Have you ever been lost in a forest? Lost so that you know where you're going, but just can't seem to find the way to get there? Lost so that you know there's an end but not sure how to find it?
It sounds like I'm talking euphemistically, doesn't it? I'm not.
Twice this week, I've gotten lost in the forest between my apartment in Porter Creek and the Arts Centre in Takhini. It's hemmed in by the Alaska Highway on one side and Mountainview Road on the other, but there is a vast, incredibly wild acreage of boreal forest in between. In which I have now gotten lost twice. The first time involved a gully and my fall into it. This time involved my boyfriend and his irritation at my incredible lack of direction sense. It didn't help that I consistantly viewed it as a merry adventure and he kept thinking he was being made late for his volunteer work at the Film Festival. And fair enough, but he didn't even want to be going in the first place. At any rate, we did eventually make our way out of the woods and to the Arts Centre, quite a bit later than we'd anticipated.
Anyway, we've both been volunteering for the Yukon International Film Festival (or YIFF -ewwww), which has been both pleasant and painful. Firstly, it was the worst organised event I have ever participated in. From symphony galas, to museum fundraisers, to science fiction conventions, this was absolutely the worst run festival ever. And they held it in June. Who the hell runs a film festival at the end of June? Right when school is out and everyone leaves town. Did they think they were going to pack the seats with German tourists?! Crikey. Anyway, I did enjoy some of the films I saw.
In particular, my three favourites, in order, have been: The End of Silence, One of Many and, These Girls. The first was a foreign film set in Toronto about a Russian dancer and the man she falls in love with and the struggle she faces in a new place, filled with passion, and the pull of home, family and the ballet. God, it was lovely, and just brimming with the most beautiful imagery of Toronto as a romantic and mysterious city. The second was a documentary about a woman from Winnipeg (now Whitehorse) and her search for her roots as the child of one of the Lost Generation of Native people. The children of those who's lives were uprooted for residential school and their confusion about who they are and where they belong. The third was just light comedy about three teenaged girls who woo and use a married man in his thirties. It has a strange premise and it should have failed, but it was honest, funny and terribly weird. In a good way.
Anyway, I'm off to the closing party of the festival now. So I'll write more another time. My leg seems to no longer be cramping up and that's good, but better yet, the shuttle will be arriving soon to take me downtown.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
This past weekend, in that it was Gareth's first weekend with me here in Whitehorse, I splurged and rented a car. The Subaru dealership here, which also sells Kias, has a rental car programme, which is both helpful and a good way to sample their fleet. The dealership has a very good reputation and I can totally understand why. Family owned and operated, they are polite, pleasant, and warm. They're also happy to provide information about vehicle purchasing. We had big plans to do many things, but didn't end up doing them. You can find the run-down here.
Firstly, I must comment on how widely varied the terrain and geology is in the area around Whitehorse. It's incredible, really. There are six or seven distinct biomes and many animals that inhabit them. In a matter of minutes in the car, we could see sheer cliffs, lake-filled valleys, boreal forest, sand-hills, etc. Truly remarkable. We have been told to keep an eye out for mountain goats and whatnot on the cliffs and mountains as we're out driving. How neat is that?!
Anyway, on Sunday, we headed up Fish Lake Road, which is only a kilometre or two from my apartment. Several people had told me that it was a stunning drive and we should try it. So, in that our initial plans to head for Skagway, Alaska, were no longer happening, it seemed like a very good place to head. Descriptions of its beauty were understating the truth. Quite possibly, I have never seen so dramatic and glorious a landscape since arriving in the Yukon. The road slowly climbs up, one rolling hill after another, and eventually you become aware that you're climbing in altitude. As you do, the trees begin growing further apart, more sparse in foliage, and shorter in height. The mountain peaks surrounding the drive become no longer tower as you head up. The trees weren't even nearly as close to leafed-out as they are down in the city.
