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We're on the last leg to a homecoming. For the past three years, we've migrated to Haines along the Alcan and Cassiar Highways. This year is different, we're in Juneau and an old single engine Piper is waiting to take us farther North.

We step over the plane's ailerons and climb inside. The airworthiness certificate, a placard bolted to the seat in front of me, reads 1968. Our pilot points to the emergency release handle and says, '' If we go down, that's what you pull to get out'' Then he smiles, ''but if we get out, we won't make it. The water is freezing.'' He puts on his i-pod, fires the engine, and within a minute we're flying. The Alaskan experience has begun.

As we climb into blues that only a January sky can create, the formalities and restrictions of the lower 48 disappear. Glaciers that look like the tongues of panting dogs touch the water on both sides of Lynn Canal. They appear friendly. All the crevasses are filled in.

Stephan's eyes follow the glaciers and I can see his thoughts. He's already north of 33 mile linking glaciers that are as flat as pool tables but divided by steep climbs. He's smiling because this year our snowmobiles are turbo charged and he's convinced we're going wherever we want. He wants to keep exploring, to discover the ineffable moments that only certain zones can offer.

For riders, it's all about those transcendent moments when they're flowing and the mountain comes alive.  That place where they get channeled into the present and everything for them is in slow motion. It's a place where they can actually live in the moment. And for those behind the camera, our task is to try and capture those moments.

As we get closer to Haines and our playground begins to shape the horizon, I feel a wave of anticipation and calm. Chilkat Inlet is beneath us, were descending, we're almost home.