Cold in this cabin! I have been away for several days so the temperature inside reads 22 degrees. Within an hour, however, the woodstove will heat this place to a sweltering 80 degrees and I will then begin my system of sophisticated heat regulation by opening the windows, dampening the fire, and shutting down the flue. Definitely not as easy as turning the dial on the thermostat but the heat is free save for the energy that went in to sawing, splitting, and stacking the firewood.
I have just returned from Whitehorse, Yukon. This is the capitol city of the territory and harbors some 25,000 people (roughly 85% of this vastly large landscapes human population). The next biggest town, some 8 hours away, is Watson Lake, with 1,500 souls. Theres lots of country in between.
You could say that up here, above the 60th parallel, we are a geographically isolated bunch, separated by many miles of mountains, tundra, and forest. Aside from a whole lot of walking in the woods, many of us go awhile before getting a taste of culture. And while this might sound scary to an SGer from San Francisco, its okay to us for we know the meaning of quality rather than quantity. What I am saying is that way out here, when a big event is happening, even if it is 500 miles away, bush dwellers board up their camps and make a beeline to the rendezvous site, ready to whoop it up like you city slickers have never known (I can say this because I operate in both the urban and wild worlds).
Over the past four days Whitehorse (ironically progressiveno different than Seattle except that it is miniscule in size, population, and impact, and its in the middle of the circumpolar boreal fucking forest) hosted the Frostbite Music Fest, an assemblage of musicians from all over Canada, representing all genres from hip hop to punk, folk to emo, and even a little country and western (but not too much). At the fest, ravers danced beside rednecks, bush freaks welcomed bull dykes, and the celebratory atmosphere was probably more authentic than any Detroit dance party I have ever experienced. We smile, laugh, and interact in a manner not possible in the context of cool that I practiced in the big cities of the south (hey, to me, Portland is as far south as Georgia is to Chicago!).
After Frostbite, it took six hours of driving through the St. Elias and Coast Mountain Ranges before crossing the Alaska/Canada border and reaching my little cabin. The road was empty, as always, and in 300 miles of travel I passed but two other cars. I am satisfied with my dose of the big city, for the time being, feeling fortunate to live this life
I have just returned from Whitehorse, Yukon. This is the capitol city of the territory and harbors some 25,000 people (roughly 85% of this vastly large landscapes human population). The next biggest town, some 8 hours away, is Watson Lake, with 1,500 souls. Theres lots of country in between.
You could say that up here, above the 60th parallel, we are a geographically isolated bunch, separated by many miles of mountains, tundra, and forest. Aside from a whole lot of walking in the woods, many of us go awhile before getting a taste of culture. And while this might sound scary to an SGer from San Francisco, its okay to us for we know the meaning of quality rather than quantity. What I am saying is that way out here, when a big event is happening, even if it is 500 miles away, bush dwellers board up their camps and make a beeline to the rendezvous site, ready to whoop it up like you city slickers have never known (I can say this because I operate in both the urban and wild worlds).
Over the past four days Whitehorse (ironically progressiveno different than Seattle except that it is miniscule in size, population, and impact, and its in the middle of the circumpolar boreal fucking forest) hosted the Frostbite Music Fest, an assemblage of musicians from all over Canada, representing all genres from hip hop to punk, folk to emo, and even a little country and western (but not too much). At the fest, ravers danced beside rednecks, bush freaks welcomed bull dykes, and the celebratory atmosphere was probably more authentic than any Detroit dance party I have ever experienced. We smile, laugh, and interact in a manner not possible in the context of cool that I practiced in the big cities of the south (hey, to me, Portland is as far south as Georgia is to Chicago!).
After Frostbite, it took six hours of driving through the St. Elias and Coast Mountain Ranges before crossing the Alaska/Canada border and reaching my little cabin. The road was empty, as always, and in 300 miles of travel I passed but two other cars. I am satisfied with my dose of the big city, for the time being, feeling fortunate to live this life
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xo sarah