Yukon Diaries

The air changed over the September long weekend. It became denser, crisper, colder. Yellow and red leaves had changed from green on the fireweed that ran along the side of the road. Its beauty calmed me like a mother shushing her newborn, one fresh enough to be dysregulated by circadian rhythms and the time mustered by the rise and fall of the sun and moon.

I finally got a breath that satisfied me - one that shuttered away the crippling iron that squeezed and pressed my throat, ribs, heart and lungs. But only for a moment.

No bears appeared along the highway and no moose emerged from the bushes. The dashboard read 117km with my toes resting firm on the gas peddle and my mind on mostly one thing.

I was driving to Carcross after a failed camping trip next to the pelting waves of Kusawa Lake. I’d taken the Friday off so I could get there early on Thursday night, securing one of the more desirable locations next to the beauty of the lake. But in the sweeping darkness of the middle of the night, I heard sounds that had my eyes moving from one window to the other. If I opened the blinds, would a stark face with hands cupped around their gaping eyes be revealed? Is that what was out there, knocking on my van, trying to get in?

Then my mind thought about the lady I met the last time I’d been to Kusawa– the one who proclaimed to be a liaison between the Tlingit and the extra-terrestrials that frequented Beaver Creek. Could it be aliens? The notion no longer seemed laughable as recent news media revealed not only their existence but their visitations and capture by the United States Government. (I wonder if Canada has a program that has done something similar?)

Anyways, the next morning, I lifted the accordion blinds next to my pillow on the loft that sits over the van cabin where I sleep so I could soak in first light on the surrounding trees. But what I saw was a pine, that once stood tall and gracefully, had fallen in the night, not too far off from me.

My reaction was to laugh. I laughed maniacally all the way to the outhouse, where I discovered yet another fallen tree. Both were long dead corpses lying across both the entrance and the exit. I was effectively blocked in.

Park maintenance eventually made their rounds and came in with a chainsaw removing the obstacles…I held on, making fires in the pit while reading ‘Little Fires Everywhere' with wind whipping my hair over my eyes. There was a constant gust making a percussion of the thousands of leaves in the surrounding forest and the lake made displays of waves, as consistent as the oceans. It was deafening. It pulverized my nerves into a frenzy of rattled strands.

The pollution of noise sent me to lay down for a rest, but I was stiff as a board as I pushed my fingers on the ceiling, realizing its fragility and all I could imagine was the dead tree holding on to another by the whiskers of its branches, cracking over in a new gust in the night, enfolding a crumpled cylinder of aluminum, carbon fiber, and whatever else my van is made of.

“I don’t feel ...well,” was the generic sentiment after ignoring the feeling in my gut all windy afternoon. I didn't want to give up my spot I had taken a whole day off to obtain, but I didn't want to be in a forest of wind and trees threatening to crash at any moment either. I reluctantly left for home. And as I exited the campground, I drove by several other piles of sawdust, snapped trunks and even some caution tape cordoning off certain campsites as though crimes had been committed in the dark of the night.

______

The White Pass train rumbled past The Bistro in the heart of Carcross (short for Caribou Crossing), headed for Skagway, Alaska. I wished I'd brought my passport, so I could have gone aboard and be transported through the cleavage mountains and moonscapes until the feeling faded away. Gasping for air, I felt another moment of relief – lasting only briefly. I was reduced to gulping for breaths.

A baby made me genuinely smile in the bathroom. A German mother with a blonde ponytail changed her child and as I washed my hands, I picked up small bits and pieces of the language, schön (nice) and other sch sounds. The child laughed, a soother in his mouth, and I felt my lips spread. It felt good to see the joy of another human.

Sipping Yukon Gold, I watched people queue up to order and then go sit in the sunshine with their families. Children and dogs parade the deck.

Maybe life will be okay.