Hydratin'

Curious Bear

Curious Bear
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Today's Morning Coffee and Nordic Lessons 2 (TMCNL 2)

Grab your morning coffee and come sip with me. Ok, if you’re a morning coffee drinker like me, it’s already too late for your morning coffee. Let’s call it elevenzies.

Do you copy when I say ‘the greyhound demographic’? Let me rephrase that. If I were to talk about the types of people you might find skulking around busses and depots, you would capische, right?

A couple of weeks ago I became an honorary member of the bus riding demographic. Because it is approximately 650$ less to take the bus to Edmonton than it is to fly. Believe it or not, to get from Hay River to Edmonton, which is exactly 1000km, 2 hours by plane, 10ish hours by car, or 16 hours by grayhound…it costs anywhere from $800 to $1400 to fly. Unless you are a lucky duck that gets wind of a rare seat sale (which to my knowledge, has not ever occurred other than in Nordic mythology). Or unless you work for the government, who will buy your ticket for you, at approximately 11 times the cost, without batting their territorial eye.

Now that we’re on the subject of travel costs, let’s move on to the educational segment of this post. Allow me to enlighten you with all of the recent discoveries I have made regarding northern travel, both endo and exo.

1. Hay River has a small airport that flies to only 2 places: Yellowknife (40 min flight) or Edmonton (3hr flight), the closest major airports. There is no such thing as a package deal out of this place – you buy your flight to one of the 2 major-ish airports, and then make all further travel arrangements separately. All my life I have lived near major airports. I never knew what a luxury that was. I wonder what percentage of Canadians DON’T live near a major airport? I have sympathy now for the extra financial burden (not to mention major inconvenience) it imposes.

2. Flight costs out of Hay River are as follows:

                 to Yellowknife: Buffalo, $330 round trip.

                                      First Air, $400-$500 round trip.

                                   (let’s guess which one the government uses?)

                 to Edmonton: Northern Airlines, $1340

3. To get to Edmonton from Hay River, you then have two flight path options:  the cheapest, indirect through Yellowknife which costs approximately $800 ($330 with buffalo, then the other leg with another airline); the more expensive, direct to Edmonton, at $1340. Let’s take another guess at the sole user of that airline….

3. If you take the cheaper, indirect route through Yellowknife, you will always have a 4 hour layover in an abbotsford-sized airport. Always. Apparently, all flights arrive sometime around 9am, and all flights depart sometime around 1pm.

4. Say you want to go somewhere OTHER than Yellowknife or Edmonton (which if you’re a government employee is unlikely…except maybe if you’re French, in which case you go to Winnipeg). Then you basically HAVE to get to Edmonton to get anywhere else*. You’ve already got your $800-$1400 ticket and 9 wasted hours to get you to Edmonton…now add your final destination to the total. You’re looking at a minimum of $1000 to get anywhere…plus an entire day of traveling, IF your connections work out nicely. For a town that only takes 10 hours to drive to from Edmonton, you’d swear we’re in Iceland.

footnote*not entirely true. I found a loophole. Continue reading for further enlightenment.

5. When you live far from a major airport, and you want to visit your best friend on the same continent who also (though not as dramatically) does not live near a major airport, it costs about as much as flying to Madagascar.

6. To prove point #5, I will give you a supporting example. I was recently trying to book a trip to Colorado to visit Karla. Simple enough. I’ve been before, it cost me around  $250 to get there and back. Ahhhh…but from Seattle. Domestic flights within the states are pretty dang cheap. So I arrive at complication number one: I am about as far as I can get from the US border. Not an option. Must take an international flight – now my cost doubles. Ok, fine. OK, international flight to Colorado. No problem. I’ll book it from Edmonton. Oh wait, it costs minimum $800 to get there, then it’s about $600 to Denver….. $1400 for a one week vacation within north America. Okay, there must be another way. I’d drive to Edmonton, but I don’t have winter tires on my car, I don’t trust my little civic in this cold, and what if there’s a storm or I hit the ditch and can’t get to my flight in time? Ahhh….full circle back to grayhound. Very affordable option – $160 return if I book three weeks in advance. But 16 hours each way. I know the route well, considering I did it just a couple of weeks ago. Ok, a 16 hour bus ride, I can do it again. Let’s check the connections – leave Hay River at 8am, arrive Edmonton at midnight…no flight out to the states until 6:40am. Flights out at that time to Denver all have stops in other cities, so I would arrive in Denver at 4pm. Okay, one and a half full travel days to get to Denver – gross and long, but at least I can afford it. Wait, Karla doesn’t live near Denver. I have to get to Colorado Springs, which is about a 2 hour drive away – or more with rush hour…which is when I’d be arriving. Ok, how do I get to Colorado springs? Bus? 70 bucks each way. Plane from Edmonton? Tack on another 200 bucks, since you really just connect through Denver anyway. Not to mention that we’re also adding time here. So I would finally arrive at Colorado springs, either having spent 1 million dollars flying all the way ( I think it works out to $1600) and a full day traveling..or bussing a total of 18 hours and flying 5 hours each direction, and spending $900.  Great options, eh? I love you Karla, but I could be going to Europe.

