Beyond the Ice: Finding Warmth, Connection, and Meaning in The Very, Very Far North (Book Review)

 All right. So, today let’s dive into The Very, Very Far North. Our mission today is to figure out what makes this world tick—not just the plot, but the how and the why of the storytelling. 

One thing that’s interesting is the setting. It’s all ice and snow, which could easily just be a backdrop, but it actually becomes a character itself. The frozen landscape shapes how the characters interact. Take Duane, the polar bear, for example. His love of icicle pops wouldn’t even exist if he weren’t living in this frozen world. It’s such a silly, specific detail, but it’s deeply tied to his environment.

And that specificity extends to the characters themselves. Duane, our main character, could have been a generic nice guy, but the author gives him these quirky traits, like naming everything—his friends, his favorite fishing hole. At first, it seems like a cute detail, but when you think about it, it’s how Duane deals with the potential loneliness of the far north. By naming things, he creates a sense of connection, even if it’s one-sided. This elevates the story beyond whimsy and connects to how the narrative voice works. The story is told as if we, the audience, are part of Duane’s world. It’s not just telling us a story; it’s pulling us into it, almost like a choose-your-own-adventure book. We become part of the community.

This makes the moments when Duane interacts with others even more powerful. Take C.C., the Snowy Owl. She’s the logical one, living in a beached shipwreck in the far north—another very specific detail. Her practicality contrasts with Duane’s emotional nature, but they don’t fight. Instead, they complement each other, which is how good friendships often work. They balance each other out.

Then there’s Handsome, the muskox. He could have easily been a stereotype—the vain one obsessed with his looks—but the author gives him depth. Remember how scared he is of water? It’s not just a funny quirk; it becomes important to the plot later. It’s subtle foreshadowing. And speaking of subtle, there’s Boo, the Caribou. Her introduction is brilliant from a storytelling perspective. She’s practically invisible at first because Handsome is so self-absorbed he doesn’t even notice her. It’s funny, but it also makes us, the audience, pay more attention. Are we as oblivious as Handsome? Then Duane comes along and names her Boo—a quiet, gentle name that’s perfect for her. It makes you wonder: if Duane hadn’t come along, would Boo have ever been seen? That’s the kind of thought this story makes you think about. It challenges us to examine our own assumptions. Do we overlook the quiet ones in our lives?

So, we’ve got characters shaped by their environment, a narrative voice that draws us in, and humor that’s more than just silly kid’s book humor. There are layers to it. Like when Duane keeps misunderstanding words—like “hair” versus “hare.” It’s funny on the surface, but it also shows how language can create barriers between people and how Duane, despite those barriers, is always trying to connect.

Then there’s Major Puff, the Puffin. He’s strict, almost military in how he acts, which contrasts sharply with Duane’s easygoing personality. It’s that classic order-versus-chaos dynamic you see in a lot of stories. Their friendship shouldn’t work, but it does, and that goes back to the theme of acceptance and understanding. The very, very far north might be icy, but the community is surprisingly warm. It’s like the author is saying that being different doesn’t mean you’re divided—it can actually make you stronger.

This is where Magic, the Arctic Fox, comes in. She’s the definition of chaos, appearing and disappearing, causing mischief. But even her antics serve a purpose. Remember how her unpredictable nature helps Major Puff get over his fear of goals? Magic’s chaos becomes a tool for positive change. And this brings us to the idea of shifting perspective. It’s not just Major Puff who needs to see things differently; Duane himself goes through a big shift thanks to Squint, the Painter.