Eventually, we came to Sky High Wilderness Ranch, which is a horse ranch in the summer and a dog-mushing locale in the winter. It is just off from the scenic Fish Lake. We first stopped at the lake's marshy shore where, quite literally, the bushes and grasses start to break apart and blend into the shallows, and we were shocked to discover the lake was more than half frozen. Gareth wondered if it would be possible to drive out to a point near to the ice. There was a tonne of waterfowl and shorebirds flitting here and there - and me without any binoculars. When we'd snapped some pictures, we carried onto the ranch where we pulled in to pick up a brochure. We chatted with some staff and guests and were pleased to discover that the rates are not 'sky high' as the ranch's name might suggest. The place was certainly rugged, but the horses looked healthy from what I could tell.
Brochure in hand, we turned around and continued along Fish Lake Road toward the lake. Sure enough, the road did reach the lake, and indeed carry onto the base of the mountain across from it (though we did not follow to it, as I am about to explain). Standing at the sharp bend in the road where it suddenly skirts the lake's edge was a man and a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette. He was sporting a plaid shirt and wide suspenders and seemed to be enjoying the view. "I betcha he's German," I said. We pulled up at the boat launch near to him. As we climbed out of the car, he greeted us and asked Gareth to please do up the button of his pants as he'd had a motorcycle accident and couldn't really move his left arm.
Now, I admit to exchanging a surprised and mildly suspicious glance with Gareth, but I got over it much faster. I know what went through his head: 'he's some kind of perve and wants me to touch his penis...' Back in Toronto or even South Wales, that would likely be the case. I've met a few perves in my time. Paralysed, Gareth looked somewhat horrified, so I stepped up. This, afterall, is the Yukon. Sure enough, that's what the fellow wanted. His shoulder was slumped slightly and apparently, all he could move were his fingers and his arm was numb. I suggested that he should go to hospital and even that I'd take him, but he was concerned about his bike (out in the middle of nowhere) and stated firmly that as soon as his arm felt better, he'd ride home (to Carcross, which isn't exactly a five minute drive) and get his Jeep first. Unable to disuade him, I accepted his choice and went back to Gareth.
I stooped on the boat launch and drank from the lake, which on reflection might not have been the smartest move considering the common occurance of beaver fever out here, but nonetheless, it was freezing and delicious water. Gareth took off his shoes and socks and padded out on the gravel bottom and froze his feet in the water. Faintly, all around us, we could hear the ice creaking, groaning and cracking and little chunks of slushy ice drifted past us. I saw a muskrat and I think we saw greebs floating and diving under the ice.
All the while, the man, who was indeed German, was trying unsucessfully to start his bike. Finally, as we were preparing to carry on, he called out to me and asked if I could get someone from the ranch to help him with a pick-up onto which his bike could be loaded. This was something I'd actually suggested earlier, when he was more obstinate, considering it would be nearly impossible to steer a motorcycle one-handed anyway. I agreed (and was going to do it even without him asking), so Gareth and I piled back into the car and drove back to the ranch where we asked them for help. The ranchers immediately jumped to action in their pickup and we were satisfied that we'd done the right thing. As it was approaching our appointed D&D date, we decided not to carry on to the base of the mountain, but turn around and head back into the city.
On the road, we stopped to take photos. The pickup passed us and we waved. Then, back in our car, we carried on again, only to pass the pickup, which was now stopped at the side of the road. At first I was concerned and then I realised they'd stopped to help out another pickup, much older and beaten up, which had obviously died. There was the guy from the ranch leaned over the old truck's open hood with its driver, and there was the German biker sitting in the ranch's pickup. We waved again and carried on, only to be passed once more as we were again stopped and snapping photographs. We were looking down into a steep, deep gorge and saw what we think was an old car wreck, twisted and rusting amongst the trees.
The Yukon is a strange place where it is second nature to help those in need. Survival in this harsh and remote land would be impossible without the aid of others. Even so close to Whitehorse, the land is wild and dangerous. It was a good and powerful demonstration of what living here is about. Beauty, vastness, remoteness, climate, danger, and co-operation. It was certainly a varied day for us, and quite unlike what we expected.
