Its the light that gets me, and the snowy brightness. Even the icy air that I breathe in and am filled with echoes of wintry days cross country skiing across the Ottawa River or the Gatineau, or walking down by the river in Edmonton. Bloody cold, but glorious. The sky seems bluer than possible, and it goes on and on; the mountains than hem in town can't even contain it. Flying up from Vancouver was magical, mystical. Jagged peaks poked up here and there through a layer of pale cloud, and then it opened up to reveal row after row of smooth snowfield-covered mountains, so far from anything, so remote that one would think that nobody has ever trodden there, no one has ever passed through, just the icy contrail of passing airplanes, and the endless endless endless. . . sky.

Arriving in Whitehorse to Rebecca's glowing smile, a warm hug, down jacket against down jacket. Walking out from the airport and the cold hits me, and the memories of wintry days, so far from Victoria. We drive around the scenic way, over the Yukon River, still flowing darkly and swiftly in places by the bridge, step out of the car and look over the town, not quite real, wisps of smoke rising from the occasional chimney, and then a walk through town. Rebecca questions why we don't have hair growing from our noses to keep us warm, and I wrap my scarf around my face more tightly. We watch a tourist video in the Visitor Centre (where she sets up a program for next week, watching boundless landscapes and wild rivers fly by, and the voices of locals, and the myths of Crow who created the world, at least around here).

I walk around town, warm inside though my feet are starting to freeze. Taking photos of the sky of the mountains of the the klondikey buildings and quirky sights. Now sitting in a cosy cafe listening to local folk music and friends chatting in French at the next table over.

The sun is staring to fade, a pinky glow on the mountains. No doubt the mercury is dropping even as I write. Commence un autre aventure.