I was going to get myself back in the swinging blog entry mode of things by writing a post about my insane nesting instincts, but today, I cannot.
Today, living in Ross River sucks, to me. Here’s why:
- It has been -50 degrees for like a week and a half. Did you even know that existed? I didn’t! It’s so cold that breathing the outside air stings my lungs. The dog doesn’t get walked, consequently, and then bugs the crap out of everyone inside with her unspent puppy energy. It’s really not her fault; she’s just got cabin fever like the rest of us.
- The cold made one of our truck tires deflate totally flat. This means that even if we survive the frigid trip down the front stairs, we have no way of getting out or about unless by foot. I had to work a few shifts at the library this week that involved my getting dressed up like a marshmallow woman, complete with giant coat big enough to zip up over my belly. The one mechanic in town added our truck tire to the waiting list of other cold-related breakdowns and battery deaths.
- As we cannot drive to the town dump up the hill, our garbage is accumulating. The outside bins are full, the inside box pile is overflowing the counter and when you’re a hormonal pregnant woman on a nesting rampage, garbage clutter does not a happy wife make.
- After countless delays picking up our nursery furniture at the Sears outpost in Whitehorse, we finally arranged for the Yukon’s truck delivery service to haul it all up here. This was to (finally!) be delivered yesterday (after orders were placed in November!) but then of course the delivery truck broke down on the way here, and now the delivery company drivers are too scared to make the 5-hour drive up here until the cold subsides. All I want to do is set up the nursery!
- This failed delivery attempt works out though, for now, because our front door froze shut and then broke. And then in a flash of macho handy genius, the husband removed the doorknob from the inside and couldn’t figure out how to properly reassemble it again. The back door works, so we can still let the dog out to go to the bathroom, but if we do work up the courage to venture out in the cold to do anything, the trek now begins with both stinging cold AND a journey through knee-high snow. Joy!
- I woke up this morning to the beeping of our smoke alarms. This type of beep happens when there is no power going to them electrically, only via battery. There was a power outage, and all I could think was the curse, “What else?” Thankfully, the heat turned on and the furnace revved up again about 10 minutes later. But when the power goes out here, we have no water (as it is pumped electrically from our water tank), no phone service (as we have portable phones) and no wood stove as a backup heat source when the electrically-powered furnace is not being fuelled in -50 weather!
Why do I live here again?

Labels: Ross River, winter

Ideally, we would have spent our first wedding anniversary by fluttering off to The Keg for some massive steaks, asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes and some dessert at Memories Café. But we are not in Ottawa or any metropolis, and so we were required to settle for what options are available: Option 1- I make dinner for us at home. This happens every night and is not a treat for me.
Option #2- Go to the TND Motor Inn Lounge, aka the town’s restaurant. Off we were in the cold dark night (-25!) to eat greasy food and celebrate a year of marriage and all that’s come with it.
(Option #3- The husband makes dinner at home. This is hardly an option as his culinary skills extend to about toast and peanut butter, cereal and oatmeal.)
We arrived in the restaurant, and were pleased to see it wasn’t too busy, as this decreased the likelihood of us receiving some other tables’ meals.
We waited at our wooden, flip-out-legs style table for about 20 minutes while three high school aged-girls and some elementary students lingered at the cash register calling their friends on the phone and talking about us (subtlety isn’t their forte).
The girl that evidently drew the short straw and had to come serve the white cop and his wife sauntered over and mumbled something that indicated it was time to tell her what we wanted to drink.
“What kinds of milkshakes do you serve?” I asked.
Silence. Rolled eyes.
“Um, cappuccino.”
No strawberry? Chocolate? Vanilla?
“I’ll have water please.”
Eventually, the waters made their way back to our table, a safe bet as they came in bottles with sealed lids.
We each gave her our orders, me a personal size Hawaiian pizza with a side of poutine (high living in Ross River, bon appetite!) and for him a BLT sandwich. The girl, who suffers from severe Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, struggled to remember our order then walked over to the group of girl and audibly messed up our order to the greasy line cook. Husband is struggling not to get up and correct it, but I didn’t want to soil our evening with spit in our food, or worse.
The girl eventually got it right and while we waited, husband filled me in about how this 15-year-old girl had just had a baby boy and continued to drink heavily all day and night long, having dropped out from school. He had arrested her a number of times for being drunk. Standing out for being drunk in this town is quite a feat, let me tell you!
We ate our greasy meals that came with surprising accuracy, albeit after 45 minutes of waiting and a tad cold. We have learned to get what we are given!
Then we returned home and I was asked to wait in the bedroom while the husband created some surprise for dessert. After a few minutes, he led me out by the hand to show me the kitchen table. It had our wedding album, some tea light candles and 2 plates with toaster strudels, each decorated with hearts icing. It was so sweet and a perfectly Ross River anniversary!

