It is four-thirty in the morning, and each molecule of my body bears witness to the fact that I am tired. The last plane didn't land in Ottawa until after ten, and while I had thought I might sleep on the six-hour drive home, I instead spent the entire time engrossed in conversation with my father. Now, at last, I lie in my childhood bed once again, tossing and turning and composing these words in my head. I'm exhausted beyond belief, and yet I simply cannot fall asleep.

It is too warm, for one thing, although my mother tells me it's cooled considerably from the past few days. All I have covering my flushed flesh is an oversized t-shirt and a light sheet. In the inn last night, I wore my long underwear and snuggled beneath three blankets. On the trail, I went several days at a time without seeing my feet because I slept in my wool socks.

It is also dark, which unsettled me from the moment I stepped off the plane. The night is simultaneously too noisy and too quiet. Through my screen, I hear the soft rumble of traffic, a yip or two of canine communication, leaves rustling. I don't hear the watery lullabies of glacier-fed streams, or wind running across the treeless tundra and making the tent fly flap, flap, flap all night long. I close my ears and hear the sounds in my head, knowing that soon even the memories will fade away to only memories of memories. If I try to recall the sensations then, I will think, I knew that, once.

I sit here now, wrapped only in the light fabric of a sarong, wondering if I have the right to call myself an Arctic wanderer. Thirteen days on a guided trip does not an explorer make. Quttinirpaaq National Park is an out-of-the-way vacation spot, but I hardly discovered it, except for myself. Does that count?