Firstly, I must comment on how widely varied the terrain and geology is in the area around Whitehorse. It's incredible, really. There are six or seven distinct biomes and many animals that inhabit them. In a matter of minutes in the car, we could see sheer cliffs, lake-filled valleys, boreal forest, sand-hills, etc. Truly remarkable. We have been told to keep an eye out for mountain goats and whatnot on the cliffs and mountains as we're out driving. How neat is that?!
Anyway, on Sunday, we headed up Fish Lake Road, which is only a kilometre or two from my apartment. Several people had told me that it was a stunning drive and we should try it. So, in that our initial plans to head for Skagway, Alaska, were no longer happening, it seemed like a very good place to head. Descriptions of its beauty were understating the truth. Quite possibly, I have never seen so dramatic and glorious a landscape since arriving in the Yukon. The road slowly climbs up, one rolling hill after another, and eventually you become aware that you're climbing in altitude. As you do, the trees begin growing further apart, more sparse in foliage, and shorter in height. The mountain peaks surrounding the drive become no longer tower as you head up. The trees weren't even nearly as close to leafed-out as they are down in the city.
Eventually, we came to Sky High Wilderness Ranch, which is a horse ranch in the summer and a dog-mushing locale in the winter. It is just off from the scenic Fish Lake. We first stopped at the lake's marshy shore where, quite literally, the bushes and grasses start to break apart and blend into the shallows, and we were shocked to discover the lake was more than half frozen. Gareth wondered if it would be possible to drive out to a point near to the ice. There was a tonne of waterfowl and shorebirds flitting here and there - and me without any binoculars. When we'd snapped some pictures, we carried onto the ranch where we pulled in to pick up a brochure. We chatted with some staff and guests and were pleased to discover that the rates are not 'sky high' as the ranch's name might suggest. The place was certainly rugged, but the horses looked healthy from what I could tell.
Brochure in hand, we turned around and continued along Fish Lake Road toward the lake. Sure enough, the road did reach the lake, and indeed carry onto the base of the mountain across from it (though we did not follow to it, as I am about to explain). Standing at the sharp bend in the road where it suddenly skirts the lake's edge was a man and a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette. He was sporting a plaid shirt and wide suspenders and seemed to be enjoying the view. "I betcha he's German," I said. We pulled up at the boat launch near to him. As we climbed out of the car, he greeted us and asked Gareth to please do up the button of his pants as he'd had a motorcycle accident and couldn't really move his left arm.
Now, I admit to exchanging a surprised and mildly suspicious glance with Gareth, but I got over it much faster. I know what went through his head: 'he's some kind of perve and wants me to touch his penis...' Back in Toronto or even South Wales, that would likely be the case. I've met a few perves in my time. Paralysed, Gareth looked somewhat horrified, so I stepped up. This, afterall, is the Yukon. Sure enough, that's what the fellow wanted. His shoulder was slumped slightly and apparently, all he could move were his fingers and his arm was numb. I suggested that he should go to hospital and even that I'd take him, but he was concerned about his bike (out in the middle of nowhere) and stated firmly that as soon as his arm felt better, he'd ride home (to Carcross, which isn't exactly a five minute drive) and get his Jeep first. Unable to disuade him, I accepted his choice and went back to Gareth.
I stooped on the boat launch and drank from the lake, which on reflection might not have been the smartest move considering the common occurance of beaver fever out here, but nonetheless, it was freezing and delicious water. Gareth took off his shoes and socks and padded out on the gravel bottom and froze his feet in the water. Faintly, all around us, we could hear the ice creaking, groaning and cracking and little chunks of slushy ice drifted past us. I saw a muskrat and I think we saw greebs floating and diving under the ice.
All the while, the man, who was indeed German, was trying unsucessfully to start his bike. Finally, as we were preparing to carry on, he called out to me and asked if I could get someone from the ranch to help him with a pick-up onto which his bike could be loaded. This was something I'd actually suggested earlier, when he was more obstinate, considering it would be nearly impossible to steer a motorcycle one-handed anyway. I agreed (and was going to do it even without him asking), so Gareth and I piled back into the car and drove back to the ranch where we asked them for help. The ranchers immediately jumped to action in their pickup and we were satisfied that we'd done the right thing. As it was approaching our appointed D&D date, we decided not to carry on to the base of the mountain, but turn around and head back into the city.
