I commonly frequent more southern climes, where God’s paintbrush includes the brilliant primaries of the flowers and the radiant mauves and purples of sunset. There are, however, other locales where every trace of the serene is erased, and men cling desperately to inhospitable shores.

Great North visits such a mountain vastness, where wild, brooding peaks loom above the shores of an untamed spreading river. It is sunset, but, somehow, sunset has magnified its grandeur in these northern skies, as gray wisps of clouds soar like eagles over the curtain of pale gold.

Men embrace a tenuous existence along the shores of the mountain waters. Their homes are mostly rough hewed shacks, cut from the abundant forests and erected to provide secure shelter against the cold night wind and the driving sleet. Amidst the structures of the camp we see a single native wigwam — a reminder that this epic landscape has long been host to both diverse wildlife and diverse human cultures.

In Great North, we are reminded that all human achievement pales when compared to the magnificence of God’s creation.