Tales of the beautiful everyday from the North
Acceptance
Driving out of my neighbourhood just before noon today for a quick gas run, 3 cars were abandoned on the side of the road off in our first snow. The roads were snowy, slushy, and ice pellets rained down, but it didn’t seem particularly bad. It made me wonder just what went on outside in the 4 whole hours I slept last night between getting home on dry roads after 4am, and waking up to centimetres of snow and ice sheets.
This is the chaos of the weather in the Yukon. I couldn’t love it more, but it’s challenging. And yes, the stop sign was dancing today, of course.
Not every night lately has been so perfect, and not every chase has met sustained clear sky, but I’m beginning to find calm in this routine of endless chaos through some cloudy weeks.
An old friend in Yellowknife taught me a lot about aurora chasing, but I don’t think he knows it, and I know he would never take credit for it.
He had endless trust in all of this - in himself, in knowledge and information, and in nature itself. And in the end, he always had acceptance in the aurora and the weather we faced there, and there was a calm around him you could feel as a result. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever been able to admire, to study, learn, and imitate. And in some full circle type of way, the end of an extremely chaotic month and a half has brought me so peacefully back into all of that love.
The good for the soul kinds of nights
It’s been far too long since my last post, but these days I feel like I can barely keep my eyes open. Late, late nights and far too much to do has led to far too little sleep. But somewhere in there is still this overwhelming love of the aurora and clear sky chases through mountainous silhouettes.
The first half of September brought quiet nights of delicate structures, graceful dances, and rainbow colours filling the skies for the better part of a week.
We snuck out of cloud often, on the run almost once per evening, as is assured here. Soft arcs of aurora on the horizon persisted through our nights, rising and falling, and rising again until ghostly structures pulsed over half the sky above us.
These were the nights of cold, humid air, endless conversation and inspiring photography with a returning friend. They are the kinds of nights that fly by, that I could live forever, and that end too soon.
Joyfully into the darkness
The first week or two of tours after the summer always have a surreal feeling. They are the first drives where again the highways are dark and headlights become automatic. It feels strange and looks unfamiliar. The love of these dark nights, clear sky chases, and mystery around the aurora all come rushing back at once and it is an overwhelming love.
For long periods these first few nights, distant loons, a few passing clouds and the autumn Milky Way were our best company. Faint arcs of aurora appeared, disappeared, and reappeared low on the horizon to the discerning eye. But for now, we reacquainted ourselves with some other heavenly wonders, like the Andromeda Galaxy among others.
Long, late nights into twilight before sunrise appeared assured from the beginning.
Finally, as twilight emerged in the northeast, out of nowhere, curtains of purple and green lit up the sky. After hours of a steady, gentle arc across the north, it was chaos - the absolute best kind.
“What do you call that? Piano keys?”
For more than an hour, the aurora danced over half of the sky, piano keys and all. The relief, joy, excitement and wonder in myself must have for sure been palpable. There couldn’t have been a better way to end my first few nights of the season.
It’s just so good to have her back.
A life on gravel roads
I make a pot of tea after dinner, pretending that tonight is the night I will stay cosy at home, only to, by the time I’ve taken my first sip, already have decided that I need to be off on a highway driving into a blindingly low sun for another retreat to nature and sure rendezvous with wildlife.
Shadings of dust and sand would settle neatly in place on the back of my car while clouds of it chased me down more and more kilometres of gravel roads. The little ‘SOS’ and satellite icon in the upper corner of my iPhone has become an almost familiar comfort. This has been my nearly daily life for weeks now.
The mosquitos weren’t quite out yet, just the odd one that seemed dazed, confused, and way, way bigger than I remember. Snow is, of course, still very abundant in the mountains, and streams have begun to fill crevices through the flora, bringing magnificent colours back. It’s like the world comes back to life again, and I just think I have never been more in love with that.
But the last days I have finally spent more time inside than out, chasing any darkish corner in an all white, east and west facing apartment in the northern summer, with hopes of being able to curl up and edit any of the millions of photos and videos I’ve been taking.
Right now it is after midnight, and the sun is finally below the horizon. My salt lamp glows warmly on the windowsill, and behind it, the outline of the mountains against a bright twilight sky will remain for another few hours until the sun rises again. I want to take in every moment this, of the twilight glow and cool breeze in through the window. For these months, it’s difficult to keep a normal schedule. I want to be up all night and asleep through the middle of the day.
A time between
Blue hour hung over endlessly, ultimately until morning this time of the year. The sky was slow falling into enough darkness to allow the aurora to shine. Naturally, this is one of my favourite times of the year for that very reason. The magic just never ends. I cosied up in the car, eating fig bars and drinking tea, of course careful to grab the tea and not the bear spray, watching out the moonroof, waiting and waiting for the darkest hour or two to fall.
While it all sounds beautifully romantic and perfect, which it was, being at the edge of a river in the middle of the countryside at dusk as bears emerge from a long winter isn’t the most relaxing thing I have ever experienced, but the specialness in it is far from lost on me. These are some of my favourite weeks of my life.
Signs of spring
Just so quickly overnight, winter lost it’s grip. Daytime temperatures recently have been well above 0°C. There was even a light rain a couple of nights ago.
I’ve taken the cover off my patio furniture and enjoyed my first morning coffee there, and the temptation to begin seeds inside is overwhelming. The streets are dry and the gravel sweeper has already been by, and I put an abrupt end to my car’s transformation from ‘Star White’ to ‘Earth Brown’ with her first wash of the year.
“It [the aurora] just makes you feel so small.”
Over a couple of nights, we had some drives north up the beautiful Klondike Highway, chasing clear sky and separation from approaching cloud banks. Stars would momentarily disappear, and in those moments the outline of a mountain rising from the side of the highway towered above us.
The aurora started gently but grew quickly, wiping away any doubt that it could actually fill half the sky as the tourism magazines love to show. On nights of such perfection, it was refreshing to turn the car off, walk out to the lake and not look back for a few hours. The winds were persistent in their harsh gusts, but the warm temperatures let them be more beautiful than painful. In the end, the hours passed far too quickly. 4am arrives fast.