Labels: Ross River, wedding

I had just curled up into bed with my fabulous pregnancy pillow and my dog lying at my back. I heard steps on the wooden planks of our porch and alerted the canine that now was a good time to barrel towards the front door squealing in excitement as “Daddy” was home from his work shift. I smiled from the bed at how happy she was to see him and waited for the steps to sound their way down the hallway and into our room. They did, as expected, and in walked the cop.
“Hey, the northern lights are out, want to come see?”
I love midnight dates! So I wrapped my fluffy housecoat on and slipped on a pair of his shoes. We stood on the back porch, and I could see a turquoise-coloured haze shining behind the mountain known as Ross River Hill. The lights in town took away from the spectacle, he said, “we better drive out to the airport.” So we raced around to the front of the house and into his police truck to drive to the airport, about five minutes away.
We pulled onto the tarmac, turned off the truck lights and stared up at the sky. Streaks of green danced up from the hills across and over everywhere. We sat there in the dark black night watching our own private light show.
“Hey, I saw a shooting star!” I proclaimed with glee. I never see them! I always have to pretend I do because everyone else sees so many but this time I really did! It was a magical midnight date.
We finally turned around and drove home, leaving the beauty of the dancing northern lights above us and behind us. We saw a drunk lady staggering around and she flagged us down to ask for a ride to her friend’s house. We kindly obliged, and as she sat in the back seat, we asked if she had seen the lights.
“Oh really? They out tonight? Right on! The stars, you know, the lights, it’s amazing,” she said. Well put, albeit succinct and slurred.
We dropped her off, drove home, and I jumped back into the still-warm duvet and pillows, my jammies still crisp and cold from the outside air.

Labels: Ross River, the north

There is now frost on my windshield in the morning and a white crispy blanket over all the fallen leaves and plants. There hasn’t been snow yet, but I know it’s on the way because this week the chipmunks and squirrels were really amping up their food-gathering operations. I know the coming of winter to mean it’s time to inventory mittens to make sure all have partners, finding the windshield scraper somewhere and getting excited about the Christmas-themed catalogues that come in the mail. In Ross River, all those kinds of thoughts are delayed as people become frenetic about moose.
The colder it gets, the smaller the window to hunt moose becomes. And if you haven’t caught a moose yet, now is time to start “getting serious” about hunting. Serious can mean daily treks out to the bush to wait and make the calls of the female moose. It can mean taking off work to go on days-long hunting trips. The pressure is on to score a big, fat bull moose before the snow hits so that your freezer will be stocked up for winter. The teachers at school who are as yet moose-less were just antsy yesterday to get out the door and hunt this weekend, practicing their cow calls in the hall to each other and teaching lessons while their minds were in the bush.
I enjoy moose meat. It is really high in iron, which explains my early pregnancy cravings for it. It sounds hokey, but it’s also “organic” and not food from pen-living, trench-fed mass meat operations, which is a plus. We don’t need the meat in our freezer, plus we’re still kind of green up here as we’ve only had one Yukon winter under our belts, so we aren’t as “into” the moose frenzy. I am not sure I’m ready to go on a moose hunt yet. I much prefer the fruits of the labour, but who doesn’t? My husband thought he’d go along on a moose hunt one evening after dinner last week just to see what it’s all about. He planned to drive about 15 minutes out of town with a local teacher here and hike in about a kilometer to a “special spot,” to wait and make cow calls. (Nobody here tells where their moose spots are. They are scared secrets)
Within 10 minutes of waiting and settling in, they spotted a big bull, shot it and had their moose kill for the winter. A nice big one with lots of meat. The teacher will subsist largely off of this meat over the winter. I told him we don’t need the meat but he insisted, as an offer of appreciation for my husband’s help and extreme good luck in bagging a moose so quickly.
Everyone at school was congratulating me on the feat of my “good luck charm” husband, asking if they could bring him along on their hunts. The early success in his first ever moose hunt is a very good omen. Indeed, if one goes for numerous first moose hunts and doesn’t bag a thing, it is a sign of a hunter with very bad. So cheer to my good luck hunter of a husband, and to the poor bull who will soon sit, in pieces, in our deep freezer.

Labels: Ross River

In Ottawa, berry picking means driving for like 20 minutes to some farm where you get on a hay bale wagon and ride to a designated row where you pick strawberries, raspberries, whatever, filling up your cardboard boxes. Then, you ride back to the farm and pay for them. You bring them home to jam or bake or just eat and feel a little bit accomplished for providing for yourself or family, for being a gatherer, for eating local, like all the magazines tell you to.
In Ross River, berry picking means learning of a secret, sacred berry patch from someone who’s lived here longer than you. You drive out and hike in to its remote location and pick raspberries, strawberries or cranberries until you just can’t pick any longer. There is abundance; you’ll never run out of berries to pick. That is, unless you spill the beans, or berries, and betray the secret of your berry patch to too many people and then they come and pick too many and then you have to scour the hillsides for a new spot.
I was taken to a raspberry patch a few weeks ago and filled my bucket with raspberries smaller than I was used to. But man, were they delicious! And obviously organic and stuff since the pesticide sprayers don’t tend to make it to the North Canol Highway region. The raspberries made for delicious pancakes, smoothies and juices. Mmm. I miss them already.
Yesterday, a friend entrusted me to accompany her on a cranberry picking adventure. They are just ripening, she told me, and will continue to as long as there’s no snow! (A justified fear in a place where snow can fall as early as mid-September!) I squatted and sifted through moss and lichens, coming up for air and granola bars once in awhile. I came back with a mother load of little red berries. I don’t even know what I’ll do with them! Last night, some turned into a cranberry-rhubarb crisp. Maybe today some scones? I’ll freeze some for Thanksgiving and Christmas too.
Either way, this is what us gatherers gathered while the hunters in the area seem to be having a rough go of moose hunting this season. Everyone says the cows and young ones are being spotted everywhere, but you aren’t allowed to shoot those. Only one guy around here claimed to have shot three caribou, but I only believe about half of what he says. So good luck to the local hunters, and courage to the wives and children they are leaving behind for three or four days at a time, only to come home empty-handed. Courage, ladies!

