North of the sun.
I’ve never flown this far north.
On the moving map a rendition of our aircraft is hurtling down a steep curve, a headfirst plunge along a yellow arc linking London to the Pacific Northwest. We’ve climbed north, past Scotland and Iceland and the dark seas inbetween, peaked above Greenland and now we’re on the descent stage, polar ices still underneath us.
Except we aren’t descending, much in the same way as we haven’t been climbing. We are cruising smoothly at the same altitude, engines purring along in a distant hum. But it’s nice to think of ‘humps’, of climbing up to the Pole and all that jazz.
I take a break from the devilish combination of MS Project and Excel to take a look outside. Of all of those lands that I call “overflight countries”, Greenland is one of those I yearn to see the most. Alas it’s never happened and today isn’t the day either. We’re north of the sun and the full moon isn’t strong enough to illuminate the ice below. All I can see is the methodical pulse of the aircraft’s strobe lights and the reflection of our satellite on the flexing wing. Greenland sleeps in the perennial winter night, its secrets absconded and invisible. I sigh and promise myself to try again in the future before I return to “doing the needful”.
It mightn’t seem so, but this is a daytime flight – take-off from London happened at 14:30, arrival is scheduled for 16:30 local time – and British Airways is enlightened enough to allow passengers to keep their window shades up, unlike certain others who’ll order the hatches battened even if it’s 9AM and everyone is as alert as a meerkat. That’s why, as we cross the tormented parcel of sea sandwiched between the scrum of islands that make Canada’s northern archipelago, I sense a change coming from outside.
The sky’s no longer indigo-black. Behind us night is still queen but we’re past that, flying into an ethereal twilight zone. We are swimming in an atmosphere bluer than Neptune’s and there is enough light to glimpse, down below, a polar landscape of indescribable beauty. White ice runs in monolithic composure everywhere, fissuring here and there, smoothing out and then breaking again under the strain of unseen currents and obstacles.
I strain to look ahead, in our direction of travel (not an easy feat when facing backwards, let me tell you). We are barrelling towards a distant red glow, a band of light at the far end of the horizon. A promise of sunlight and warmth: a few hours away from us, but still months far for the lonesome tundra of Nunavut.
An hour lapses. The red glow has mutated, becoming a golden hue that fills half the sky. I guess it’s not an accident that every civilisation has, at some point, worshipped the sun. Beneath us the panorama is, too, changing. Dark spots pockmarks the ground like a black and white leopard skin. Vegetation, perhaps? But the biggest surprise is what lies in the sky, just behind our wing.
The heavens have turned purple; a band runs across them like on the flank of a marlin. Perhaps it’s the side effect of having spent hours dealing with dreary things such as plans, dependencies and budgetary forecasts, but my mind decides that it’s a last-ditch attempt from the night to lure us back in her reign. But it’s too late.
We emerge into sunlight above an airport. A road leads somewhere, perhaps to the town of Whitehorse. It’s the first sign of humans since we left Scotland. Behind us, in a dramatic reversal of roles, the night has shrunk away into a small wedge of sky. Come back, it seems to plead.
