A Picture Worth a Thousand Miles

The icy wind mercilessly hurled the snowflakes against every centimeter of his exposed skin. Through the narrow slit between his toque and scarf, Gustavo squinted at the face of his compass. It wasn’t moving. The damn thing was frozen solid, its arrow fixed north-eastward as Gustavo turned pointlessly in circles. The polar landscape stretched out interminably in every direction. The flat expanse of snow and ice beneath his feet seemed to merge with the sky of unbroken white cloud, giving the impression that he was trapped at the centre of a large sphere.

“Damnit.” He let the compass drop to the ground. All those long nights at the newspaper office, chasing after stray commas and adjusting margins. He had sacrificed so much to get himself here, to secure his chance at capturing the perfect photo. And then this stupid storm had to come along and mess everything up.

Gustavo pulled the straps of his camera pack tighter across his down-padded body. With the peninsula nowhere in sight and his equipment heavy on his back, Gustavo set off walking, he knew not where.

It wasn’t clear exactly how much time had passed. Gustavo didn’t want to lose precious heat by pushing up the sleeve of his jacket to check his watch. He couldn’t see the sun through the clouds, but the rising darkness was unmistakable—hours had passed. When he saw the glowing light on the horizon, it wasn’t relief he felt but alarm at his apparent descent into delirium. The sense of unreality only increased as Gustavo grew closer.

“The Frontiersman,” announced a weatherworn sign. “Polar Inn and Restaurant”. A cartoon polar bear wearing a red toque grinned at Gustavo beneath the words. Golden light beckoned through thick glass windows while fragrant woodsmoke billowed from the chimney. The sudden appearance of these creature comforts amidst the otherwise desolate scene filled Gustavo with childlike desperation. The hardened adventurer gave way to the schoolboy who had forgotten his mittens at recess, frostbitten nose pressed against the classroom window, waiting for the bell.

With a squeak of its hinges, the front door flew open to reveal a cheerful older woman.

“Why come in my dear, we were expecting you!”

“I- You were?” Gustavo paused.

“Oh don’t look so frightened sugarplum, I only mean we spotted you coming down the way. Not much out here to obscure the view!” The woman laughed as she gestured with a wave of her wool-clad arm for him to enter. With legs like two unfeeling stumps, Gustavo awkwardly stomped the excess snow from his boots.

"I'm sorry," Gustavo said, "but are you real?"

"You know what son," came a man's voice. He was about twice the woman's height, though dressed in a seemingly identical wool sweater. "People passing through here ask that more than you might think. It's an interesting question, really. I mean in the physical sense, sure we occupy a particular spatio-temporal position contemporaneously with one such as yourself who-"

"Oh yes dear, I'm sure you're quite right, but I don't think that's what our guest here had in mind, is it?" The woman tilted her head apologetically at Gustavo. He had the impression that this was not the first time such an exchange had occurred between these two.

"Right, of course, Claire." As if to start over, the man extended his hand toward Gustavo. "Well, Richard's the name. Welcome to The Frontiersman."

Gustavo tugged off his glove to shake the man's hand.

"Thank you, thank you. I can still hardly believe... I mean, I was out there for God knows how long and I just really thought, well..."

"Oh we understand completely, really we do. But you can forget all about that now, can't he dear?"

As she spoke, the woman turned and walked through the landing into what appeared to be the living room. The walls were wood-paneled and hung with framed photographs of the polar landscape, the couple; and smiling, rosy-cheeked adventure types posing beside ice-bergs, floes, and penguins. Gustavo looked away. A roaring woodstove occupied one corner of the room and was surrounded by four over-stuffed flannel armchairs.

Gustavo was hesitant at first, but the couple were unrelenting in their hospitality. Before long he was planted deep in an armchair with his feet stretched out toward the woodstove. He'd finished one cup of hot cocoa, then another, and now sat with a contended hand upon his belly.

"So," began the man, Richard, as he refilled the stove. "Intrepid traveler, esteemed guest, what is it that brings you out to our neck of the polar vortex?"

When Gustavo hesitated, Claire offered, kindly if improbably, "Perhaps he enjoys the hike dear."

"It's not quite that," Gustavo smiled, now thoroughly defrosted. "Actually, I'm a photographer. Or, trying to be one. That's why I'm here."

"Oh dear, well we just love photography! Don't we Richard?" Claire turned to glance at the wall behind her, covered in photographs.

It was as if a shadow passed over Gustavo’s face as he looked downward and said, more quietly now, “Yes, but not that it matters anymore. I missed my chance.” Gustavo described his long journey and his great hopes of capturing the perfect photo. “The penguins only make this dive once every five years. The peninsula is so remote that hardly anyone is able to capture it,” he sighed. “This was my chance to prove that I’m a real photographer.”

Richard and Claire listened to him tell the whole story, their expressions shifting from hopeful to sympathetic as the young man spoke.

“Well,” said Richard, “What’s most salient at hand is that you avoided the immanent peril of a polar blizzard, which is in my estimation no small feat.”

“Yes,” continued Claire. “You’re warm and safe, and what you really need is a good night’s sleep.”

“But not,” said Richard, “Before you get your mind off of this despairing track by means of some charming tabletop diversions.” The man’s meaning became clear as he rose from his seat and retrieved a stack of cardboard boxes from the bookshelf—board games! Gustavo was hesitant at first, but the couples’ evident enthusiasm at having a guest soon drew him in. Before he knew it, he’d forgotten all about the photo, the storm, and his dashed hopes.

After an hour or so of playing together, the group collectively decided that it was time to get ready bed. Claire showed Gustavo to the guestroom, with its double-bed adorned with a truly unbelievable number of multi-coloured quilts and blankets, all seemingly handmade. Before Gustavo laid down to sleep, he quietly walked to the kitchen to return his teacup. Claire and Richard were still there in the kitchen, swaying softly to an old song on the radio as the light of the inn-sign glowed softly through the frosted window. Perhaps this was the beautiful image he’d been searching for all along. If the couple heard the shutter click, they gave no sign as they continued their gentle dance. Gustavo went to bed that night knowing that it had all been worth it.