7. There are loopholes, such as Westjet seat sales from Yellowknife direct to Vancouver for a little over a hundred bucks each way. Hmmmmm…..Vancouver….that’s close to Seattle! Just get  a ride across the border and all of a sudden….direct flights to COLORADO SPRINGS (not even Denver!) for another hundred bucks each way. Yellowknife to Colorado Springs for 500 bucks. Ok, now we’re talking. The ridiculous thing is that my 40 minute flight north (the wrong direction) across great slave lake to Yellowknife from Hay River costs me twice as much as the others. Oh well….suck it up, princess.

So I am sadly not going to become one with the depot demographic this time around – I suppose I have risen above. Which is too bad, because when I had the experience of a few weeks ago I found a lot of fodder for creativity. I scribbled furiously on a big notepad for hours, about skittish Eugene and his meager plastic bag and the corrections officer that left him at the depot… about Bill the bus driver who told me of how left Hong Kong to give his boys freedom and enjoyment in education…about the old aboriginal man with tourettes freezing on the side of the road waiting for the bus in middle-of-nowhere Meander River…about the homeless couple that camps out the Edmonton depot, always walking purposefully about from one end to the other with blakets around their necks and with a single duffel bag filled everything they own, tagged with official greyhound tags as they masquerade as travelers for dignity’s sake….about the frenzied Chinese man that spent 15 stressful minutes trying to get the arm of his chair to lift, then another 10 trying to get his seat back to recline again after having not having noticed that he had accidentally triggered it to pop upright, thinking it was the button for the arm…about me, listening to Jupiter Winter by Sufjan Stevens, clicking my teeth and blinking my eyes to the beat of each passing pole, pretending I’m in some independent film about a girl discovering some great truth (as inspired and suggested by the epic tune playing in her gigantic headphones) traveling alone towards some great destination on Christmas eve.  Amazing, the kinds of characters you find lurking around bus depots and hiding out in their busses. The kinds of people who can’t afford to fly. Is it any wonder? I guess I’m one of them…

…well, not anymore.

It is cold.

NWT-918
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

It is cold today. But not in measurable terms, unless you count skin pain and swollen hands as valid measures as degrees C, F, and K.

Good thing there are beautiful things to keep your mind off the weather.

Today's morning coffee and nordic lesson

Ahhhhhhhh......it just doesn't get better than morning coffee. The single most enjoyable part of every day.  Er, is that shallow?

 When I first moved here, I had a beautiful morning ritual (which I explained in great detail in an earlier post, for those of you that follow). But since the land of the midnight sun has become the land of perpetual dusk in the winter months, I have been unable to maintain it. Every wink of sleep more I can steal, I steal - which, as those of you who know me as an early-bird-catching-worms, is slightly unusual for me. Turns out I am not immune to the slumbering, lumbering effects of darkness.

Oh, don't get me wrong. It's not pitch black all the time here - I'm not far enough north for that. Allow me to educate you on this matter. I receive lots of southern inquiries into what it's really like up here: Is it dark all day? Are there any trees up there? Inuit hunting seals? Have you tried blubber?...you know, typical clarifications on the very little we know of our Canadian North. Which is not a criticism on my part....because I thought I knew stuff before I moved here, and it turns out I didn't. I knew a bit about mythology and tradition, but nothing about the lay of the land, the population, current affairs. So here are a few little notes to help you understand where I am, and what I've learned about the Vast, Great, and White North. You might want to keep referring to a map to help it all make sense:

1. I live in Hay River. It is both affectionately, practically, and clichéedly referred to as the 'Hub of the North', as it is transport centre of the NWT. The highway is paved all the way here from Alberta and the railroad passes through, so all goods pass through Hay River before going out to more remote places via plane, bus, or boat. The population of Hay River is around 3500. We have 2 grocery stores, 2 hardware stores, an arena and rec centre, and about a block's worth of other random shops. It's bigger than you would think. But maybe smaller than you would like (unless you're like me, who misses life in lil' ol' Princeton!)

2. The canadian show 'North of 60' was called 'North of 60' because the territories are all north of the 60th parallel. Common knowledge, ok.... but to some of you it's news. But the 60th parallel is not really that far north, really. Considering it's only a 9ish hour drive from Edmonton. It is NOT the arctic. The 60th parallel is NOT synonymous with the term arctic.