On the road, we stopped to take photos. The pickup passed us and we waved. Then, back in our car, we carried on again, only to pass the pickup, which was now stopped at the side of the road. At first I was concerned and then I realised they'd stopped to help out another pickup, much older and beaten up, which had obviously died. There was the guy from the ranch leaned over the old truck's open hood with its driver, and there was the German biker sitting in the ranch's pickup. We waved again and carried on, only to be passed once more as we were again stopped and snapping photographs. We were looking down into a steep, deep gorge and saw what we think was an old car wreck, twisted and rusting amongst the trees.
The Yukon is a strange place where it is second nature to help those in need. Survival in this harsh and remote land would be impossible without the aid of others. Even so close to Whitehorse, the land is wild and dangerous. It was a good and powerful demonstration of what living here is about. Beauty, vastness, remoteness, climate, danger, and co-operation. It was certainly a varied day for us, and quite unlike what we expected.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Despite all my best efforts, the last two days before the new Gallery show and opening are going to be full of insanity and stress. No matter how many times people are asked to provide details for their work - their work, which is being exhibited in an important regional gallery space - they fail to do so. It's very frustrating. Had everything gone as planned, I would have finished my Exhibition Notes on the weekend, all the content for the panels would be at the printers and ready for pick-up tomorrow, the labels would be printed and I would be in the process of mounting them. Instead, I'm transcribing label material from hodge-podge sheets of paper, many of which lack important bits of information such as the title of the piece. Instead, I'm still organising the exhibition information binder. Instead, my Exhibition Notes are sitting half completed on my computer desktop waiting for key bits of information to dribble in via email. Yet, it all must come together for Thursday. Can we do it? God, I hope so.
In other news, I think it's safe to say I now have a small but ecclectic circle of friends up here. There's Owen, the Mad Scribe (Owen Williams, he would want me to say, who is one of two calligraphers living in the Yukon and probably one of Canada's only 'letter artists'); Andrew, my reporter friend as the Curator would call him and, possibly Owen's friend, Dawn (to whom I am known as 'Fuscia'), can be lumped in this strange social heap. There's also Dungeon Master Andrew from D&D and Matt from the YAC. At something more of an arm's length there is Nicole, an artist originally from Peterborough and, Tammy, box office party girl. No great surprise, I'm making friends faster with the boys than with the girls, and for once (at least in most cases), it's not because I've got boobies. Or at least not entirely. Also, there are a few others from Dawson that I can probably count, too, but in that they're in Dawson, they're not really immediately accessible.
At any rate, the other night, Owen, Reporter Andrew, myself and Jessica the ex artist-in-residence at KIAC in Dawson, all went for an ice cream and an impromptu hike through Miles Canyon following a small art show opening at Zola's. Zola's would be the big frou-frou cafe on Main Street, home of the Midnight Sun coffee company. Zola's a big supporter of the Arts. Yay ! Anyway. We got soft-serve ice cream from Riverside Grocery, which is open 20 hours a day (it used to be 23 hours a day), which has possibly the yummiest soft-serve around. The consistency is all wrong, so it comes out with this awesome texture and malty goodness. Yum. We were eating it in Rotary Park (is this a new semi-urban Canadian icon to go with Chinese Restaurants and Cenotaphs?), but since it was a bit chilly down by the river and the mosquitoes were biting, we decided to finish up and pile into Andrew's VW to check out Miles Canyon.
