My Yukon

Fairyland in Tombstone

2011-06-12T20:18:00.000-07:00

May long weekend we ended up in Tombstone through chance and partial intention. Having spent the previous night in Dawson and been greeted with a beautiful sunny day we decided to travel to Tombstone that evening. The day wore on as we visited with new found friends and exchanged stories and pieces of information about our families, passions and work. Finally, in the later afternoon we left amid a spat of spring rain which put an end to a warm summers day of play.

We drove through the rain to Tombstone, hoping at every turn that this weather system was just a passing shower and would clear up. Especially as Dawson and Tombstone can have totally different weather systems.

Now, for the past 2 summers I have wanted to camp in Tombstone and have been unable to for various reasons. So I was happy that the rain had not hit when we arrived, leaving a definitely possibility of actually spending the night this time.

The sky was still socked with cloud, however, but I began to set up the tent anyway, surmising if it sprinkled we could still stay if the tent was already there. Of course, if it down poured, that would be a different story.

Besides, I needed sleep before driving the, now almost 7, hours back to Whitehorse. Tired, I checked with everyone before I deciding NOT to use the air mattresses, but rather just throw the sleeping bags onto the tent floor.

About the time I turned in. The weather system arrived. At first the rain was just a sprinkle, light and a bit of a bother, but nothing to worry about.

But by the time I said goodnight to everyone it was beginning to rain much harder and threatened to turn into a soaking torrent.

In the tent, knowing it was going to get cool, I pulled out the once borrowed wool socks that I'd grabbed on a whim for comfort before leaving the house. Filled with tender remembrance and bitter/sweet emotions contained in their origins, I slipped them on over mine, took off my damp, black, kangaroo sweatshirt, folded it for a pillow, put on my thinner blue sweater over top of my t-shirt and crawled into the, still to be washed from their last use in March, sleeping bags only to have the rain instantly stop. It was like someone turned off the faucet.

After reading and dozing for a half hour or so I took to watching the tent until I was certain the sun had indeed come out.

Here the sun is reflected on the mountain behind our site.

Sure enough, the sun was shining and there was only a few pale white skiffs of cloud on the horizon. Wandering the campground, a hug of comforting warmth stole up from the wool socks, climbed my legs and settled around my shoulders as I walked, basking in the evening light and capturing what gems came my way, some of which are depicted below.

At the campground entrance, Charcoal Creek gushes from the culvert beneath the road on it's run down from the mountainsides to feed into the waterways below. I wonder how it got named after a burns leavings.

From this path you would never know less that 15 feet from the turn there are three steps made of naturally squarer rock leading to the main road in the campground. It reminds me of a knarled trail in some fantasy world where one might run into gremlins or fairy folk at any point. I delight in finding little nooks and crannies of wherever I travel. Seeing the detail and individuality of the area; the way nature, land and wild meet, each branch or plant individual and yet influenced by it’s surroundings and habitat. And sometimes within the delicate foliage or in the shadows of the forest reflected in the mirrors of the spring melt, I feel I can almost catch a glimpse of fairyland - It's as if a place where anything seems possible is almost within reach, just beneath the surface of what I'm seeing.

A few more yards and I stumble upon this small bridge where the partly iced Charcoal creek continues on it’s way through this wooded mossy area where the tree line and subarctic terrain meet. It’s 10:45 p.m, the light still large in the night sky.

This far north the leaves are still not out on the trees and the ground is still partially frozen in spots. Small run off streams, heading to join this larger creek, have flooded the tent pads in at least 2 of the campsites.

Shadows are cast on this mounts slope from the sun at my back as it begins to sink lower in the sky behind the mountains on the horizons rim in this elevated terrain.

Note: According to Tourism Yukon, the Yukon Territorial Park called Tombstone got it's name from the mountain range it encompasses. More about the name and park can be found on the Tourism Yukon's site - here.