3. The term arctic coloquially refers to the area north of the treeline, but more precisely refers to the actual arctic circle....where it really is night all day, all winter long. Here in Hay River, we have lots of trees, and we are just in solar limbo. Here it is pitch black until 9am,  dawn until 11:30am, then at noon the sun begins to head towards dusk, then to full black night by 4:30. And the sun lays fairly low in the sky all day -  all day long shadows are cast, making it feel like perpetual dusk.  I'm told that summertime in Hay River means daylight until midnight, then dusk all night long. No full black. I'll confirm if this is true come july.

4. Hay River is only about an hour and a bit north of the 60th parallel. So if you drive due north from Edmonton, you'll hit the Alberta-NWT border in about 9-10 hours (well....summertime driving anyway),  take a photo by the sweet Northwest Territories sign planted at the 60th parallel, drive another hour, stop at the beautiful gorge and waterfalls just before you hit the no-man's land town of Enterprise, eat a meal at Winnie's diner, then continue another 25 minutes up the road to Hay River, on the southernmost shore of Great Slave Lake (which is not to be confused with Slave Lake, which you'd have passed by on your way through northern Alberta...the lake up here is, well, Greater.) And instead of continuing to the southern shore of the Great Slave via Hay River, you could also have decided to take one of the very few forks in the northern roads, back at Enterprise, to head due west then north around Great Slave Lake towards Yellowknife via Fort Providence. And shoot some buffalo while you're at it.

5. Great Slave Lake is really quite large. Peripherally oceanic, from the southern beach's perspective. Yellowknife is really right across the lake from us, on the northern shore, but it takes a 45 minute plane ride with Buffalo Joe or a 5 and a half hour detour by car along the west side to get there. It's a big lake.

6.  Buffalo Joe is our local Hero. He is the star of Ice Pilots NWT, a new show on the history channel. Many of you are already watching it.  Joe and his crew fly old war cargo planes...for daily passenger flights to and from Yellowknife. They had the world première party here in Hay River, his hometown. I went. I watched the first episode with a bunch of Hay Riverites that know Joe, have flown with him often, and that cheered every time they knew someone else in the show...because it's just that small of a world up here. Buffalo Joe himself gave me a t-shirt. I almost fainted at my brush with fame.

PS- I just saw him again this morning. And I patted his dog  a few weeks ago. I'm basically famous.

7. The Ravens should be counted as part of the population. They are as big and as loud as a real person. And they really do laugh. And they comprise the majority of the wildlife you will see up here. My animal count so far:  Foxes - 1, Ptarmigan - 10, Buffalo - 5, Rabbits - 3, Wolves - 0, Caribou - 0, Moose - 0, Bears - 0 , Ravens - One Billion. If I were to have to make a pie chart, you see how the average percentages would difficult to even calculate, let alone section into slices of pie, given such a margin of difference.

Well, that's all for this morning's lesson. Stay tuned for more coffee time with Joanne.

On the agenda for today: Yogurt and granola, Snowshoeing, Turkey Stew. Hmmm.  Somehow my agendas are predominantly comprised of food related activities. Sweden 30 pounder, here I come.

...and a-Ptarmigan huntin' we will go....

NWT-914
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Yesterday my friend Adam and I skulked around the in the woods. He was hoping to find lynx. We found Ptarmigan instead. We shot them, like we shot the bison. Note his weapon of choice. It's a cruel life here in the great white north. No sissies allowed. Hawksely would agree.

Adventure Adschmenture

What I have learned about me by not being ridiculously busy for the first time in a decade:

1. I am a procrastinator. I had my suspicions in the past, but it has been confirmed. In the past it was never obvious because I was always working on ten things at once,  and while each thing was put off to the very last minute, I was busy all the while. There was always daily deadline. With no sense of immediacy or urgency, I putter … even more than Ben Braun-Kauffman. Because there is always something to accomplish in puttering. It’s just harder to measure. 
2. I will always and forever wish for more time. I will always yearn for the mythical Someday, when I will be able to release and act upon projects that remain blurrily confined to my brain. These ideas will always grow and spread in painful and inspiring spurts, and my desire to accomplish them will always be eventually converted into guilt or pressure. Even if I have the time to do them.
3. I am 75% ideas, 25% action. I always thought I would readily take action on my ideas if I were (in the mythical Someday) granted to time and space to do it – I hoped I was a more balanced 50/50 split. Turns out, as I am now living in the not-so-intangible mythical Someday, I’m only a really devoted do-er when I have a full schedule and I have no choice but to get ‘er done.  But lighten the load on my plate…(see item #1 above)
4. I have a lot of ideas.
5. I am afraid of taking on a major project on my own. I’ve been talking about writing all year, and was waiting for the opportunity to be away from my normal distractions and commitments to give my brain room to de-fuzz from fatigue and busyness. Now I’m supposedly in it. And I revert back to items #1 and #2. And then taking #4 into account in conjunction with #3…well, you see where that leads...
6. I need people to keep me going, to hold me accountable, to inspire me, to bounce ideas off of, to collaborate with, to goof off with, to run around outside with, to adventure with, to get me out of my head and to keep me from going too far inside it for too long. I might think I’d rather be alone, I might think I need to be free and totally independent, I might think I would like to be hermit. But I need to connect. I am neither rock nor island, as it turns out.

