The Magic Edge
by Dianne Homan

The Yukon has a mystique about it, like Camelot. Everyone's heard of it, some know where it is, a few have visited, and a handful live here. We identify ourselves first and foremost, as Yukoners; everywhere else is considered "outside". When I first moved to the Yukon and heard people talking about going "outside", I had a vision of the total population of 30,000 standing at the 60th parallel and peeing, defining our territory as wolves do.

Like Camelot, the Yukon has its tales and fables. 'We have six months of darkness and six months of light.' 'It regularly gets down to minus 60 degrees in the winter.' 'Our mosquitoes are as big as ravens.' 'All the men have hairy faces and all the women, hairy legs. And 'our favourite drink has a human toe floating in it.' It's all lies and exaggerations.

But even true stories in the Yukon have a magic edge to them. I met my husband-to-be on a rafting trip down the Tatshenshini River. He was one of the guides. I was impressed by his flannel-shirted strength, by his ability to recite Robert Service poetry from memory, and by his willingness, on grey afternoons in camp, to join in silly games like playing jumprope with one of the rescue ropes.

I wrote him a bold letter after returning home, proposing that I come back to the Yukon to visit him. Four months later, I flew into Whitehorse Airport and was driven in his beat-up old VW Rabbit to a one-room log cabin on the edge of an ice-covered mountain lake.

The cabin was a guy place. A bow and arrows stood in one corner, fishing gear in another. A German hunting horn hung from a nail by the door. Furniture was made with a chainsaw and covered with animal hides, and a narrow bachelor's bed consisted of a foamie, a few blankets, and a down sleeping bag repaired with duct tape. He cooked me caribou, and we watched the darkness descend over one of the quietest and most beautiful landscapes I'd ever seen. I was a goner. I fell in love in more ways than one.

I've lived in the Yukon seven years now. Yukoners always tell you how long they've lived here--it's like a badge of honour or something. I've never seen it get below -47 degrees. I make sure I go outside to greet the few hours of sun on short winter days. In the whispery twilight of summer nights, the mosquitoes are really only an annoyance during bedtime visits to the outhouse. I shave my legs, although my husband does have a beard. And my favourite drink is the clear cold water that we dip out of our mountain lake. I haven't found any toes floating in it yet.

There's definitely a mystique about the Yukon. Let Camelot keep its Arthur, Guenivere, and Lancelot. We have love stories of our own among the husky dogs, grizzly bears, and mosquitoes only half the size of ravens.


Story provided by StoryEngine.ca

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