Of Sprites, Fairies and Water Nymphs

2010-08-31T11:38:00.000-07:00

A short 5 minute drive (if that) from Downtown Whitehorse, will lead you to a place called Miles Canyon. Many of the travelers heading to Dawson City during the goldrush lost their lives in this canyon, parts of which sport names such as Canyon City and Devil's Punchbowl.

It's now riddled with wilderness trails frequented by wildlife, both 4 footed and 2, throughout the summer and skiers through the winter. This rock lies 4 feet from shore off the northern side of the canyon, up river from where the suspension bridge slings across the canyon's narrowest point. Surrounded by water it's a pleasant place to sit, contemplate and fantasize about life and the world both real and imagined.

Water Falls

2010-07-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

Water falling, running downward, outward,
Dripping, slipping, rivets spiraling,
Playing, dancing, jumping, crying, laughing
Gravities pull, tripping over stones,
bouncing, sliding, rolling over, under,
through, around, skirting outjutts, leaping
off stony faces, splatting, giggling, flowing
down, down, down to the sea and beyond.

"I am never more myself than when I'm alone in my surroundings."

2010-06-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

This giant sandbox, dubbed the smallest desert in the world, is impossible for me to get lost in. I hug the warm silky sand between my toes as we walk, the light from almost 25 hour sun enveloping my back. As I walk out into the middle of nothing. One can be alone, anywhere.

Searching for Meaning

2010-06-15T23:25:00.000-07:00

Coming back from a trip to Atlin, BC, where my 12 year-old, Brace, was having a camping trip with his grade 6 class. I pulled into the lake, just before the turn off onto the Carcross road (in the Yukon).

I was amazed!! I don't know why eagles keep crossing my path and I'm not complaining about it. But there, sitting on a stone was this Golden Eagle. I got up to 20 feet from it before he started flying away (as seen here).

He must have been at least 3 feet tall with a 12 foot + wing spam... he truly was magnificent!

Lost in Transit

2010-06-14T10:04:00.000-07:00

When you live in the Yukon everywhere else in the world is "outside." And when you go outside sometimes things seem weird.

Like when we went to Toronto. I loved the architecture, the old buildings, the stone work and the carved wooden doors. I have a thing about doorways.

I saw this sign from the window of the Greyhound bus on our way to our friends wedding.

If this sign is to be believed, people are not allowed to stand to the left of this sign. Nor are they to stop there between 4 and 6 PM from Monday to Friday.... huh??? I'm confused.

In the Yukon things are simple. Like at the end of main street. "Tour bus parking only. April - October," "Two hour parking," makes sense.

I know that each community has it's differences and quirks which make it unique. It's what sets us all apart. And so it is my hope that someday someone in Toronto will enlighten me at some point as to the meaning of this sign.

2010-06-13T17:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, trains ran these rails from Whitehorse, YT to Skagway, AK. Today, a trolley rides backwards and forwards carrying tourists and locals from one end of town to the other along the Yukon River front. Tomorrow... the great unknown looms. Ever present, ever real and ever changing.

Tracks of where I've been stretch on into the unwritten future of hopes, dreams and unspoken thoughts yet to be, where nothing is ever certain and anything can happen. It must be enough to know who I am and trust that where I've been will carry me through, in time.

2010-06-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

Brittle rock faces full of fissures stand amid mountain slopes. Run off trickling through tunnels, running over faces, tripping and dancing over the rough surfaces as the mountain goat, on it's way to the valleys below.

Mini-waterfalls singing through the valley, voices every louder and rushing as they join the rivers and lakes on their way to the sea. A mass of water moving as herds of deer and caribou, followed by the green of spring, the rainbow of summer flowers and the painted colours of autumn rust.

In some places the hill themselves are weeping from the winters weight, a welcome to the warmth of summer and the plenty of fall fruit before the long nights sleep.

2010-06-07T20:03:00.000-07:00

The Yukon. Rich in history and colour. The past behind glass as the present rushes by. I wonder what it would think were our positions reversed. We must seem a wild lot content to lolligag around doing things strangely counter productive and backwards. Disconnected by the technology we serve.