Conclusions:

This year’s adventure – leaving Abbotsford at the end of June to travel across Canada and perform in living rooms and backyards, and venturing north of 60 to satiate some longtime Mowatian desire to experience one of the most Canadian parts of Canada – has not been about what I thought it was going to be about. It is not about finally having the time to write a play. It has not been about organizing the digital archives of the thousands upon thousands of photos I’ve taken over the course of the last few years. It has not been about becoming Heather Rose so that I can feel less like a fraud when I tell her story. It has not been about reconnecting with my French roots. It has not been about better understanding the plight of the Inuit or the First Nations people of Canada… or what Farley Mowat and John Ralston Saul and by extension maybe even Louis Riel are all about.

So far as I can tell, it’s been more about discovering different elements in myself, removed from the me I have come to know in the last decade. To experience firsthand the variability of the properties of character, of faith, of pride, of skill, of a sense of belonging, of a sense of self. To see how environment and habit shape and define. To observe and take stock of who I am in quiet, when no one else is looking...well, besides maybe Rosie. And to be inspired by the opportunity to do so.

And the 6 items listed above, which are neither Gospel nor complete, are things that I have been observing in myself as being slightly … different… than I would have liked to see in myself when I imagined living in the mythical Someday (though simultaneously confirming niggling suspicions I may have had). Because one might say that I’m living in that mythical Someday, since I took a year to get away and chip away at my dreams of writing and being bored. And I suppose I want to object that I’m not living a true mythical Someday, since the ideal mythical Someday should always be just a bit out of reach, since we like to romanticize everything anyway. The mythical Someday will never be what you imagined it to be, because in your dreamy projections, Someday holds no limits. I have limits here. My brain is still often fuzzy. I have a job in the real world that is lovely but consumes my energy and my brain – I can’t leave it behind at 5pm. I am tired when the winter sun tells me I should be tired – until 10am and after 4pm – which leaves me very few personal brain productivity hours, and none outside of work time. I still don’t know how to sit still without guilt, so I’m forcing myself to do absolutely nothing and work through my subsequent heart palpitations. I’m still learning what I’m like and what I do when I have no obligations, and when no one has expectations of me. All that to say that though I’ve been headed towards my mythical Someday, a deliberate time to work through the dreams I’ve always told myself I’d get to “Someday when my life allowed for it”, it is not as romantic or as lofty as it was in my projections.  Which I knew I would discover…just as I knew I might discover the 6 things…but needed to experience first-hand. I needed to know what part of me operates in fairytale. And it’s been worth it.

It’s always worth it. Every moment is significant, every experience is valuable. I’ve realized over the last few weeks - as my body is becoming increasingly less tolerant of dark days and as the novelty of adventure wears thin as it grates against awareness of the geographical distance between me and the people that I know and love, and that know and love me – that I often try to be quite conclusive, reasonable, and constant in my feelings about things… when in all honesty I'm experiencing polarized emotions simultaneously. How can I love it so much here , and dream of all the amazing things that could come out of staying here indefinitely ….and the next moment be longing for my old community or for my family? For the mountains and the ocean? The answer is in reconciliation. Life and our feelings towards it are not cut and dry, black and white, crisp and clean. My pull in two opposite directions does not have to be contradictory. The fact that my Someday now occasionally shifts from Arctic back to West Coast does not negate my reasons for coming here in the first place, or make my love of life here less real, though I’d want to err on that side of thought when I’m in secondguessing mode. Hey, I’m only human. I will always sweeten the past and idealize the future…and take the present with a healthy dose of criticism. It’s what I do. So, then,  I suppose that makes the present is the only real part. Which is why it’s worth it. I’ll take authenticity for 500 please, Alex. Ooooo...well, let’s make it a true daily double!

Every so often I function in fairytale – sipping wine, sampling dark chocolate, and nibbling on goat cheese while I wait to be handed inspiration on a silver platter, and dream of the day  (er, the Someday) when it all falls into place. When my gifts and abilities make sense together. When I feel like my sense of purpose in my vocation is actually enough. When I find success in blazing some kind of sustainable grassroots artistic trail. But I won’t be disappointed for what I have not yet produced. Or what I have failed to live up to. I am more than the sum of my parts, I am far more than my job + my skills + my dreams. My identity is not threatened by failure, by inability, or by shame.  I am a child of God. That’s what matters.

And I’m getting a better idea of how often I wait for mythical Somedays…and am reconciling myself to the fact that I always will. It’s who I am.

Unless of course, you (a living human being) give me deadline. Then I’m in like Flynn.

Delirium

Eye baggage.


