July 24, 2025
Position: Approaching 70°N Latitude, Arctic Ocean
The time is 7:15 a.m. We have 10 knots of wind and are sailing at 6 knots—stretching out the quiet for as long as possible as the wind gently fades. The sky has finally opened up. A golden-orange sunrise spills across the horizon. Massive clouds, lit in blazing amber and seem to rise straight from the ocean.
Roughly 24 hours ago, we crossed into the Arctic Circle. And today will reach 70 degrees north—two momentous milestones that I can hardly believe are real.
I know this isn’t the most dangerous or difficult part of the journey, those challenges still lie ahead in the unpredictable ice and shifting seas. But this morning feels extraordinary.
The boat is silent. Most of the crew is asleep. It’s just Mark and me on watch. He’s sitting at the helm, smiling as he looks out at the water. I imagine he’s feeling a little nostalgic. I haven’t finished my coffee, I’ve been too captivated by our surroundings. It’s glorious here, especially after days of traveling through a monochrome palette of fifty shades of gray.
Thick-billed Murre’s dart playfully by our bow. They’ve been keeping us company since we passed the Diomede Islands.
I’m in the Arctic Circle, a dream realized and I still can’t quite find the words to express what that means to me.
The wind has just petered out. Time to start the engine. Neither of us wants to break the silence, but we know we must. Still, we linger just a moment longer in the stillness, in the solitude, in the spellbinding light of the endless sunrise.
We are approximately 200 nautical miles from Utqiaġvik, the northernmost point of the United States. It's surreal. We’ve come so far. I think back to our chaotic departure from Anacortes. We were so frantic when we left, I can imagine a hairpin spinning in the air behind us, like the cartoons.
This morning, my thoughts return to Nome. We spent two unexpected weeks there, waiting for northern ice to melt before we could continue our passage. When we first arrived in Nome, I was skeptical. The marina was a hive of industrial homemade gold dredgers, and the town—seen in the early light as we searched for breakfast—looked dusty, rundown, and unfriendly.
But I was wrong.
That very next day, we found ourselves in the front row for the 4th of July parade, enveloped in celebration. The townspeople were welcoming, curious, and open. The camaraderie was infectious. Our education tent drew interest, questions, and encouragement.
We met Thomas, a retired engineer turned gold dredger, who quickly became a friend. He offered his home for laundry and lent us an old pickup for errands and adventures. He, Mike and Mark bonded instantly, diving into animated conversations about engineering challenges and dredging ingenuity. It became clear that the real joy of gold dredging isn’t just the search for gold—it’s the fixing, building, and tinkering.
Each night, the miners returned from Norton Sound, cold, wet, and tired, but never too tired to stop by One Ocean to say hello, and share their stories and their finds.
We met Logan and McKenzie, local doctors who serve the most remote villages in Alaska. They welcomed us into their home and into their lives. When Mark learned his beloved German Shepherd, Rex, had passed away, Logan’s offer to spend time with their dogs was a gift of healing.
Tess made a local friend, Meghann, who whisked her off dancing at the Arctic Native Brotherhood Club and later invited her to prepare and dry salmon on drying racks with her family.
Jacqueline, an Assistant Professor at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, a Reindeer expert and incredible tour guide that took the time to bring the crew on a Muskox tour.
We were gifted with visits from locals who offered cornbread, salmon, crab and their stories. Children ran up and down the docks squealing in delight when they caught a fish and dangled them from the line for us to admire.
Nome's museum taught of it's rich history of how to rebuild and to carry on. Nome, it turned out, was exactly what we needed. A pause. A breath. A soft place to land after the chaotic departure and the heavy grief of losing my best friend to cancer. For the first time in months, I felt the fog begin to lift.
As we prepared to leave, I walked the docks and smiled at our stickers now gracing many of the dredgers - support from our new friends. I felt a pang of sadness not being able to say goodbye to everyone.
No, I didn’t find gold in Nome. But I found something far more valuable: the reminder that people—across every latitude and background—are inherently good. That connection, kindness, and community still thrive, even in the most unexpected places.
Thank you, Nome. You were a treasure.