Tales of the beautiful everyday from the North
One last cherished tour of the year, and my thank you
I’ve had a lot to love and a lot to appreciate this year, and the last few tours of the season always have felt for me like a time where I can step back a little to reflect, where I can find an even deeper love and enjoyment in this. I’ve said for a long time that the aurora feels like a meditation for me, or an open eye meditation, and never has it felt more true than this last week of the season. I have loved every moment.
It is surreal to think about making it through another year with my business and this life. I have met the most beautiful people from all across the globe, bonding over everything from Race Across the World to yoga, to breathtaking moments with the aurora herself. So many of you returned from just months prior to a full decade ago and that’s something I just wasn’t prepared for. You continue to give me a full heart and lifelong friendships I’ll cherish forever. But I think more than anything, you give me hope, and a love shared that we can always come back to when the world is just too much, which does feel like a lot of the time right now.
Thank you for another year of your overwhelming love and support. None of this would be here without you, and for that, I am humbled and thankful beyond words.
March; for better and for worse
Every day a little more snow and ice has disappeared from my front patio. Real warmth is still a long ways away, but the subtle signs of winter beginning to loosen it’s grip even at -20° feels like relief.
Our nights have continued to be nothing but the -30s, and with that has come almost constant clear sky for which I am so thankful. We’ve made our switch back to daylight saving time, deepening what feels like an already endless exhaustion from late, late nights.
The early March full moon reminds me of how close we are now to another aurora season drawing to a close. It’s just one month, but the difference between the February and March full moons feel dramatic. The moon remains lower in the sky again, and it’s light so much warmer.
I’ve spent my days at home hiding on my sofa at the north side of my home for the darker room in the morning. It’s the only way to edit photos from the night before. And once those are finished, I move to the other side of my galley kitchen to my dining table, soaking up the sun and warmth at my south facing window, writing emails and sipping a second coffee.
I cherish these slow mornings at home so much.
March has felt overwhelming, daunting and far too busy. I hate the strong sunlight outside that reflects off the snow, and I hate that this spring sunlight has reminded me so much of 4 years ago when I was heartbroken packing up my life to leave because of Covid.
But all of this will pass - the non-stop work, the harsh sunlight, the painful memories and feelings. It’s still a beautiful time, these weeks, and there’s a lot of peaceful moments woven into each day that I still savour too.
A familiar story
It was a little bit of a familiar story returning to my daily life. Chaos in the kitchen and returning home hours later to what looked a bomb having gone off.
A very late booking request on a night with clear sky closing up too quickly sent my evening into the kind of chaos that I usually reserve for some alone time with the aurora when a spur of the moment decision leads me out the door in a panic.
Candying almonds isn’t a very hands off kind of dessert to prepare. Every single time I think it will be quicker than it is. I’ve always been a slow learner, so maybe next time I’ll finally remember how painstakingly hands on it is for at least 20 minutes. But it was too late to turn back now; the sugar, cinnamon, water, and vanilla were already bubbling and I was very short on time. I repeatedly tested my luck running away from the stove to get one other thing in order so I could eventually get out the door on time.
With 7 minutes before I had to be backing out of my driveway, I could finally pull the candied almonds off the stove - dump them onto parchment to cool for all of about 90 seconds before transferring a bunch into a glass container and running out my door to get this night underway.
Facing winter head on
Coming out of a fresh 30cm snowfall several days ago, temperatures were running straight for the deep -30s for as long as Environment Canada would show.
The morning after our snowfall, I woke up to see the trees swaying dramatically outside my bedroom window. I thought about tour that night and immediately wanted to pull my duvet over my head and go right back to sleep.
When I came downstairs and saw snow drifts across my patio and snow pushed up against my door frame, I could hear in my mind the squeaks and stiffness of my poor little car already having not moved for days and it made me wince.
All is love and pain in these winter days
After more than 10 years living in the north, I have my eyes wide open to life here. I know the struggles of daily life in the north through the winter, but it doesn’t get any easier. It just becomes more familiar. I still hate the squeaks of rubber bushings not flexing like they do in normal environments. I hate my momentary lapses of judgment leading to incredible pain touching metal that’s been outside for an hour at -37. There are a lot of hard moments, but they are also what makes life here so special.
The wind settled, somewhat, by the time we settled in the countryside under this clear sky. The aurora started very gently, but was soon enough vibrant to our eyes even in the face of a full winter moon.
Real November nights
November has given me some stretches of quieter nights at home, and it was a time I was really looking forward to later in October. I knew this heavy and dense cloud would sit over Yellowknife for days at a time, heavier snowfalls would come and ice fog would blanket the city in white. Occasionally, pink would emerge low on the southwest horizon in the early afternoon for sunset. These were moments I routinely fell in love with. They felt precious.
City streets and highways are frozen. My winter tires and AWD earn their keep in the countryside on tour nights. The snow and the air are so dry, and just one night without moisturizing will leave me with painfully cracked knuckles. There’s no slush in this environment anymore. Temperatures are steady around -15, moving to -30 in the coming days, and the sound of the cars on the streets are tires spinning on ice off stop lights and gravel stuck in tires clicking against the asphalt.
This is all so strangely comfortingly Yellowknife and it is for so many more months ahead.
Hiding throughout some of these nights was the warmest company and most beautiful people still out on aurora chases with me. Every single night began with a scrape of heavy ice off my car windows, and then leaving town in dense cloud, passing through kilometres of low visibility from ice fog.
Almost every one of these nights has been either the longest drives to the end of the highway, or just a few kilometres outside of the city limits, and on one night — aurora viewing at both the end of the highway and the beginning. It’s been a strange mix, but of course we take whatever clear sky we can through this time, and those skies have been immensely rewarding.