      
0       0
U       U




A bus boarded at 0100hrs. Check. A seat shared from 0100hrs to 0400hrs with territorial and prissy lady. Check. Isle seat, AKA No-place-to-lean-except-on-prissy-lady-which-is-obviously-not-an-option seat. Check. Bus-passenger purge at booming metropolis of High Prairie. Check. Ahhhhhh, stretch. Check. Twelve subsequent hours of in-and-out dozing, with no concept of time or place or meaning of life. Check.


Oh, 301-3 Neville place, you never looked so good.
Welcome home. 
Check.

Aurora Meets Flashlight

Aurora-3
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Also, sometimes you just need to scrawl. I decided to let my movement decide the meaning...a nimble interpretive dance routine with a flashlight resulted in what you see here... any interpretations?

Aurora

Aurora-2
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Yes, it's true. Green skies do exist in Canada. Praise the Lord.

Standing O for TwentyTwelve

The end of the world is nigh. The earth's core will melt the earth's surface and cause the poles to relocate in a major surface shift...or so says a disheveled and psychopathic Woody Harrelson.

Just got home from seeing the best worst movie I've ever seen.  I loved it so much I hated it. I hated it so much I loved it. Poor John Cusack - having to work with that predictable drivel. At least he didn't have to hear the overkillickly dramatic soundtrack while filming - I would like to think, for his dignity's and reputation's sake, that that would have been the dealbreaker.

Why do people keep making these movies? Is it really what America really wants? Even though they have seen this movie time and time again...albeit with different names, different budgets, and different fame...do they really not cringe at every predictable plot line,  every one-liner, and ever ridiculously-and-totally-milked close-call death experience?

But the fact that I hated it so much, and that I couldn't keep myself from physical manifestations of the former, made me grateful, in some strange, alive kind of way. I left that theatre with a sense of ridiculousness, a sense of wasted time, but also a sense that there is some purpose in it all. I had so much emotion bottled up in me that I couldn't help but throw myself into a standing O position. Well, I couldn't help myself...but Meaghan could. She pinned me down as soon as she felt the strange energy emanating from the psycho beside her. I wanted to clap, but alas, my hands were tied up at the moment. Which was probably a good thing for the sake of my reputation in this teensy town  (not too teensy to have a teensy movie theatre, mind you).

2012, you make me crazy. Thank you.

And John Cusack, I will for your sake be open minded and forgiving. I'm sure you had your reasons.

Shattering Cold

My lamp shade, made of fine asian plastic, shattered last night. Whoever thought it was a good idea to transport the poor thing when it's 49 below 0 should be kicked.    Ow.

Whodathunk. The most banal of activities becomes painstakingly difficult and time-consuming when it is nearly -50 degrees Celsius. Like getting a key in a lock. Like trying to jam the block heater's plug into the extension cord. Like just plain going outside.

It's all funny stuff in retrospect, but swear-worthy in the moment. Yesterday, I had a lot I wanted to get done. It was our Christmas party for the French association (my first real event), and I had plans to spend the day running errands, baking, and pulling stuff together to haul over to coffee shop where the event was to be held. I heard jokes being made on Rosie's alarm clock radio that morning about the cold. That should have been my first clue: when northerners start joking about the coldness of the cold, it must be pretty dang frosty. And when I looked outside, everything was covered in a haze of cold...not fog, not smoke, not frost... a haze of cold. Second foreboding clue. My third clue was much less a clue than a blatant affirmation of the statement: my car was toast. And when I say toast, I mean it in the exact opposite way the thermal qualities of toast implies: it was frozen solid.

I could try to blame its non-compliant state on the west-coast sissyism of a non-block-heater-equipped vehicle...but there was really no one to blame but me. I JUST had a block heater put in my car last week.  I was in denial. I refused to park in the parking space allotted to me, 301-3 Neville place, way at the back of our building... but furnished with electrical. Instead, I opted for a spot at the, I say this facetiously, much more convenient FRONT of the building, at which location which I had developed a naively autumnal habit of parking. ''One last time..'' I told myself thursday night as I parked. Famous last words.

So, she wouldn't go. My little Honda civic, that has driven across the country more than once, that has suffered weeks worth of Winnipeg winters, that has endured a good solid month of NWT winter, has decided that the -40's are the limit. No indication that -29 was even NEARING a problem. But give that girl a couple extra negative degrees and she is indignant. And any other day I could have done without her, but on this particular day, where a sound system needed to be picked up, where grocery runs for bags of flour and jugs of juice, where boxes of decorations needed to be hauled, I needed the ol' girl. As David Ives once said, it's all in the timing.

So I became a poor helpless southerner calling out for help from more seasoned northerners. I called my friend Jordan (who also, handily, happens to be somewhat of a caretaker for our building, since his parents own it) to come to my rescue. ''Jordan??'' I whined....''My car is frozen. What do I do now? I don't want to have to pay for a tow truck,...'' then sheepishly added ''...and I can't plug in because I didn't park near my plug last night.'' So the good lord Jordan and his friend Darcy came over and blessed me with 3 extension cords to run all the way from the back of the building to my car out front, where I made use of the precious block heater for the first time in my car's life. And 2 hours later, TA-DA! A started car.

