The slow withering away of Winter

It is another rainy day here in Yellowknife, so in a little afternoon fika, a coffee and muskotsnittar (nutmeg slice), finally I will take you back to some nights several weeks ago.

My first night out in kayak this year was not without some struggles. The shore ice was still several metres wide, so launching into the water from the shore involved scooching in my kayak across the ice first, but was ultimately not too eventful.
To get out of the water was totally a separate matter. I had to reach the ice with enough speed to send the front of the kayak up onto the ice far enough that I did not slip backward into the water again. This was not accomplished on the first try, or the second or third, but it was eventually successful, with everything still dry.

The perfect song

To have had a proper sound recorder to carry with me these nights, that would have been really perfect. I don’t think it’s possible to imagine how beautiful all of the singing and chatter of the birds is, and still to hear so many noises from the ice too - almost like millions of crystals clanking together at the smallest ripple in the water. These nights were all still cold, as evidenced by the splashes of water on the front of my kayak turning to ice by the end of the night.

In the end, these nights have not felt so different than those that defined my life for years. Driving out of town into nature late, becoming increasingly chilled through the hours outside and soon craving the warmth and comfort of a cosy home, exhausted but too excited by the experience to sleep at any reasonable hour.

The return of the first rain

We had our first rainy day yesterday. I can’t tell you how good it felt to wake up, light a few candlesticks and have a cosy breakfast with the first rain in around eight months for me and I missed it so much. All through the morning I could hear it sporadically pounding down on the roof. I think it has to be one of my favourite sounds.

I fully planned to spend the day relighting candles, cosying up on the sofa and finally catching you up again on some late, late nights here. I have so many photos that I want to share with you here and definitely I still will come back to that in a few days.

I really felt satisfied for how beautiful it was to be totally alone out in the fog and in the nature. The bigger part of this lake is still totally frozen, and floating slowly around I could feel the air temperature change drastically by sometimes just a few metres difference.

It felt so good to come back home and warm up some leftover soup and again light some candles. After dinner and a few cups of tea, I just couldn’t resist the temptation of going back outside. I was not even sure there would be still any fog, but of course there was. The smells of the forest were so sweet and overwhelming. The sunset became more of a journey and instead of some destination. I just kept paddling further and further up the river, reaching for the most dense areas of fog. I want to say I have never sensed something more beautiful through all of the humidity and sweet smells, and constant singing by the birds, and of course incredible beauty, but I try to remind myself of those dry, -40° winter nights under the aurora too.

On the way back, during almost the darkest time of the night, I crossed again more wide open water where there was no sense of space. The visibility was mostly just a few metres. Small tree branches would come up out of nowhere, and in the distance one of the most beautiful but probably heartbreaking sounds - a young bird on the water lost in the fog calling for it’s mother.