There were stars and aurora that night too, around sunset and after supper. We all stood around on deck with our heads craned back staring at the sky and pointing to different parts of it, and exclaiming. We moved the ship around a corner from the active front of the glacier – there was a LOT of ice moving away down the fjord and towards the sea. One did hit the ship, but it was more like a zodiac bumping the hull than a Titanic kind of experience.

The following morning we set two groups ashore, but one of the participants wanted to collect big pieces of ice, really clear ice, to photograph things through, and another wanted little pieces to form into temporary jewellery and photograph people wearing it, and I went with them. We set off, with the 3^rd mate driving, looking for the clearest pieces of ice. The woman who wanted small pieces was extremely enthusiastic, and I felt like I should be sitting on her legs or holding her belt to keep her in the boat. I helped grab little pieces. The person looking for big pieces needed help getting them into the zodiac – they were oddly shaped, and had some places you could cradle your hands under, but impossible to get a grip on.

We got two really big bits, and a bag full of smaller pieces, and returned triumphant to the ship to realize we had no easy way to get the big ice up out of the zodiac. The mate decided to use the winch that lifted the zodiacs aboard, and successfully lashed one big ice big up in ropes and lifted it out. The second had no places for rope to go, so we ended up using a net, and hauling it onboard like fish. Once aboard, they were skidding about the deck endangering people, so we lashed it to the pinrail that goes around the base of the mast and holds all the ropes that raise the sails.

Around lunch we headed out of Woodfjorden, sneaking out sideways to the west between some more islands. We ghosted south, under power with one sail up to minimize rolling. We passed Magdalenafjorden, and seven glaciers, numbered and named One through Seven. We were counting down, and once we passed One, we turned east into Kongsfjorden towards Ny-Ålesund. Ny-Ålesund was once a mining town, but when mining was closed down because of mine safety (or lack thereof) it was maintained instead as a research station. Areas of research are atmosphere, birds, some cold water oceanography and some cold weather survival stuff. I’m pretty there’s a fair amount of discreet spying as well, but we don’t talk about that. NASA has a presence, as do several other nations’ research arms. It reminded me of Woods Hole, but colder and smaller – the year round population is about 40, and it swells into the low hundreds in the summer. We were welcomed by the harbormaster, and invited ashore. The town is small, and all the doors are unlocked because of polar bears (if you see one, you walk to the nearest door and walk in, it is local protocol). There is a museum of local history, open 24 hours a day, and a store, open by appointment, and a bunch of places we were not allowed to go. I was so delighted by the idea of a midnight museum that when we were allowed ashore, that was my destination.

There was some discussion before we got to Ny Alesund about phone etiquette – both the dissemination of information from those who kept their phones on (most people didn’t want to know anything, “unless Trump has died” piped up one person and the consensus was yes, that was the only piece of outside information anyone wanted) and also the use of phones at all. All wifi and bluetooth had to be turned off because it is a radio silence location, so we relied on cell service if we didn’t turn on airplane mode.

I found the tiny museum, and had a nice time working my way through it. People in general have only come to Svalbard for extractive purposes – whaling, then seal, walrus and polar bear hunting, then coal mining, and now tourists. Oddly, aside from the hunting, all the extractive industries were heavily underwritten by assorted governments that seemed to feel a presence in the high Arctic gave them some kind of bargaining advantage. Ny-Ålesund is no different, having been developed specifically for mining coal. Because the coal mined is older and thus deeper than the coal near Longyearbyen, the hazards were worse, and the casualties much higher. The museum explained this in more elliptical terms, alluding to government intervention and government support for miners and government incentives for miners, and now researchers, to work there and bring their families to make it more permanent and more town-like.

The following day everyone went ashore for a leg stretch and some serious shopping. Ny-Ålesund, at 79° north, has the highest latitude post office, gift shop and candy store. Having been on the ship for a week and a half, everyone wanted candy. Most people also wanted postcards and stamps, and several people wanted something from the store. It must have been an extremely profitable hour for them!

Going back to the ship I stopped to admire a weird rock that had almost caves carved into it by the sea (it was a very lumpy conglomerate, delightful!) and was encouraged to try a swim. I knew I wanted to try it once in the far north, and this was a beach (with bits of ice grounded off it) so I could walk in rather than having to gather courage to jump in off the ship. So I peeled down to my underwear and waded in, telling myself “don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop” all the way in. I got neck deep, and swished about for a moment, and then came back out. Weirdly, I was more distracted by exactly how cold my bare feet were in the sand and what clothes to put onto my sopping wet body than by how cold the water had been. I finally got organized and figured out what to wear and what to carry and went back to the ship feeling powerful. Not entirely sane? But definitely powerful. Sarah said that a hot shower after a cold swim essentially negated all the effects, so I dried off and got dry warm clothes on but stayed salty for the rest of the day. I know I was salty because I licked my arm after lunch and I could still taste the sea.

