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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Yukon1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Itinerary | Home Tackling mountains, rivers and forests, our writer conquers his urban inhibitions in Whitehorse, the Wilderness City.
I am 4,200 feet in the air, listening to Alison Krauss, with the blue skies of Whitehorse around me and clouds overhead. Beneath me, endless grey and green mountains are punctuated by clumps of yellow, where the late summer colours have started to change. I am, for the first time in my life, flying an airplane – a 29-year-old Cessna 206, nimble and responsive to my touch. With a slight push of the yoke, we’re dropping at 200 feet a minute. I spot a golden eagle and, with the permission of Denny Denison, a 60-something bluegrass enthusiast and our real pilot, turn to the right, flying over a dozen caribou and scattering 80 or so mountain goats as we approach. We are technically still in the city of Whitehorse, but it seems like we could fly forever in any direction without seeing a sign of human life. |