Labels: food, Ross River

A resounding chorus of swelling shrieks, that, from a distance, sounds like a group of terrified screams. This is the soundtrack and most frequent audible backdrop to Ross River. This town is not known for many things: There’s no mayor, no landmarks, and the town sign has a dilapidated old car ridden with bullet holes at the entrance. But many people remember Ross River as “the place with the dogs.”
There aren’t any bylaws, so far as I know, limiting the number of dogs a person can own, as in most municipalities. There are indeed some residents who house nine and ten dogs, all in a dog yard behind their homes. At one point, I was living in a house flanked by nine dogs on our left and another ten right across the street. Not fun. And when one dog goes off barking at something – real or imaginary- they ALL get going in the chorus.
Aside from the dozens of dogs chained up in dog yards, Ross River is known for its pack of wild dogs. Dogs that start out as puppies, that are cute and therefore attractive as fun pets. But then people sort of forget to take care of them, letting them roam free and fend for themselves with the other rejected and neglected canines. It literally becomes a dog eat dog world. They congregate outside the restaurant, waiting for scraps. They wait outside of the school for their “owners” to collect them at the end of the day. They roam the main drag of highway, with increasing aggression the hungrier they become. I’ve been warned not to bother going for jogs in town because the wild packs of dogs would be apt to nip at my legs, if not attempt to gnaw the flesh from my bones!
Lately, there have been a pack of dogs in our neighbour’s yard howling between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and about 4:00 a.m. Not the kind of night music one might request to be lulled to sleep with.
Yesterday on the way back from walking our puppy in the woods, one of the residents stopped driving his John Deere lawnmower down the road and expressed frustration at the nocturnal barks. In fact, his words were,
“I can’t take it anymore. The next time I hear it, I’m going to go running out of my house with either a shotgun or a bat and I’ll gladly beat the dog to death.”
Hmm. I’ll chalk it up to another day in Ross.

Labels: dogs, Ross River

Once upon a time in this funny little place called Ross River, I was having a temper tantrum and was angry at the world, including the fact that yet another month was going by without being pregnant. There’s not a heck of a lot to do here, so each month sans fetus was like “OMG, could we ACTUALLY be here for 2 years without a bambino?” Dread!
So I took a home pregnancy test out of anger, just to confirm to myself that I was out of the running, so I could move on and focus on other things. Other things like dinner. Or online movie rentals. Fascinating.
I took the test, waited an ADD 5 seconds and when I saw no second line I tossed the test and stormed off to clean windows or something. Then one distraction led to another. That night before going to bed I remembered the test and felt sheepish at being so baby crazy and frustrated. I tried to be all Zen and remind myself that my time would come and yadda yadda yadda. So I brushed my teeth and pulled the test out “just to make sure.” I took out the pink stick and saw a really faint second line.
“Hmm, what does THAT mean?” I wondered to myself. So I ran with my little pink cell phone out onto the back porch where no one could hear me and I called one of my best friends.
“There’s a second line but it’s like really light. What does that mean?”
She said if there was anything but one line, that probably means there’s something funky going on. We decided I’d take another test first thing in the morning. It was one of those digital ones where it just reads either Pregnant or Not Pregnant. I got it out of the package and all ready for my morning pee the next day.
I woke up at 8:00 to get ready for school, and hid the test in the bathroom drawer while I let it sit for the requisite three minutes after peeing on it. Unfortunately, while I was letting it process, one of our house guests who had popped in the night before from Whitehorse had taken advantage of the available shower. I made breakfast, got dressed, put together some snacks I could eat during the morning, and pretended to read a magazine while I waited FOR-EV-ER. She finally came out, dangling a towel over her hair and closed the guest room door. I opened the drawer and read the words PREGNANT. I don’t remember what my immediate thoughts were (kind of anti-climactic, sorry!) because I had to be quiet. So I raced back out onto the back porch, redialed my friend and told her the results. We both got giddy, I told her not to tell a soul, and I cut the conversation short so I could tell the father!
I have a stockpile of greeting cards on hand, so I pulled out a “Congratulations on your baby” card. Inside, I wrote, “Are you ready to be a Daddy?” and signed my name. I walked into our bedroom as he finished dressing for work. I closed the door, sat on the bed and told him there was something I needed to tell him.
“I feel it is best expressed in this card,” I said. I gave it to him and watched his face as he opened the envelope and read, then re-read the words.
“Seriously? For real?”
I nodded and cried, and he hugged me and we laughed and repeated over and over again, “Wow, we’re going to have a baby!”
We called my mom, my other best friend, his best friend and parents and told them our crazy news, cautioning them to keep it to themselves as we wanted to share and celebrate but be weary “in case anything happens.” I told my Dad and siblings a few days later on Father’s Day. Clearly, my “present” kicked everyone else’s butts.
And now we’re in the fourth month, my belly is swelling and I am just way too excited!!