We got a salute from the harbor master’s cannon as we left, which made everyone jump and shriek, and we were off again, to the last parts of the trip.

Heading out of Kongsfjorden, we stopped at the northernmost tip of Prins Karls Forland, a long narrow island that runs up the western side of Spitzbergen. It was astonishingly green? It was mostly moss (I spent some time face down in it, admiring the tiny flowers) but more green than we’d seen for our entire time in Svalbard. We saw reindeer and ptarmigan while we were there, and hiked across the width of the point, past one of the actual lighthouses (I could touch the top if I stood on tiptoe) and looked out west across the vast Atlantic. There was nothing between us and Greenland. We watched the sun set, and the full moon rose, and we waited as dusk came down.

Once we were back on the ship, we worked our way south between Prins Karls Forland and Svalbard – a tricky navigational process with one piece of very shallow water that almost completely blocked the passage. As we went along the moon rose further, and was reflected, with the stars, in the still ocean. There were brief aurora, but the moon outshone them. We travelled through the night, and, poetically, ended up in the same place we first anchored, Ymerbukta. It looked entirely different – no one believed Sarah that it was the same – but the charts and the captain agreed with her, so eventually we did as well.

Nearly everyone went ashore, in part because we could go right up to the glacier in ways we had not been able to do with those that ended in the ocean. This one was grounded and melting back, and much more stable. Some people went on a long walk up along the side of it, the rest of us stayed down closer to the base at sea level. I tried to leave a hand print on it, but failed. I think I did leave a butt print on it – I just lay on it for a while, and then sat up and thought about glaciers until my butt froze. Then I went and looked at all the weird shapes that melting ice makes in the landscape. A fresh moraine is a wild and scrambled terrain, nowhere near as neat as geology texts make it seem. Later I went with some people in the quiet photography zodiac, going along the front of the glacier as close as we could. The metric is to hold out your arm and hold up three fingers stacked, horizontally, and if the glacier is hidden by your stacked three fingers you are probably far enough away. As the glacier gets taller, you stay further away. We stayed a safe distance away, and alternately motored and glided along in silence. A harbor seal was deeply curious and followed us for a bit.

That was our last night on the ship, and it was raucous. There was drinking, a disco ball (one of the stewards had been hiding it in his room) and endless talk of what we might do together next, how to keep in touch, what it was going to feel like being done with this adventure. I finally bailed around midnight.

I woke up around 4 when we started getting the anchor up. The moon was so bright I could see both the moonlight through the porthole making a circle on the wall, and reflections of the moonlight off the water making a long wavery streak on the overhead. I watched it shift directions as we headed out, and then finally I got up around 4:30, when we were underway. We were going directly away from the big full moon, the reflection of it wavering in the wake.

We pulled into Longyearbyen about 8am. My friend Captain Peg was there to meet us, and got a very quick tour of the ship, and then she went off on her own adventures while we organized ourselves and our baggage ashore. The non-sailors were surprised at how much they loved the ship herself, and the crew who had taken such good care of us. Everyone cried, a little. Sarah gave a short speech, and we went ashore for the last time.

I know I will go back to Svalbard again. I have not seen it in summer, with the flocks of breeding birds, I have not seen the full dark of the polar night, or the long day of the polar summer. It feels dreamlike from here, but also urgent to return.

This is the end of my Arctic adventure, but I am certain the experience will inflect my work for years.

After that very blowy day the wind eased some over night, and the following morning we set off. Because the wind had blown us completely around we had to untangle the anchor chains, which required some clever use of the anchor winch. And we were off, wending our way down the fjord (Murchinsonfjorden) and out to the open ocean. The sky cleared some, and the sun was visible, and we raised some sails, and then opened up all four big square sails since we were going dead downwind, and we really sailed – turned off the engine and everything. It was GLORIOUS. The wind was still blowing hard, but only to produce a lot of whitecaps, not to peel the foam off the tops and hurl it about. Plus, we were going downwind, so there was less wind on us. The worst waves were from the stern, and they weren’t bad, so we just hammered along, sometimes exceeding nine knots. I don’t know if everyone was as thrilled as I was, but everyone looked really happy to be moving, to be doing things with the ship instead of thinking about work, to have the engine off and be going like that. As I might have said before, there were not many sailors in our group of artists. When we were talking about our applications and if we’d applied before, I allowed as how I’d applied several times, but was likely not accepted because my essays were basically “yes I make nice art, lemme on the BOAT!” which is not generally conducive to acceptance.

