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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Yukon1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Itinerary | Home
The hours pass and we float aimlessly, grateful that we’re not fishing for our meals and content to watch the day arrive. When the sun peaks over nearby mountaintops and the mist begins to rise, we retreat, empty-handed but wholly satisfied. I wouldn’t typically have the patience to fish; after all, nothing really happens. But what I knew implicitly that day is that things do happen: A northwesterly breeze passes; a sandhill crane skims the lake’s surface. Away from the cacophony of civilization, I became aware of what was really happening. God wasn’t tired when he made this place; he was just relaxed. Days later, when I am working on my laptop at the only departure gate at the Whitehorse airport, a woman in her sixties strikes up a conversation. She’s been living in the area her whole life, she tells me, up the river by the trapline. I ask what she likes about her home. She speaks slowly. “It’s like it always was. It’s too much. That’s the way I like it.” She pauses, staring at a crying baby. “Too much. That way you never run out.” Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