Labels: baby, family, Ross River

Yikes, alright, so it’s been awhile. At first I was sitting in Ross River willing the days to count down slower so I could just escape the tedious boredom of this silly town and go home. My days consisted of feeling sea sick, watching TLC shows in the a.m., walking the dog, doing some yoga, watching Dr. Phil and Oprah, making dinner and reading before bed. A tedium any twentysomething can see was filled with lameness. It was brutal.
Then I finally got to fly to Vancouver, where I visited with some high school buddies. We toured around, I bought ridiculously priced yoga pants, and we watched fireworks on the beach that night. It was a beautiful first night away from Ross.
I flew into Ottawa and surprised my sister by arriving a day earlier than she thought I would. It was priceless. I spent my time in Ottawa going to movies on the big, fancy screen, laughing at hilarious childhood movies in the basement, having sleepovers with my best friends, eating deliciously wonderful food and having heart to hearts: soooo much better in person than over the phone. Made some important artistic discoveries like She&Him and the Flight of the Concords (I don’t get out much).
Drove to Maine with some family and relished in the familiar beauty of the seaside town we’d visited many summers before. We played in the waves, ate fried clams, kissed lobsters, read on the beach and got sand into every crevice imaginable. I even went like 5 days without showering. Cuz hey: bathing in the ocean is so much better. In week-long doses, that is.
I said goodbyes to Maine, then goodbyes to family and friends in Ottawa. It was so hard to say goodbye, especially to my mum, because we now had so much more to bond over. We definitely have made the leap from parent-child to a place where we can be friends.
When my plane landed in Whitehorse, I was greeted by husband and in-laws and we set off on a Yukon tour. We stayed a few days in the capital at a B&B that had no beds or breakfast (c’est la vie) before heading up the Klondike Highway for 6 hours to Dawson City. I love Dawson. I really hope we can live there next. It feels like stepping on to the set of an old movie. Then we drove 7 or 8 hours back to Ross River, where our lovely helpers moved us from the brown house around the block to the big, beautiful new house.
And now that the in-laws have had their fill of the Yukon, and it’s back to being husband, myself, Goober and Skylar in this new, beautiful big house, I actually feel happy here in Ross River. Maybe it’s the change in dwelling, maybe it’s the refreshed perspective that comes with a trip home, or maybe it’s not being in a perpetual state of queasiness. But I’m in a place that feels like my home and I can’t wait to make room for one more. 

Labels: family, friends, Ross River, Yukon

Overheard as I set out a box of pizza at husband’s desk at the police department. He was in the jail cells section negotiating with a drunk guy:
Scene: Drunk guy is only mildly drunk and husband agrees to take him home as long as drunk guy agrees to stay inside for the rest of the night. Drunk guy agrees.
Husband: Okay, well I need your word that you’ll stay in, so I need you to shake on it.
Guy extends left hand.
Husband: No, no, no. You’ve got to shake with your right hand (Tries to get extra reassurance the drunk guy still has the motor skills and cognizance to determine left from right)
Drunk Guy holds back, begins to get angry.
Drunk Guy: No, man
Husband: Yup, it’s got to be the right hand, that’s how you shake on it.
Drunk Guy: No, man, with my left (voice rising)
Husband: Dude, give me your right hand and shake on it or you’ll be in cells tonight. Come on, I’m doing you a favour.
Drunk Guy: I don’t have a right hand!
Husband: What are you talking about? You’re starting to lose my trust here. Now, shake.
Drunk Guy: No, I mean, I don’t have a right hand!
He is very angry now and holds up his right arm, which comes to an end with a stump after his wrist.
Husband: (sheepishly) My bad. Alright, let’s get you home.

Oh, the things we have to discuss over dinner.

Labels: Ross River

I watched the CBC’s live coverage of the Canada Day show on Parliament Hill this morning. It was a little mournsome, as it was all so familiar and evoked major nostalgia. I could envision my friends and family, painting maple leafs on each other, barbecuing, drinking, and putting those paper flags in their ponytails, getting ready to make the trek downtown, where crowds frequently erupt singing the national anthem and everyone joins in.
On TV, I watched the cannons go off, the PM shake hands awkwardly with people in their traditional dress and people wearing as many red maple leafs as possible. I had sort of written off this Canada Day, knowing it could never compare to an Ottawa Canada Day. I even pitifully texted all my Ottawa friends, wishing them a happy Canada Day, envisioning them walking the downtown streets blocked off from traffic wearing goofy hats and flags in creative ways.
But then there was a Canada Day miracle. Husband/lead cop in town was asked at the last minute to organize a Canada Day parade. Now, when Ross River residents say “parade” what they mean is organizing all the emergency vehicles (police, fire, ambulance) to form a convoy with sirens on and wailing. Each vehicle pastes Canada flags and Canada balloons all around it, and the occupants prepare freezies and Canada Day tattoos and candy to throw out at the kids.
I thought this was hilarious, driving through town with sirens blazing, no doubt irritating all the hung over drunks. More importantly, a whole slew of kids started following the “parade” on their bikes, collecting the strewn freezies, tattoos and candy. They were so happy! People waved to us from the balconies and drove out in their cars to follow. It was too funny; I smiled ear to ear tossing freezies and laughing the whole morning.
To top it all off, a mother and her daughter hauled out their ice cream truck, for this once-a-year occasion, and drove around ringing their bells selling ice cream to everyone. They made a killing and I got an ice cream sandwich.
It was totally not the high-budget, staged spectacle of national TV, but it was just enough to make me forget about what I was missing at home. Happy Canada Day!