We sailed away from Nordaustlandet, and across the deep channel between it and Spitzbergen, and then across what looked like a channel but is instead a deep fjord that goes almost all the way into Spitzbergen to Longyearbyen, but there is 30km of land we’d have to drag the ship over (joke), so we went around and further along to Woodfjorden (I am spelling like this because I loved hearing Sarah say it). Woodfjorden is deep and narrow – we went a ways south in it, and anchored off a low spit of land (another delta from a melting glacier) and sent several parties ashore. Some were landed farther away from the spit and hiked in, others were landed on the spit for projects. I went with the second mate just to keep him company in the zodiac. We dropped off two sets of shore people, and then looked at the way the water changed color near the spit and traced out where that happened. I think it was mostly melt-water taking the finest of the sediment away, but it was rusty red instead of the usual milky blue green.

Later that afternoon we all went ashore and gathered driftwood. Svalbard has a law across the archipelago that any man made thing older than 1946 is a historical remnant, and has to be left alone, so we could gather all the wild driftwood we could see, but anything that looked worked, or had square ends had to be left alone. It still left us with plenty of things to burn, and (it turns out) even the wettest things will burn with enough gasoline poured on them. We got to stay ashore with the fire as the night darkened around us, and slowly the planets, and then some stars became visible. The combination of the dusk settling and the sparks rising was magical. What I though twas Venus turned out to be Jupiter, over one of Orion’s shoulders, with Mars over the other. The dipper, and Cassiopeia were easy to find, and the Pleiades. We had to go back to the ship, being out in the dark was hard on the guides. One of the women wanted to try to take pictures of the stars, so we left her camera pointed away from the waning fire and the guides picked it up after we had supper aboard.

We left Woodfjorden later that evening, staring at the remains of the fire, and the stars overhead. As well as stars, there were aurora flickering around the southern horizon, starting small but then swelling up the vault of the sky. I went to bed early but woke up when we turned out of the fjord and headed west again. There were big swells leftover after the big wind, and they were catching us on our quarter and making the ship roll a lot. After getting up five or six times to secure things that were banging, I gave up on sleep and went up to the wheelhouse to keep the third mate company. We slowed down substantially, so that we’d round a corner into a new fjord just as the light came up. It was stunning – the ragged peaks of the big western island really were spiky, the origin of the name Spitzbergen, and were caught in the dawn light. We worked our way further in and anchored, and I tapped out of the morning having essentially stood a watch.

The space at the end of the fjord was filled with floating ice from the glacier, and amongst the ice were small rocky islands, reminding me irresistibly of Maine. After lunch, I was with a group that landed on one island to make videos of two artists doing things on the other island. One was dancing, which was lovely; wild and mysterious. The other was cleaning the island. She had swept all the snow off a previous island, one about the size of a small room and flat as a tabletop. The snow was fresh, and she pushed a broom back and forth, clearing the snow off like it was cleaning a room. This island was harder to clean, in part because it was not flat but very humped up, and also the snow had frozen on it in patches. She got a bucket of sea water and went after some of it with a scrub brush. Sitting on the other island watching and recording these antics was fun, watching other artists accomplish their things.

After that, I stayed in the zodiac with another performance artist who wanted to record some things in front of some of the floating ice. Just after we finished, the glacier calved While We Were Watching – a great chunk of it just plummeted into the ocean, in front of our eyes, with a plume of ice dust and a big wave radiating out from it. The zodiac surfed the wave easily, but a room sized piece of ice floating near by rolled over while we were watching, and then broke up into two big pieces and endless bergy bits. We were so stunned watching all this happen we were speechless, just sitting and looking at the ice and back at each other with our mouths hanging open in astonishment.

Eventually things stopped happening – the ice floating near us seemed stable, so we could get around it to get to the ship, and no further bits fell off the glacier, so we headed back, still stunned, asking each other “did you SEE that???”