Squint is an interesting character. He represents the power of art to change how we see the world. At first, Duane is terrified of him because he thinks Squint is literally stealing pieces of the world. It’s a childlike fear, but it’s relatable. We’ve all felt that way about something new we don’t understand. Through Squint, Duane learns that art isn’t about taking away—it’s about capturing and preserving, not just the beautiful things, but the sadness, the fear, even the impermanence of things, like the iceberg Squint paints. It’s a powerful symbol—beautiful and majestic, but also temporary. It’s going to melt and disappear, and Duane, who loves snow and ice, has to face that loss. It’s like a mini coming-of-age story within the bigger story. Duane is realizing that not everything lasts forever, which is hard for anyone to accept, especially a polar bear obsessed with icicle pops. But Squint doesn’t leave him feeling hopeless. He shows how art can preserve things. The iceberg’s beauty will still be there in the painting, even when it’s gone in real life. It introduces the idea of legacy—what we leave behind, not just stuff, but how we affect others.

And Duane gets that. He realizes Squint’s paintings are missing something important: the people. The very, very far north isn’t just a landscape; it’s about the community that lives there. This brings us back to the idea of connection. Duane isn’t just getting wiser or braver; he’s understanding where he fits in this big web of relationships. The far north is like a tiny version of the world. We all have our own problems, but we also have each other, and that makes a difference.

And that’s where the storytelling comes back in. The narrator has brought us into Duane’s world and made us care about what happens to him. It’s like we’re all sitting around a campfire, telling stories and laughing, feeling connected even though we’re not really together. The ending is open-ended, suggesting that the journey doesn’t really stop there. It’s an invitation to keep exploring, to keep asking questions, to find those connections in our own lives.

That’s what makes The Very, Very Far North so special. It’s not just about escaping into a fun world; it’s about taking those insights, those moments of humor and heart, and bringing them back to our own world. It’s a story about what it means to be human, about connecting with others, and about being strong even when things are hard.

Even in a world that seems as simple as the very, very far north, the author manages to weave in complex emotional themes. Fear, anxiety, loss, the passage of time—it’s all there. Think about Duane’s love for that old grandfather clock. It doesn’t even work right—the hands are missing—but it means a lot to him. It’s a connection to the past, a reminder of the people who were there before, even though they’re not around anymore. In a world where the seasons are so extreme, does time feel different to those living in the far north? Maybe the long winters and isolation make those connections to the past even more important—a way to hold on to something that stays the same when everything else is changing. It ties into that idea of legacy—not just the stuff we leave behind, but the impact we have on others, how we change things even after we’re gone.

This is why Sun girl’s arrival is so important. She’s not just another quirky character; she represents something new, something Duane’s never seen before. She’s literally from somewhere else, bringing new experiences and ways of looking at things. Their first meeting during the blizzard is almost symbolic—how randomly running into someone can totally change your life. It’s like fate disguised as a snowstorm. And it’s not just that they meet; they connect. Right away, they understand each other, even though they’re so different. The harsh environment strips everything away, and you’re left with this pure, genuine connection.

And then, of course, Sunirl and the pack save Duane. It’s a classic rescue scene, but again, the author doesn’t do what you expect. It’s not about being a big hero; it’s about the quiet strength of community. They help each other because that’s what you do in the far north. You can’t survive on your own out there. You need each other, not just for practical stuff, but for emotional support, too.

And that brings us back to the power of stories. In a way, we’re part of that community now, too. The narrator has pulled us into Duane’s world, and we care about what happens to him. It’s like we’re all sitting around a campfire, sharing stories and laughing, feeling that warmth even though we’re not really together. The ending is open, suggesting that the journey isn’t really over. It’s inviting us to keep exploring, to keep asking questions, and to find those connections in our own lives.

That’s what makes The Very, Very Far North so special. It’s not just about escaping into a fantasy world; it’s about taking those lessons, those moments of humor and heart, and bringing them back with us to the real world. It’s like a little spark of warmth that we can keep alive and share with others, making the world a little bit brighter.

So, as we say goodbye to Duane and his incredible community, what we’ve learned from them—their laughter, their spirit—will stay with us long after we finish this deep dive. And maybe the next time we face a blizzard, real or metaphorical, we’ll remember how strong Duane was, how kind Sun girl was, and how powerful it is to be connected to other people. Until next time, may your journeys be filled with wonder, laughter, and those little moments of grace that make life so special.