This was Alex's phrase when, after 140 miles of uncompacted construction rock, slick slopes of wet clay and miles and miles of gravel and mud, beaten by wind and rain, sleet and snow, we made it out of the North Slope and into the relative haven of the Brooks Range. We had stopped to add gas to his bike. What a ride! I slowly agreed with him, as I realized I was not going to freeze, none of us had yet fallen, and that the scenery in the valley, lakes along the bottom land and fog covering the peaks, was amazing. The challenge of riding the greasy roads over the Pass still remained. But the rain had stopped, the road was known, and we were more than half way to Coldfoot. Reluctantly, after he kidded me that I had not stopped once along the way, except to add more clothing, I started taking pictures again. It was only later I found out that he had been a Green Beret and living through situations like this was all part of a day's work.

We began the day with a huge breakfast (they feed you well in these remote camps) and boarded the bus to travel through the secure oil drilling zone and out to the shores of the Arctic Ocean . We were joined by a French couple, doing Arctic tourism, whose next stop was Point Barrow. The tall oil rigs with their tanks and housing blocks formed dark islands across the gray tundra and wetlands, linked by pipelines for oil and gas.   Loons, Canada geese and even some swans swam in the small lakes. Every now and then a plover would cut across us. The Ocean was freezing, and ice floated a few yards from the shore. No polar bears. No-one talked of a reduction in flow, and a new feeder pipeline had just been completed from a newly drilled well. The colors were all pale greys and light browns melting into fog and a soft white sky. Very different, this new ocean. No waves. No current. Just lapping at the shore like a lake.