Friends, I have to admit that a couple days into the trip time started to go entirely wonky on me. I can almost trace out our journey on the tourist map of Spitzbergen/Svalbard (the entire archpelago – the town(s) are Longyearbyen and assorted others) but the days are only loosely connected to the trip. So I am pulling sections from my journal of things that stuck out to me.

We stopped in another fjord further north, ringed around with tall peaks. I got up around 3am because I could see stars out of our porthole. Once on deck (swathed in my down coat) I could find the Big Dipper, and from there Polaris. It was wild to have to tilt my head so far back to see it – the difference between 80° off the horizon and zenith (directly overhead) is hard to see! I finally found Orion by waiting til his belt showed over the mountains (I never did see his feet) and from there located Procyon, and Aldebaran. While I was staring at stars, I was wondering what town was producing light pollution on the horizon, until I realized it was aurora. It was faint and flickery, but present and lovely in the cold night.

The next morning we dropped off the intrepid hikers among us (about half) and they hiked across the peninsula to meet the ship on the other side. The rest of us did projects ashore (everyone else) or drove around in the zodiac looking for arctic foxes and interesting ice formations (me), which was fun. The 3rd mate and I saw fox tracks, but no fox, while the people at the landing saw two, one in winter colors and one in summer colors. Mid afternoon we upped anchor and went around the point and anchored at a hut on the shore. We could see the hikers coming over the pass between the hills, tiny dots against the landscape. It took hours from seeing them to them actually arriving, and picking them up.

Once we had everyone aboard again we went north. Really, thoroughly NORTH. We went up over the top of the main island of Spitzbergen, and further north than that is a strange island that feels in the middle of the ocean. It is actually part of a large delta, from several large glaciers melting back a lot (not in human history, before that). It is a funny low, round island with a pond in the middle, so it is shaped like a low flat donut, composed entirely of rounded stones between head sized and sandgrains. It is where walruses breed, so it is closed to everyone during breeding season, but we were slightly less than a week past breeding season, so we went closer, to find a place to anchor. In circumnavigating Moffen Island we found a large group of walruses (herd, pod or haul are the usual collective nouns) hauled out on the beach, jostling each other like teenagers. We anchored slightly north, and everyone wanted to land. Once ashore, half of us went right, to see the walruses up close, because too many would be distracting, and the other half went left, to draw, take pictures or make performance art. We were as far north as we would get, there was nothing between us and the North Pole except 10° latitude of ocean and ice. It was beautiful, and desolate. While we were walking I kept lagging behind to look at all the small perfect stones, and one (possibly two – individuals were hard to ID) walrus(es) swam along the beach watching us. At one point one hauled himself partway up the beach, to peer over the berm. It was astonishing. The people who got closest to the haul of walruses at the other end of the beach said they were jostling each other constantly, and smelled of fish and farts.

While we were there the sun came out from behind clouds in the south and shone across Moffen and towards the snowsqualls in the north, making a high faint rainbow in the snow. We weren’t sure what to call it – snow-bow, rainbow – but it was magical. I had the foolish thought that if I backed up far enough I could get it all into the camera view, but eventually decided it wouldn’t work quite that way.

We left Moffen with some regret, but there was weather coming. We went south (everywhere is south from there) and east, to Nordaustlandet (Northeast Island) and found Lady Franklinfjorden. When Franklin was lost, his wife poured money into high latitude exploration hoping to find something about where he’d gone, and people exploring in her name would name things after her. There was a glacier there with edges we could hike up to, and more ice in the ocean. We went ashore and climbed about in the moraine area, and some went closer to get a better look. Because it was going to blow hard from the east, the captain took us around the corner to Murchinsonfjorden, and brought us deep into the center of the island. It took two anchors to hold us, even with tall peaks all around. The 2^nd mate confidently assessed the wind at Beaufort 8, which is 35-40 knots and a Full Gale. The wind whistled in the rigging, and there were whitecaps in the small harbor we were in. The sound people had a field day recording the wind humming and moaning around the ship. When the wind dropped later in the afternoon the intrepid ones went ashore to hike up high enough to see the ice cap in the middle of the island. They turned back early because their guide saw a bear, though no one else did. Later she swore with a straight face that she was just tired of walking, but we are all pretty sure she did in fact see a bear. That was the only time we had to retreat for a bear, but we had the guides there with us all the time to keep us out of exactly that sort of trouble.