The cold went from bad to worse yesterday. After I got my car started, Darcy and I were collecting the cables...the frozen 15-metre-pencils that stubbornly (and moments later, dangerously) refused to allow us to manipulate them in any way. As we were pulling one inside the building, it cracked in half and sent sparks flying everywhere. The bitter cold had frozen the plastic casing and the wires within, so that any attempt at folding or rolling up the cable would end up in a snap. Moral of the story: UNPLUG frozen cables before handling them.

So I went about my day, running my errands, everything requiring twice as much time as usual. Odd, because I myself did not feel all that cold. My body was handling the cold fine. But you know how when people make small talk about weather and say things like ''oh, but it's a dry cold'' or ''oh, that moisture chills right to the bone!''....I finally have experienced all of these classic colds, and can attest to their pertinence. It really is a dryer cold up here, so it doesn't feel nearly as bad in your nostrils or in your bones. That doesn't negate the fact that it still is REALLY cold, and everything else (besides your body) breaks down around you as a result. And holding your keys in an un-mittened hand for the 30 seconds it takes to open the outside door to your apartment can be a painful experience.

Also, did I mention that my car in now officially a clunker? As of yesterday, really, litterally, a clunker. It clunks. And shakes. The trunk refuses the latch, the doors refuse to close because the locks are jammed, and ice builds up like concrete in my wheel wells. It really, really, really does not like winter here.

As for me, I'm not clunking. I've still got a skip in my step. And I sure am a sight for sore eyes in my winter bundles.

Happy wintering folks.

Arctic Char

jTNO-190
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Arctic char available inside. Ask local mutt for details.

snowshoes and moonlight

Oh, boy. Oh boy, oh boy oh boy.

We just got home from snowshoeing by moonlight. Really.  I put the word out yesterday that there was going to be a special meeting tonight at 9pm in the rec centre parking lot. Eleven friends came out, we piled into cars and drove to the shore of the Slave. We strapped on our snowshoes and away we went, our path lit only by the moon. I couldn't stop saying how incroyable it was. I've decided that you haven't lived if you haven't snowshoed by moonlight.

Midday Moon

TNO-750
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Just to share a bit of my perspective with the world. 1pm on a saturday afternoon in Hay River.

Abbey in the summertime...

AbbeyPhotoShoot-89
Originally uploaded by Joanne Abraham Photography

Abbey, I remembered about the photos. Finally. They're coming your way.

Invisible strings

This week I received many bits and bytes from the outside world. They are like an invisible string tying me to my real life. Funny, I used that expression ‘real life’ today with my new friend Diana, who, being an outsider like me, said that that’s what she calls it too. Her real life. Her life prior to her arrival in Hay River. I think the reason I find the expression odd when applied to my life is that it gives the illusion that I had a normal life in a regular place prior to here. That this is a one-time anomaly amidst an otherwise regular existence. When in real life, my ‘real life’ is scattered and polydirectional…Winnipeg, Abbotsford, Chilliwack (peppered here and there with Princeton)…. francophilism, acting, camp, photography, outdoor rec, teaching, lighting design, directing, percussion. My ‘real life’ is a myth. But I’ll keep using the expression, because somehow it still gets the point across that I’m a temp.

Back on track. Invisible strings.

This week’s invisible strings were manifold: a surprise package from Kerianne with Jelly Bellies, jewelry, and a book to inspire me (which I’ll get into another time); a package from Katie with more jewels, yarns, Gilbert, and Mo (which I’ll also get into another time); Genevan dark chocolate from world traveling big-wig-hot-shot researcher Christen; phone calls from Karla, Danielle, Carol, Rona, and my mom; and some skype chats with Abbey, Jenny, and Lowana. I can’t tell if it makes me more or less wistful for my real life. Less because people seem so close, so tangible when I can chat on facebook or talk on the phone every week or skype and actually see someone in the flesh, in the moment….but More because I are reminded of what is going on in my real life and I wish I could take part. It’s a good dissonance. Reminds me that I’m alive. It feels good to feel, even if it’s just confusion.

I committed in last week’s blog to looking towards Germany this week for my business. That was the first mistake, as we all know the Germans like their whites. As I made the approach to the German border, I scanned the line of soldiers to see if I could make out any reds. All I saw was a row of whites, an Aryan nation, as I suspected I might. But lo! A red disguised in blue called out to me from the ranks, stepped out of line and said “take me! I’m ze #1 red in alt of Gehmany!”. I coldly replied “You’re the only red in all of Germany. Don’t flatter yourself”. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and whispered menacingly in his ear that his time had come. “Time to check out”, I said. To the stern colonel awaiting his departure I said, “bag ‘im”, and with that, the two of us, myself and the red soldier, marched solemnly toward his judgment. Luck was not in the soldier’s cards that day. Later, when I asked the soldier his name he sweetly…oh, so sweetly… replied: “My name is Zenzen, Dr.Vino Zenzen.” I had what I needed to warn the world about this imposter. Now I know….never give your heart to a red German in blue.

