I was kayaking near Wrangell, in Southeast Alaska, when I heard something large exhale right behind me. Spinning, I caught a glimpse of something black and white in the water, moving very fast, and I immediately thought, “Well, this can’t be good, I’m about to get chomped by a killer whale.” Then I realized how very cool this was: listening to the breath of an animal bigger than my car. You know how you feel when you hear a favorite song on the radio and crank up the dial? The North has a soundtrack like that, and I’ve spent most of my life listening, trying to learn what Alaska and the Yukon have to say to me. In the Brooks Range, far above the Arctic Circle, a nearby wolf decided to howl at the moon that was only a pale sliver as it skittered around the edge of the horizon like a banked cue ball. And I would swear that extra stars came out, just for a chance to listen. On a spring camping trip, the mountains came alive, avalanches and waterfalls, bass and treble, echoing off the peaks, rumbling as gently as a puppy’s heartbeat. I put my hands to the ground, expecting to be able to feel that sound as the very earth reshaped itself for a new season. For a while, I lived in a small cabin with a very large salmonberry bush along one side. Each night, a bear would come for a midnight snack. He’d rear onto his hind legs, bracing his front paws against the wall right behind my pillow. Thud, crunch, I’d hear, before drifting off into very soft dreams. The Han, who have lived in the Yukon forever, called the sound of the river silt against their canoe hulls “the voices of the ancestors.” I have sat on the banks for hours, wishing for just a moment an understanding that deep. As I write this, I can listen to bald eagles screaming before they dive. The sound is high and thin, like a football player singing a soprano aria. And then there is the pure power whoosh of wings folding into a dive, the splash of talons on water. Some people even say they’ve heard the northern lights, a crackle like static from clothes fresh out of the dryer. So far, I’ve never been that lucky. But I still go outside and hope each time I’ll see those tendrils of light snapping overhead like a lava lamp cracking a whip. The landscape sings to us each, in its own way, and the longer you listen, the more beautiful that song gets. And when you leave Alaska and the Yukon, the song of the land will haunt you forever. Like the Sirens, it will call you back, and you will be nothing but glad to give in and return. Welcome to the North.