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.
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| 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.