From Longyearbyen we crossed the big fjord, called Isfjorden, to a little fjord on the other side. We could look back and see the lights of Longyearbyen low on the horizon, but it was cloudy and windy and hard to stay on deck for long. I also felt like I was still getting used to how many layers of clothes I needed to keep warm – temps around freezing in New England generally have sunshine at noon, temps around freezing feels entirely different. I am grateful for my new puffy down coat (I bought it in Longyearbyen, realizing I needed it!) and all the layers of long underwear I packed thinking I wouldn’t need them all. We slept that first night in the fjord, and woke to find sea ice beginning to form all around the ship. It was thin and slushy, and made shushing noises against the hull.

We practiced our first landing, all the parts we need to know. How to get into the zodiac, what to hold onto, how to get out on the beach (the big waterproof boots make so much sense – we always wade ashore in relatively shallow water, no stepping dryfooted onto the beach), where to go and not go (do not get between the guides, stay inside the perimeter, so they can keep us safe) and then how to get back into the zodiacs and back on board Antigua safely.

We were relayed ashore in groups of eight, stomping and splashing ashore, and then separating to see how hard it would be to accomplish our personal pursuits. I tried drawing some of the landscape in my sketchbook, and couldn’t hold the pencil for very long. I put everything away and just walked along the beach, and then up over the small headland, looking at the geology (layers of very fine dark sandstone, tipped entirely vertically, easy to break along bedding planes). The big waterproof boots are also valuable for marching through snow, and supporting one’s ankles when tripping on things.

We were in the end of a small fjord, and ice was forming on the surface of the ocean, and the zodiacs had to do a tiny bit of ice breaking, and the sound it made was delightful. A sort of shushing over the surface. Over the course of the morning, the ice built up some and we had to do more ice breaking to get back to the ship. That was more crackling and crunching, as we’d smash through the thicker ice, or brush through the thicker pieces already broken up by the previous zodiac.

After returning to the ship, I think everyone had to reassess what they would be doing for the trip. So many of us came with large plans for work to do on land, or with snow or ice. I feel relieved that my plan for recording what I see and taking it home for notes for later work will work nicely, as will my plan to stitch a small piece about each day.

I continue to be amazed by the geology that is visible everywhere I look. There are the visible layers of depostion, there are places where faults can be clearly seen, and the edges of so many of the mountains are the edges of the bids, curved and tilted to form great swoops of rock, dusted with snow to emphasize the curves, and the darkness of the underlying rocks.

We headed out of Isfjorden completely, and north along the western edge of the main island, and found a small fjord further up. That was a night’s travel to arrive there.

We woke to endless floating bits of ice – bergy bits. They ranged from the size of an ice cube to the size of the zodiac (about 6m (18 ft) long and about 2m (6 ft) wide) and were all shades of blue, and from glass clear to white with bubbles. There is a distinctive noise around floating ice, the steady lapping of water at the waterline. I stayed on the ship in the morning, while others went ashore to admire what we dubbed Diamond Point. There were blocks if ice grounded there from the glacier further up the fjord, and they gleamed in the intermittent sun. I did go ashore in the afternoon, and after a quick sketch of the surroundings I wandered along the shore, throwing rocks into the ocean and practicing skipping stones.

We moved again in the night, further north, to a fjord with two arms of glacier separated by a big medial moraine and possibly some bedrock. Here I joined a zodiac cruise around the ice, both the big ice that was grounded near the front of the glacier and the big and small pieces of ice floating about in the bay in front of the glacier. I was in the boat with the people who were trying to video, and we were trying to be quiet, and my camera and my phone were both making a lot of little peeps and beeps that were making me feel extremely self concious, but two of us were both just faffing about while people like Paola were actually trying to do things like record and Josh had a camera on a stick that could go into the water – he unfolded the stick and poked it firmly into the water near the coolest of the grounded ice. I remembered my orange camera is waterproof and stuck it into the water until my hand was too cold to feel. It recorded water that was thick with rock flour from the glaciers, and hard to see anything through, but it was at least an interesting color.

After lunch Antigua upped anchor and we cruised along the face of the glacier, at a respectful distance, and peered at it through the snow, flakes falling over us, and on the deck and the floating ice, and in between us and the glacier. Steph and I were hanging over the rail staring at (and photographing) the ice in the water and the glacier across the water through the snow, and thinking about how to paint it or portray it in fabric. I feel like I packed exactly the right fabrics for this trip, heavily skewed towards all the blues and greens.

We arrived on the ship on Thursday afternoon, and after a quick orientation, everyone settled into their staterooms (we have staterooms – and in fact we have beds, with legs on the floor, and space under them to hide extra gear) and stow their gear. My bunkmate and I both had the same emotional moment standing there in our little room, realizing we are really here, in the arctic, on the boat, setting out on this enormous adventure.