Dr Zenzen, Vino Noir. Touted the #1 red wine in Germany. What an insult to #2.

Ok, ok, a little harsh. For those of you that follow my wine log, this week’s wine was (obviously) a disappointment. But only because it was waaaaay too sweet. I would not recommend this wine to anyone who likes wines on the drier side…but it would make a great sangria base, or I’m sure it would be awesome mulled for Christmastime…

Today some of us girls went on a little trek, snowshoeing a trail just outside of Hay River. We were going to go to a friend’s cabin, but we were running out of daylight hours and decided to maximize by staying closer by. It was nice to be surrounded by friends, a random conglomerate of people that we pulled together. Here are some highlights:

Diana, showing off her sweet old school raquettes.
a jay of sorts.
yet another classy self portrait.
meaghan hamming it up in her pamper snowpants.
Rosie, the most stylish gal out on the snowpath.

We had a spontaneous potluck afterwards, and talked about things. It was really nice.

Happy novembering.

Landing Strips, Fish Fries, and a Moose Hair Tufts.

Oh, Hay River, how do I love thee.

Let me count the ways….

I love thee on cold weeknights in a winter wonderland.

I love thee keeping company in a Woodshed.

I love thee with Thursday Wine.

I love thee in a DC-3 loading cargo.

I love thee frying fish, though you deny me the chance.

I love thee collecting willows.

I love thee with raisins and curry.

I love thee at the disco-bowl.

I love thee, I love thee, I love thee.

…I love thee keeping company in a Woodshed.

The Woodshed is the local diamond in the rough. It is a garden centre, a coffee shop, a home decorating and book store all rolled into one. It’s actually open at night…and the coffee isn’t half bad, either. Thursday night we met up with our friends Adam and Shannon at the Woodshed and had tea and biscotti. It felt like a small dose of my real life. It may become my go-to place when I need some comfort, since I can’t buy Safeway’s Hermit’s cookies here. Hermit’s cookies, the big fat fluffy raisin and walnutty cookies you can only get at safeway in the bakery section, became my chicken noodle soup of comfort food when I was missing Winnipeg while living in BC. They were the cookies my memère always kept (and still keeps!) in her cookie jar. Since there is no safeway here, alack! No Hermit’s cookies. Woodshed, here I come.

… I love thee with Thursday Wine.

This week I added a new rule to Thursday wine night. I noticed myself being strangely overwhelmed at the decision of which wine to buy…because I’m not allowed to just buy ones I know I like. I’m having to venture into a whole other realm of wine buying – not having a clue about what I’m about to purchase. So…the new rule, to help narrow down the shelves I have to choose from, introduces a country rotation. It just so happens that the last 4 weeks I have been here, I have bought wine from all different countries. First, Canadian, then Chile, then Argentina, then Italy. Germany is up next. But this week, I got the chance to do a bit of a comparison exercise, which is helping me understand taste a bit more. I bought an Italian wine this week: Colle Secco, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. As the name suggests, it is dry as a bone. I would never have bought this particular wine if it weren’t for my rules, mostly because I would never normally buy Italian, and then a dry wine at that. But I’m glad I did. I didn’t like it at first, but I think it must need to breathe a bit, because I accidentally left it to breathe in my glass for a good hour before I got back to it, and it was an entirely different wine. Then the next night my friend came to our dinner party with a bottle of a dry French wine, and I did a little side-by-side sampling to see if I could taste the differences and write them out. The dry French wine was Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and it was genious. I immediately loved it – dry, but not as dry as the Italian. Smooth, full bodied, but mild. I highly recommend it, if you’re looking to broaden your horizons.

…I love thee in a DC-3 loading cargo.

I accompanied my journalist friend édith to the teeny airport on Friday night as she interviewed some people from Buffalo airlines, the airline that will this week see itself in the world première of “ice pilot”. After the interview, we went out to the landing strip and up into one of the planes, a very army-looking stubby thing that seats 12 plus a bunch of cargo. I had to be hoisted up into it…a ladder would have been a luxury. The passengers in from Yellowknife had just disembarked, the stairs were already put away, and the staff was loading the plane up for a big cargo trip. We lent a hand. It was a good moment.

…I love thee frying fish, though you deny me the chance.