Labels: Ross River

Let’s talk about the fundamentals of greening up my home.
For one, I am not so good at planting, and do not see myself squatting over dirt wearing floral-print anything gardening up a storm anytime in my future. (I’ll never say never). People here start little buds in that dark soil around February and plant seeds under heat lamps. Then when it’s May and relatively warm outside (i.e. not freezing) they plant rows and rows of these seedlings-turn-two-leaved mini-plants. Then the constant sunlight leads to constant photosynthesis and within short weeks there are beautiful, ripe gardens. People grow potatoes (Yukon gold!) and herbs and tomatoes and eat wonderfully fresh produce from their own gardens for all of summer (which is two months).
This all sounds splendid and totally not realistic to me. Maybe one day, but not now. So I’m not going to plant little seedlings and grow them under heat lamps and presto change-o have beautiful, leafy green plants. It’s just not in my self-determined cards.
I love the idea of buying those ready-grown ginormous plants at the Wal-Mart garden Centre on my trips into Whitehorse. All I’d have to do is keep them watered, and I can handle that, even if our water tank does disagree with our average level of water usage. BUT, that would mean loading a bunch of plants in the bed of my pickup truck and driving four hours at about 100 km/hour on bumpy dirt roads. I’ve yet to see anyone in this town perform such a feat successfully. Not to mention the bed of my truck is also filled with coolers and Rubbermaid containers full of groceries and food. Humph.
So I took to stealing. My husband’s coworker has gone AWOL but did give us a random phone call asking us to water his plants. I interpreted that to mean, “Take my plants and find perfect spots for them in your own home and then water them until the end of time.” So I did!
Then the nice man who runs the “life skills” class (i.e. special ed) at school gave me one of his, since he was moving.
See, all this came from this Feng Shui for Dummies book I ordered from Amazon that told me I need more plants in my house to balance out the flow of energy in order to be happy and reap the rewards the universe is ready to offer me. Naturally, I was like “right on!” but then went through the above thought process in wondering how to acquire said plants.
Now that my home’s energy is all redirected and balanced thanks, in part, to my stolen plants (is that Feng Shui hypocrisy? If so, can the energy gods tell?), all is well.

Labels: Ross River

There’s something to be noted about first nations and their oft-touted motto of respect for elders. It’s an absolute about-face from the way I grew up viewing a western societal take on the geriatric age, where old people are addressed with demeaning tones as they are shipped off to retirement homes, only to be visited or let out for Christmas, Easter and the occasional grandchild birthday.*
Today the students had a field trip led by elders to the site of the old Ross River, before it was moved to this side of the river in 1963. It is about a 20-minute hike, once you cross the footbridge over the fast-moving Pelly River, and the path is marked with grave sites, hawks’ nests and walking trails established long ago.
Troubled kids who are normally off the wall and wouldn’t listen to warnings of a nuclear attack sat enraptured by the tales of the elders. Kids who have difficulty remembering their own birthdays were able to tell me how they were related to the elders present, where the families became connected long ago. As far as I know, the age of 65 denotes one an elder. Their faces are dark and lined at the creases, their hair is black but lined in white. They speak softly, and say much with few words.
One, Amos, I estimate is almost 80 years old. He said he was 13 in 1942 as he recounted a story of how large steamboats would pass the old Ross River settlement during the war. He led a walking tour of the old site in the bush, keeping a quick pace with his carved walking stick through unmarked paths. I consider myself in decent shape and found myself taking large steps to keep up with him as he moved from the site of an old car to an abandoned house once owned by the Catholic priest. He showed us where the produce was stored for coolness and recounted what fun he had running around with his friends. Though hard of hearing, he told stories with fascinating detail, and all listened, no matter how soft he spoke.
Around the campfire, he sharpened stick to be used in a gopher trap, and talked to the students.
“Those potato chips, potato chips. No eat those potato chips. You eat potatoes, fruit, that be much better,” he said with a nod.
“And don’t be drinking. You stagger around act like idiot, that’s no good,” echoed with a face of disgust.
“That marijuana smoke,” he said, raising two fingers to his mouth as if to smoke it, “you stay away, it make you crazy like, no good. Us old timers, we know, you stay away.”
Sound advice, even if the demographic was largely between the ages of 9 and 12-- not early or too late.
Another elder, a woman, told me talking to the kids today is like talking to sticks, she said, holding up a sharpened piece of willow.
“They don’t listen, don’t know how to survive off the land.” Is that really important these days? It is here, where families still hunt in the bush for extended periods of time. “They run out food, bear eat it, these kids don’t know how to feed themselves.”
She pointed out some kids that are eager to learn, but lamented that most fall victim to junk: food, family structures and alcohol.
This was the first time, since arriving here, that I heard such candid and clear thoughts against drinking, against the social dysfunction that I witness every day. I realize there are wise people here who wish for better, who recognize the trouble their people are in.
The old Ross site smelled sweet from the thousands of sage plants growing in the field. The area is dotted with rusted-out tin roofs, cars and ovens. A couple of cabins still stand, but most are fallen, eroding pieces of wood. The kids and I learned which berries to eat (berry blossoms and rosehips) and which not to eat (bee flowers and soap berries). We learned what wood to use to smoke the fish we catch (and fillet ourselves, naturally), and finally, how to set a gopher snare. It was completely impressive to see this practice taught to the kids. It is seldom used these days, and why bother—is there not a general store to buy candy? Of course, but this is tradition, and this is an elder, and for that we respect him and learn.
*=SIDENOTE: This is, of course, a generalization. In my family, my Grama and Grampa were always hanging out with us, taking us to the park, even skateboarding with us. And my Dad’s parents were esteemed intellectuals who never lost their touch until the day they died. That said, I fear we are the exception rather than the norm