We left Longyearbyen just before supper, so we ate underway and talked about how the trip would go.

We have four guides, and we are not allowed ashore without them. They have rifles and flare guns to protect us hapless artists from encroaching wildlife, mostly polar bears, and walkue-talkies to talk with each other and the ship, and backpacks full of emergency supplies and extra warmth and goodness knows what else. Our fearless leader is Sarah, and possibly the most frequently said words on the ship are “Sarah says…” We joke about her being a professional badass, an arctic superwoman, but as the trip has gone on, those jokes feel closer and closer to the truth. She is assisted by Tuomas, Lars and Sanna. Together they scout landings, set up perimeters, and oversee us working, or they accompany small groups of us as we move about. A substantial portion of the participants are able hikers, and looking forward to walking in the arctic landscape.

For artists, we have a broad array. A handful of people are collecting sounds for different reasons – to builds sounds for synthesizers, for manipulating into music, or as part of performance work. There are a couple of people painting, one composer, and then the photographers. No one is not taking pictures. Cameras range from very large, with gimbals and stabilizers, to DSLRs with extravagant lenses to everyone else taking pictures with point-and-shoot or phones. I am the only person stitching, but there are a lot of people knitting, including two of the guides and one of the mates. We have thirty artists, our guides and the ship’s staff.

The ship, Antigua, has as many people running the ship as there are people looking after us, which surprised me. We are very much passengers, fed and looked after by a capable crew of four – one cook, and three “service” staff. Four more people make the boat go; a captain, and three mates. There is no chance to take the helm, because we run mostly by autopilot, but we can, and are encouraged to, help with sail handling. The mates are the people running the zodiacs (we have two) between the ship and the landing sites, and stand watch when we are underway at night, as well as doing the ongoing boat maintenance. When I wake up at 3am to check on stars and auroras, I can hang out in the wheelhouse with First Mate Hans. We don’t talk much, but it is nice to be close to the mapper and see what is out there on the radar and the depth sounder.

I have taken planes, trains and a jaunty big red ferry over the last several days to arrive at Tromso, Gateway to the North (it says so on the signs). From here I catch a bus to the airport, and a plane to Longyearbyen on Svalbard, at which point the official part of the trip begins.

I’ve been practicing sketching rather than snapping pictures. That is a hard habit to fix in place, only partly because the sketching and painting move much more slowly than the scenery. A fellow sketcher sat with me yesterday and we sympathized on how hard it is to be realistic, but also how little it matters later – we have a memory of staring at the landscape and producing a representation of it, and caring too deeply about “correctness” rather than over all impression is a mistake.

To that end, have some pictures from the ferry:

I am headed north! Accepted into the Arctic Circle Residency in March 2023, I have been as patient as possible. It was hard. I leave tomorrow for Norway, and a slow trip north through the country. I join the program Oct 2 in Longyearbyen, in Svalbard, and we set sail on the Antigua. I am one of roughly thirty artists, writers, musicians and scientists aboard. We all have some projects in mind. I have my little painting kit, and a compact stack of colorful fabric to applique, and I will be making notes for larger works to be accomplished once I return home again.

I’m packed. I’m ready. I cannot wait!

All the linework turns into these little guys. Locals might recognize the distinctive bulge of Hadley, or the Oxbow lake just south of Northampton. The two on the right show the Deerfield river confluence, and the islands in Sunderland, down to the big twist in Hatfield.

I’m working on some new coastlines too – coming up soon.

When I start choosing new sections of river to build into boxes, I have to start with digital data. I have a digital elevation model (DEM) and sections of the national database that includes rivers, water bodies and flow lines for streams. When I get it all into a geographic information system, it looks like this:

I use an open source GIS called QGIS, and it lets me see the layers I have, manipulate them, and extract the area I am interested in. Here you can see elevation (brighter is higher elevation) and the rivers and waterbodies along the Connecticut River. The big blue lake is Quabbin Reservoir, where Boston drinking water comes from.

Once I have the pieces of landscape I am interested in on the screen, I export a file of linework. It looks like this:

Then I make a little box, and clip out sections of the river that will be turned into little boxed landscapes. The end result looks like this:

If you look closely at the little boxes, you can figure out which sections of river they are.

This is the first half of the process. Once I have linework, the laser cutting can begin. I’ll show that next week!