore away on her scooter. We backed up to an enchanted woodland, spared by the bulldozer.

In that spot, the radiant greens, the textured layers of woods and grasses scriven on my vision, the change from day to night—the long night of the sun low and persistent on the horizon—entranced me. First in Tok, even more in Wasilla, I became aware of taking joy in the light.

My fascinating tall shadow began to insert itself into each picture. I welcomed her. At 10 the sun began to weaken. By 11pm it might be setting. The blue light of midnight was still brighter than the fullest moon.

I was in Massachusetts, in a car headed east, when I saw the orange light of evening glowing on gray tree trunks and wanted to eat it. Wanted to fill a brush with it and put it anywhere. Realized with a quick jolt to the heart that my brothers and sisters who painted first, and acquiring labels and perhaps greatness later, were driven to find or make that color, to repeat and repeat those precise graced moments of light.

I first felt my shadow growing long in Alberta. The lingering orange patina of evening no longer took me by surprise. A vast slow glow, spread over night after night. Though I might turn to words, to paint, try to capture it, pixel by pixel, I can't begin to reveal how it feels to me. I'm busy listening to it. I'm restless. It's all new. Yet familiar: patterns of light through the blinds striping us; leaves and branches and gravel in sharp focus. The light in my eyes in the mirror. I run from image to image. And why? Inside, in the soft welcoming desert of me, I am a big shining mound of black cat. Eyes shut, langorous, too still to purr.