Labels: Ross River, social conscious

Because it’s summertime, (meaning a weather forecast that doesn’t linger at two degrees) and the living is easy (read: few social or entertainment outlets), I am happy to say I have time to do the things I always said I’d do “later” or “when I have a bit more time.” Indeed, there are no newspaper deadlines for me, no Monday night council meetings or Wednesday night aerobics classes.
Not that my life was so crazy bad. Like, I was nowhere near the point of an overworked, intervention level. I am an A-type personality who accomplishes much with a packed-full schedule and thrive in busy days planned by the hour. Some cringe at such a daytimer, but not me. Now? Now, when I have one thing, one errand to accomplish, it’s a days-drawn-out affair of “tomorrow I will drop off that application.” Then, “Oh, maybe the next day I’ll swing by the post office.” Slowed right down.
This is where the little angel on my shoulder pops up. Or as I like to think of it, a little Buddha, wearing spandex shorts and sweatbands. He reminds me now that there is this “time” I was always waiting for, it’s time to work on me.
Yikes, I even hate how cliché that sounds. I don’t mean in the twentysomething “I have to FIND myself” kind of way. I mean there, alright, we have very little to do, so let’s use that time to accomplish some personal shifts. As in, shift back into daily yoga, shift back into the kind of dinners that take awhile to prepare from scratch but taste soooo good because of it. The kind if shift that prompts me t read on the back deck rather than watch another damn episode of Tila Tequila’s Shot at Love 2.
I’m re-reading books I remember as interesting, even…get this…SCHOOL texts! I know! I am catching myself in bad habits, or trying to, like touching my face all the time. I had no idea how much I rested my face on my hand, or swiped at my forehead. Near crazy levels! I’m writing letters to friends and family, by hand of course, and even pitching quirky columns to the Whitehorse paper again, just to keep journalistic. And, of course, to get paid for writing again, which is nice.
More importantly though, I’m doing all these hokey hippie things like Feng Shui and meditation and having smoothies with weird things like what germ in them. Things that I think make me a better, more mindful and healthy me. Hence, the spandex-clad Buddha on my shoulder.
It’s my happy-healthy tag team against the general sadness vibe of Ross River. I’m going with the “I’ll smile at you until that one day you might smile back at me” practice.

Labels: reflection, Ross River, yoga

“Do you guys want to come over some night for bear nachos?”
I thought this was a cute saying, like bear claw doughnuts that aren’t really bear claws, but pastries. Until she followed up her invitation with a clarifying sentence.
“Yeah, we caught a bear last weekend.”
Indeed, she was asking if we wanted to go over to her cabin on the lake to eat actual bits of bear meat on nachos! Only in Ross River…
I’m very curious right now about hunting. It fascinates me and definitely impresses me. Coming from Ontario, the concept of subsistence hunting is still a little lost on me. I mean, who would need to hunt for food in this day and age? Well, people in Ross River, is the answer.
The bears have just started coming out of hibernation, and are looking for food and rearing their young. They aren’t big and fat like they are before winter, but apparently their coats continue to grow in winter and many of the black and grizzly bears have pretty yummy meat on them.
This couple caught a bear with one shot, dragged all 200 pounds of it to their cabin and dressed it that night. That means cutting it open and taking out all the bits and pieces. I imagine this to be kind of like a real-life version of the board game “Operation.” They plan on having the hide tanned by a local tanner to make a bearskin rug. All the meat will be eaten, they say, lasting them until their next hunt, likely a moose later this fall.
I’m not sure how fascinated I’d be if I were a vegetarian or a big-time PETA proponent or whatever. But this is the culture, the tradition around here. And I’ll be darned if I leave here without having gone on a hunting trip.

