Out my window nothing but blue. Tall blue shadows falling from dark dolerite pillars standing guard over a fjord filled with abandoned mines and coal dust, crawling with a new kind of explorer - people on snowmobiles and roads dotted with street lights - they make a funny world out of a fjord. But the ground remembers. The blue, they can't shake the blue, nor can they bid the sun to arrive any earlier than it did 3.3 billion years ago. There is something immovable about the rhythm of this place - the plunging of peak to core and the long slow rise of depth to surface, granite cutting through time regardless of what we call it (intrusion? Caledonian Orogeny?) or what it will be called in millennia to come (?). What we see between Sørkapp and Isfjorden is not what the mountains behind our backs or under our feet know it to be - consolidated moraine, glaciofluvial deposits and drop deposits from melting icebergs calved from glaciers 600 million years ago.