I’ve never been to the Arctic latitudes. Never watched an iceberg collapse into the ocean with a rumble like the dawn of doomsday, never struggled to sleep beneath a sun that fails to set. I’ve never had frost bitten fingers, never known pangs of genuine hunger or the aches of a vitamin-starved body turning against itself. The closest I’ve come to battling the ice is when I’ve scraped it off my window or steered my car into the slide on a winter road. But I too search for Franklin.