Labels: Ross River

I never thought I’d say it but my trip into Whitehorse, i.e. the social milieu with which I’m most recently familiar, was actually overwhelming. It was odd to be amassed with a group of people I knew. I found it kind of odd and uncomfortable having people talk to me for lengths of time. Me! The journalist of only a month ago! It surprises me how much even a month in a small northern town of first nation land has changed me.
I can feel it, kind of like Spiderman realizes how he’s changed after the spider bite. I can feel myself slowing down, taking it easy. I can tell I am more reflective and certainly more appreciative of simple things like special cheeses (what a treat!) and hugs. I can also feel myself being pulled away from who I used to be. Not that this is a bad thing, I know I will always be changing, or evolving, as I like to say.
I can feel my skin thickening as I learn to deflect misguided anger and discrimination. I can feel myself becoming more independent and self-sufficient because I have to solve problems myself, there are no yellowpages full of answers. I can feel myself humbling, finding joy in things that, only weeks ago, would have gone unnoticed, unappreciated. I live for quiet moments petting my sleeping kitten and sharing a meal with the husband.
I learned more about what’s changing inside me by returning to Whitehorse for the weekend, where the familiar settings and routines seemed different. They are unchanged, and it is me who is seeing things from a changed perspective. Call it the self-discovery of a twentysomething on her own in unfamiliar waters, but I like how difficult life in Ross River can be. I enjoy that it challenges what I know, what I once believed. It does come with tough days, and feelings of despair and sadness I had not experienced before. But change comes slowly, it’s a process, and I am computing it all, figuring out what it means to me, how to deal with it, and where I stand.
The difficulty, I’m finding, is how best to articulate this change and describe it as I live it, not in retrospect. I’ll enjoy having you along on this journey with me as readers, and I hope that as it all unfolds, I can be clear in my descriptions. I don’t think it’s possible for me to paint a complete picture of what this huge upheaval and major life change is like from a personal experience. I’ll try, but there really is no way for you to understand what living here is like unless you do it. I’ll try, of course, but be patient, because I’m in an unfamiliar place, metaphorically and geographically, and as I maneuver my way through it, I may lose you just as I am confused myself.
But now that the initial shock has worn off and I keep moving forward with eyes and mind wide open, we’ll see where it takes me.
“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” – Flannery O’Connor, American author, 1925-1964

Labels: reflection, Ross River, writing

As you can imagine, not everyone is a fan of the detention supervisor. Wednesday afternoons at school, all the students attend special workshops they’ve signed up for. Cooking class, quilting, welding, native appreciation, stuff like that. If a student is late for their activity, they must go to the homework room for the whole period. Some students just get sent to homework automatically, perhaps because they have misbehaved earlier in the day. Either way, I sat at the desk in the homework/detention class and read my book to myself. Students opened up sketchbooks or started origami projects. I didn’t really care what they did, I was just there to make sure they weren’t jumping out windows or running away. This is not a dramatic exaggeration for storytelling purposes, but rather a reality at Ross River School.
Two girls decided that my habit of asking them to stop running away from class was unfavourable. I didn’t give them the benefit of my attention when they decided to write “shit” and “fuck” on the blackboard, giggling and looking over at me, waiting for me to get all teacher-angry. At that point it was more productive for me to count down the ticking clock than try and reprimand them. I decided they did not in fact need to take a fourth bathroom break in under 20 minutes, so I reminded them that they could choose to stay in class or see the principal. This worked for a little bit, as they’d shuffle back to the detention class giggling and whispering, making sure I heard my name interjected in their gossip.
This dance of leaving class, being called back, sulking and giggling circulated for about another 10 rounds before they tried again and I stoop up and headed to the door, indicating I’d be involving the principal.
“Girls, stay in the room. You don’t get another break for at least 20 minutes.”
One girl pretended she didn’t hear me correctly.
“What did you say?”
I repeated.
“I can’t understand you,” she said. Giggles shared between them. One whispered something to the other, and nudged her to say it to me.
“We don’t understand white speak.”
I asked them what, exactly, that meant, because as far as I knew, we were both speaking English.
“You’re too white and stupid to understand,” said one.
“Well, maybe you should teach me then. Explain to me what you mean so that I may learn from you,” I answered.
“We’re smarter than you, we speak the language, and you’re too stupid and white.”
Quite a mouthful of racial epithets to come from the mouth of a ten-year old, I thought. One needn’t wonder too long to deduce from what gardener such thoughts may have been planted in a majority native community.
I knew the principal was busy, but I wasn’t about to argue with these kids or put on a show for the other students in class. We took it to the principal, a white male of Slovakian descent. He was not too impressed. I doubt the girls are sorry, and we’ll see what happens next time. For now, I sit on the other side, wondering what it’s going to be like being the racial minority belittled for my skin colour. Who would have thought a white, Gap-wearing girl from Orleans would be saying that.

Labels: racism, Ross River, School

I settled into my bed Monday night, flanked by puppy on my right, kitten on my left,with his tiny mew-mew head burrowed into my armpit. My own head was propped up by a second pillow, the lights dimmed to that of only my bedside seashell lamp. Hands newly moistened with my olive oil shea butter stuff, I was ready to read until I felt sleepy. Until WWII broke out.
I heard the revving up of alarm signals I had only ever heard before in war movies. Like, the winding up air horns that rang over England to alert citizens that the Germans were preparing an attack. But a blitzkrieg in Ross River?
It stopped, thankfully, once all dogs in town had joined in the wailing chorus towards the moon. Then it revved up again. And again and a few more time in the next half an hour.
Apparently the school's fire alarm is not the regular, modern-day ringing but the war-era invasion alarm, on a pole in the town's centre for all to hear. And some kids had set it off.
Strange.

