I made good time skiing down toward Temple Fjord from the high pass above where I had camped last night. At one point, I was even able to take my skis off and ride on top of my sled downhill for nearly 400 yards with a top speed of 16.4 mph according to my Garmin inReach.

But don't let the numbers fool you. This place exists on such a huge scale that I can ski for hours and seemingly come no closer to a goal. The glacier at the end of Temple Fjord appeared to be just a mile away or so, but in reality it was nearly 10. Traveling on my Madshus skis and pulling my pulk my rate of travel is a little over two miles per hour. Svalbard is a place for giants not the puny likes of myself.

Which is why, I think, skiing to the North Pole is psychologically easier (ok maybe not totally - but in part). On the Arctic Ocean, there are no distinct features visible from miles away. There, we simply gauge progress by time. For all intents and purposes, we are polar hamsters churning away endlessly on an ice wheel.

It should be noted, however, that the above description may be more suitable to skiing to the South Pole versus North. The Arctic terrain is constantly changing and varied. The Antarctic plateau is boringly (and amazingly) similar.

Besides scouting for a fat bike adventure, I am also training for a big solo expedition mission. It has been fun for me to pour through the hundreds of details as I ski. On this trip, I have had a fairly sporadic schedule, skiing a few days, to past 9 pm. On my upcoming adventure, I will need to stick to an unfailingly strict schedule.

To pass the time here, I have been listening to 'The Kingdom of Ice' as well as a book about the first non-stop around the world sailboat race called 'A Voyage for Madmen'. Both books touch on a variety of adventure-related themes that I can can quite closely relate.

I thought this would be a day where I did not speak to anyone and simply skied, contentedly down a glacier and across the sea ice. Two sets of older polar bear tracks. A seal sunning itself by on the ice next to its breathing hole.

Crossing the Fjord, I skied up and onto a wide alluvial fan that stretched over a mile across and was framed by large mountains. It was icy and windswept and I worried about finding a suitable camp spot. Eventually, I found a swath of winpacked snow behind a low moraine and commenced setting up my tent.

Suddenly, a snow machine drove up from, I'm not sure where. It was the same police officer from a couple days ago, once again warning me about some polar bears in the area: a mother and two cubs - one of which has little fear of people.

I thanked him for the information and he drove away. Later, I smiled as I set up my trip wire system around the tent. Perhaps this police officer would follow me every where I go in the Arctic. And warn me about polar bears. If nothing else, at least I got the chance to talk to another person today.