Miles Canyon is, well, it's a canyon through which the Yukon River flows. We originally went to take photos and then head home, but it was so enticing that we trotted across the swaying wooden bridge (held fast by anchored cables) and head out on a delightful hike. We probably hiked for an hour and a half, not quite making it to Canyon City, the site of a... well, some kind of settlement, or something. But, in that it was pushing 10 o'clock and we were still on the trail, you can understand why. The views were spectacular, I must say, with volcanic rock cut down by the river into sheer walls of red and grey stone. The river, itself, is a sort of eerie greenish blue, or bluish green, I guess, kind of thick-looking, and totally beautiful. Tall evergreens and less tall poplars and such grow up away from the sides and on the slopes, hunks of weathered basalt (real basalt - not in a lab !) sitting along the paths. Down the slopes are many alpine plants, low and clinging with tiny flowers. The furry crocuses (crocii?) have gone to seed, which suggests they're not actually crocuses at all, and Owen made me eat some. Holy burning mouth - talk about a northern source of chili-pepper replacement. And then, to make up for it, he picked these tiny pink flowers smaller than my chewed pinky finger nail and fed those to me. Much like clover, but softer in flavour, kind of honey-like. Very nice. I took many photos and we discussed everything from Philosophy and Art, to music and travel. It was grand. I will certainly return to Miles Canyon.
In other news, I think it's safe to say I now have a small but ecclectic circle of friends up here. There's Owen, the Mad Scribe (Owen Williams, he would want me to say, who is one of two calligraphers living in the Yukon and probably one of Canada's only 'letter artists'); Andrew, my reporter friend as the Curator would call him and, possibly Owen's friend, Dawn (to whom I am known as 'Fuscia'), can be lumped in this strange social heap. There's also Dungeon Master Andrew from D&D and Matt from the YAC. At something more of an arm's length there is Nicole, an artist originally from Peterborough and, Tammy, box office party girl. No great surprise, I'm making friends faster with the boys than with the girls, and for once (at least in most cases), it's not because I've got boobies. Or at least not entirely. Also, there are a few others from Dawson that I can probably count, too, but in that they're in Dawson, they're not really immediately accessible.
At any rate, the other night, Owen, Reporter Andrew, myself and Jessica the ex artist-in-residence at KIAC in Dawson, all went for an ice cream and an impromptu hike through Miles Canyon following a small art show opening at Zola's. Zola's would be the big frou-frou cafe on Main Street, home of the Midnight Sun coffee company. Zola's a big supporter of the Arts. Yay ! Anyway. We got soft-serve ice cream from Riverside Grocery, which is open 20 hours a day (it used to be 23 hours a day), which has possibly the yummiest soft-serve around. The consistency is all wrong, so it comes out with this awesome texture and malty goodness. Yum. We were eating it in Rotary Park (is this a new semi-urban Canadian icon to go with Chinese Restaurants and Cenotaphs?), but since it was a bit chilly down by the river and the mosquitoes were biting, we decided to finish up and pile into Andrew's VW to check out Miles Canyon.
Miles Canyon is, well, it's a canyon through which the Yukon River flows. We originally went to take photos and then head home, but it was so enticing that we trotted across the swaying wooden bridge (held fast by anchored cables) and head out on a delightful hike. We probably hiked for an hour and a half, not quite making it to Canyon City, the site of a... well, some kind of settlement, or something. But, in that it was pushing 10 o'clock and we were still on the trail, you can understand why. The views were spectacular, I must say, with volcanic rock cut down by the river into sheer walls of red and grey stone. The river, itself, is a sort of eerie greenish blue, or bluish green, I guess, kind of thick-looking, and totally beautiful. Tall evergreens and less tall poplars and such grow up away from the sides and on the slopes, hunks of weathered basalt (real basalt - not in a lab !) sitting along the paths. Down the slopes are many alpine plants, low and clinging with tiny flowers. The furry crocuses (crocii?) have gone to seed, which suggests they're not actually crocuses at all, and Owen made me eat some. Holy burning mouth - talk about a northern source of chili-pepper replacement. And then, to make up for it, he picked these tiny pink flowers smaller than my chewed pinky finger nail and fed those to me. Much like clover, but softer in flavour, kind of honey-like. Very nice. I took many photos and we discussed everything from Philosophy and Art, to music and travel. It was grand. I will certainly return to Miles Canyon.