Labels: Ross River

‘Twas a Saturday afternoon, though without the aid of a clock, it’s hard to tell what time of day is morning, noon or evening. Sun’s up at ten to six in the morning and down at quarter to ten at night.
We had finished hauling the last of the moving boxes up to the town dump, and brought some to the grocery store clerk, who requested them for transportation of produce. The patio was set up, barbecue intact and reading chairs set out. I took the chance to be busy doing nothing, sitting on my patio chair, revisiting a favourite read, with my dawgie (that’s what I think you’re supposed to call them out in the country) at my side, resting her purdy little gold head on her paws. (Purdy may be taking the country dialect too far)
I sat in the sun, outdoors, for the first time in months and peacefully exhaled into a deep, relaxed reading session.
The time came to retire inside when clouds covered the high white sun and I got a bit chilled. As I wandered in, an invitation came to put the police quads to good use.
“Want to come play?”
Of course we did! We saddled up our Rhino, buckled our belts and followed the leader into the bush. Now, when I say into the bush, I mean the wooded area around our town where people have laid snowmobiling and ATV tracks, so its not really all that rugged and primal. But certainly a new thrill to us! The winter melt meant there were many a giant puddle to drive through, and we laughed as I suppose only green city folk can when we realized our motorized vehicle was designed to traverse water and over fallen branches.
We climbed, I ducked my head to avoid snapback branches, I shrieked with delight when we went speedy fast and was content to marvel silently when we took a break where Ross River meets the Pelly River and we took it all in. I hear the area looks beautiful in the summer when the trees are all green and the river ice has broken.
We planned picnic trips and boat rides to fish and winter snowmobile treks up the mountains, although I suppose we will conduct them under the guise of official police “patrols” in order to warrant the free access to all the motorized toys that will take us up, away and over.

Labels: adventure, Ross River

Though I am only 4 hours away from Whitehorse by car, the distance I am from home feels like it has tripled in one week. I walked back to the school after the lunch break today and thought, “I’m glad I don’t have to wear my puffy vest, only my hoodie!”
And, “Look at that snow bank melt!” Winter is at its tail end here, (I hope? Don’t jinx it!) meanwhile phone calls from home tell me everyone’s wearing shorts, eating on patios, thinking about tans. I recall winter beginning with a first fierce snowstorm in September, making this a stupidly long 7-month season. Who came up with that?
Tuesday I happily watched husband set up satellite TV and connect all the wires that make the Internet happen, keeping me in tune and at least electronically closer to home. How did homesick writers do it before the web? There is comfort in America’s Next Top Model and the same tea I drank in my cozy apartments at home. I also find it in my plush bath robe, boxes of Laura Secord chocolate from Easter time and hearing a giggly, curly-haired friend or an excited grade-eight sister on the other end of the phone when it rings.
I feel far from home when I look around at a school assembly that fills up a teensy corner of the vast court and realize I am the only blond, and one of the few people with white skin. It’s just odd to be in the minority, I guess. I feel worlds away when I meet a kid in grade three who doesn’t know his own name, because his parents and family members have never called him by it. I find no relatable ground when I see a kid upset, and the reason is not that their friends teased the, but that their parents got drunk and said mean things to them, so they were up late crying.
That said, I can see how Ross River will be a leap of a learning curve, a chance to learn about real struggle, find out who I am against a drastically different backdrop and of course start out a marriage in a welcoming, warm home for two.
Lesson #1: This weekend will not be about shopping at Canadian Tire before going out for dinner, renting a movie and meeting up with friends for coffee. Rather, it will be about exploring the hiking trails around us, clearing out the giant mountain of moving boxes in my backyard and hoping that our nice, quiet moments aren’t interrupted by a phone calling him out to work.

Labels: Ross River

This weekend we sat down in our living room—we set that up first—to watch Casino Royale. We nestled into our new chocolate suede couches we had set aside under plastic wrapping for the move. It was like Christmas waiting to use them; we had this whole new living room set we couldn’t play with until we moved. The new setup is cozy and organic-y and definitely reflective of us. Especially the curtain panels, of which I mistakenly bought two similar but different colours and a pole that is not long enough and thus caves in at the middle. Oops! I’ll pick up the right ones on my next trip into “the big city” next month.
I digress.
We pressed play and the opening sequence of psychedelic James Bonds and playing cards plays out to Chris Cornell’s voice. Man those James Bond film opening scenes are cool. It hit me then what a polar oppositie experience we were having since the first time we watched the movie.
Rewind!
It was Christmastime 2007 and we were shopping in a 4-day trip to New York City. After a long day carrying overstuffed bags and being herded through crowds thick as an Irish pub on St Paddy’s Day, we were ready to sit down. It seemed a bit weird to go on vacation and see a movie, but that’s exactly what we felt like doing. We went to a mega-plex cinema in Times Square, were escalated about ten stories to purchase our tickets and snacks, before escalating another few levels to the theatre. We sat in over-sized (American-sized?) leather reclining seats marveled like fish out of water at the extravagance of it all and watched Casino Royale.
This time, we were in our small, three-bedroom government-issued house in Ross River, a town of 400 people in the far north of Canada. In what most people would call the middle of nowhere. The closest movie theatre of the multi-plex variety is probably in Vancouver, which is now a 36-hour drive from here, nonstop. Instead of walking out to busy, neon streets of the Big Apple, we walk out to gravel streets run by stray dogs and littered with empty Wiser’s rye bottles. It’s certainly a marked difference.
The people we’ve met so far seem pretty nice and welcoming, although there are certainly a few sideways glances and retreats when they find out I’m “the new cop’s wife.” More than a few kids at the school marvel at my gold-coloured hair and fight to sit beside me at circle time. I can tell it’s going to change me, living here. It’s a tough life, nothing comes easy, nor is it supposed to, I guess. And after being immersed in a small town with a big drinking problem for only a few days, my priorities have begun shifting and suddenly the problems I knew back home seem so far away and insignificant, by comparison.

Labels: moving, Ross River