In one part of the mysterious continent of Antarctica lies what scientists call deserts.  Not deserts as in Sahara, but deserts in that very little precipitation falls on them.  Buffeted by frigid katabatic winds that do not allow water to linger and fall, these stark landscapes subsist on virtually no moisture.  Their presence on one of the coldest places on earth represents one of the more intriguing anomalies of the created order, a paradox of form and structure that causes us, once more, to marvel at the remarkable and often eye popping diversity of divine imagination.
     In a photo I saw of these deserts recently, a group of scientists, their tiny persons dwarfed by the immense scale of the terrain, made their way across the barren land, their red and blue parkas looking woefully out of place amidst the overwhelming brown (no snow here) and brumal silence.  Who are we, I wondered, who are we, we who tread across such desolate lands, lands that do not care whether we are there or not, lands that do not seem to be anything other than empty bursts of ambiguity?
     Such thoughts led me to remember the time, many years ago, when I set out, alone and apart, trekking with my sixty pound pack, to explore part of Alaska's Brooks Range.  Who was I, I often pondered, wandering as I was, three hundred miles from another human being, moving through such immense wildness, caribou, Dall sheep, and grizzly bears my only companions?  Who am I to set foot into such a unworldly place?
     We are, it seems, a paradox:  rational creatures imbibing in what at times appears to be a wholly unfathomable world.  But what else would we do?  If life were not a paradox, if life did not seem a puzzle, why would we bother?  It is in the mystery that we find what is most complete and whole.