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

First off, nothing will ever beat Christmas at home where the magic of preparations, dinner and stocking-filling remain the property of the parents and grandparents. Where the kids get the luxury of having a holiday largely presented to them in the form of church, turkey dinner, presents, sledding and Santa. All we ever had to do is decorate the tree, get presents for each other, and offer to clean up around the house leading up to Christmas.
Christmas on my own, 5,000 km from home, was initially a tough sell. I got directions from the home camp, husband’s side, to prepare a turkey dinner all by myself on Christmas Day, one of only two I would have off from work this week. I had to be in on the holiday magic, playing Santa, and be the last to see the tree and its under-contents before bed that night.
It was essentially graduating from the audience of the show to the backstage producers, responsible for the success of it all with little help from anyone else.
Here’s how I fared in the first home versus Yukon Christmas:
I did my turkey dinner menu prep days before, purchasing my fresh turkey and dinner dishes at the insanely busy Superstore. I pre-chopped my carrots and peeled the potatoes in advance to decrease my to-do list, at least a little bit.
I wrapped presents early and had them all ready to go under the tree and in the stockings. All were pleased.
I sent cards and presents to family and friends in Ottawa weeks ago with instructions not to open anything until Christmas, so that I could make a presence Christmas morning, at least in some shape or form.
I donned my Christmas Santa hat and visited my Dad, brother and sister via web cam as they finished up Christmas brunch, and that really made me feel at home, included and that I wasn’t missing out on things as much as I really was.
I disguised my home-missing quite well, I think, with an insistence that Christmas CDs be played on repeat, with numerous calls home, and by throwing all energy into dinner, leaving no time for nostalgia or homesickness.
I set up the dining table with all the holiday table decor I’d been slowly acquiring in the preceding months, and I must say, it was gorgeous. I prepared the bacon-wrapped turkey, the stuffing, the scalloped cheesy potatoes, the peas, the rolls, the gravy and the two pies, bumbleberry and apple. (Yes, I forgot about the carrots, cut me some slack). We ate a nice meal, drank wine and champagne (a first Yukon Christmas is certainly cause for celebration) and finished the day with a round of board games and pie a la mode.
A phone at my grama’s house was passed around with myself on the receiving end, listening to what everyone got, how the food was and how everyone missed me. I hurriedly reciprocated so my homesickness would stay quelled.
Instead of hitting the malls at Mach-ten first thing Boxing Day morning, I lazily woke up at 9:30 with the puppy snuggled into my arm pit. I started the tea kettle, woke up the boys (visiting relatives from Edmonton) and made turkey sandwiches to take sledding. We bundled up, loaded sleds, and took off to an adventure that can only be described as follows:
Boxing Day Sled Fest in the Desert.
About an hour from Whitehorse is a town called Carcross, and it has a desert, or what used to be the floor of a glacial lake. We brought the dog, water, sandwiches, snacks and sleds, and took turns being pulled up to the top of the snow-covered sand dunes by friends on Skidoos. The slopes were steep and I managed to stay on my sled most of the time. We even got the puppy to figure out how to chase us down the hill, tiring her out in the process. We made a bonfire with friends, and one of them let me drive their Skidoo, man that is fun!
I perfected the art of sand dune sledding, which involved knowing when to close my mouth so that sand would not fly in, and using my palms, not heels, as steering rudders when necessary.
I didn’t come home with bargain jeans or iPod speakers, but I did come home with a bona fide Yukon adventure under my belt and a day spent with friends and the little bit of family that is here.
Home may still win for best Christmas, but we made it work here. And given the choice, I would choose desert sledding over Boxing Day sales anytime.

Labels: Christmas, nostalgia, the north

I've been MIA since my Internet access has been reduced to whatever half hour time slot I am fortunate enough to book at the Whitehorse Public Library. Because that's where I moved. Whitehorse. The Yukon. As in the arctic, north of 60, 23-hour sunlight.
Its a bit surreal. I have not fully realized yet that I have left my entire life, friends, family, work, social network to move 5,000 km away. Even as I write that, I don't appreciate that I am the subject of my own post here. The town is beautiful, clean, and the major perk is the mountainous landscape and aqua-blue waterways. Ive found a reporting job, and am getting used to the fiance having a job where people hate him and he sees depressing things like 14-year-old drug addicts all day long. I haven't quite figured out that I cannot go on a shopping spree on a whim (no money and also no clothing stores to go nuts in!), stores close at like 5 or 6 and then you're just supposed to be with people, and also the idea that business casual can sometimes mean over-sized T-Shirts and cargo pants. I'm adjusting, and trying to absorb all I can about what I've gotten into so that maybe one day, sooner rather than later, I will find myself speaking the words "home" and referring to Whitehorse.
More later when I have my own computer in my own house with my own Internet access that does not include peery strangers shifting their gazes to my screen. Yeah, old gardening lady in Crocs that smells of cilantro, I mean you.

Labels: moving, the north