Have you ever wanted to know how to tuft moose hair? I have. Wanted to, that is. And I had the opportunity this past Saturday, but found no success. We went to a craft fair being held at the reserve (just across the river from town), in their beautiful treatment centre/lodge. All week I’d been looking forward to the event, as the posters promoting it around town promised a moose hair tufting demonstration and a 2$ fish lunch between noon and two. We got there at 1. There was no fish. And no tufting demo. They ran out of fish at noon, and everyone was starting to pack it up (and pack it in, let me begin) by the time we got there. Nonetheless, we still managed to get around to some tables, and I (of course) managed to cram some bannock down my gullet.

And oh, how I wished I could have bought you all a pair of moccasins from these ladies. If I could spare a couple hundred bucks each, I would, I swear. Beautiful beading, luscious furs, softened leathers…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, the north!

…I love thee collecting willows.

Saturday night we planned to have a bunch of friends over for dinner. Well, it started with inviting a new friend for dinner (Diana, who I met in a store this week…when she snapped my picture and put me in the little section of the local newspaper that asks lame one-sentence answer questions. Turns out she’s from Vancouver). And then it somehow evolved into a whole thing with Meaghan and Adam and Shannon and Edith and Diana’s cousin David visiting from Vancouver. So…it was time to clean and to cozify our home a bit more. Saturday afternoon I went collecting willow and birch branches. I made a wreath, a lamp adornment, and a pickle jar full of wisps.

…I love thee with raisins and curry.

The above-mentioned dinner party was a great success. I made a massive pot of brown rice and another massive pot of curried vegetables. Meaghan made a delicious salad, Shannon made cinnamon buns, Edith brought wine, Diana brought chicken to add to the curry. It was delightful. Conversation was never at a loss, and we were very comfortable crammed into our tiny living room.

…I love thee at the disco-bowl.

Adam had the foresight to reserve a lane at the bowling alley so we had a place to move our gathering to after dinner. Yes, there is a bowling alley in Hay River. 6 lanes, to be exact. It’s in the basement, under one of the Chinese food restaurants. Sound ghetto? It was surprisingly un-ghetto! Very state of the art. How state of the art, you ask? So state of the art that Saturday night is disco bowl night. Spinning mirror-balls, techno music, and black lights that expose every piece of lint and dandruff. And…all new scoring computers. A really technologically relevant locale. We were impressed. The only thing that didn’t impress me was my score. Probably an all-time low…Karla and Gary, you’d be ashamed. But I made up for it by making Abbey proud – I was ridiculous.

And that brings us to now, Sunday night. Rosie and I just got home from dinner at Mary and Glen Davies’– the family that has already had us over for multiple dinners (starting with thanksgiving dinner the weekend we got here, before they even knew us… and gave us an incredible house-warming basket when we got our apartment). Mary sent us home with a tray full of pumpkin cheesecake. Lucky for Rosie, who has an ample supply of lactase naturally provided by her body.

Hay River:

I love thee, I love thee, I love thee.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

And a bison-huntin’ we will go…

This summer, my cousin Jacqueline taught me something about buffalo. She taught me that the following sentence is, in fact, completely functional and grammatically correct:

“Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo.”

Go figure. No really – go figure. That’s an order. Some of you already know how this one works, but the majority of you are mystified and have given way to disbelief. Figure it out … and I’ll unpack it for you next blog.

That was my excellent segue/ice-breaker leading straight into me talking about my buffalo….er, bison….hunting trip that took place this weekend.

Our friends Adam and Shannon (who very recently moved here from Nova Scotia) wanted to go for a long drive Sunday, and invited Rosie and I to tag along. They wanted to go bisson hunting.

Did you notice my typo? Just wanted to emphasize the hard “s” sound made by most Canadians when pronouncing the word “bison”. MOST Canadians… but not Manitobans. I remember that when I first moved to BC around 9 years ago, it was the first word that came out of my mouth that marked me as a sure-fire foreigner on the coast. That and the word syrop, which I pronounced “see” instead of “sir”. Manitobans are die-hard protective of the pronunciation of their beloved provincial emblem: the bizon. They WILL fight you if you tell them that the right way to utter the word is “bi-son”. More specifically, Rosie will fight you if you tell her that the right way to utter it is to NOT vocalize the fricative. Manitobans boldly and proudly voice their buffalo’s fricatives.

I digress.

We drove out to Fort Providence, which is about 200 km northwest of here. Along the way, we stopped at a few different locations to check out the sights, take some photos, and enjoy the crystal clear blue sky.

And the grayscale version of the clear blue sky:

Right before the small town of Fort Providence, there is a ferry crossing to get across the Mackenzie River. If you look on a map, and find the southwestern point of Great Slave Lake that joins the Mackenzie, you’ll find Fort Providence, where the mouth begins to narrow. This is Rosie and Adam walking back to the car to await the ferry creeping up behind them from across the river.

while I appreciated the land around the ferry "terminal"

As soon as you cross the river, you enter a wood buffalo reserve. And though we drove two whole hours without seeing any wildlife other than a few birds here and there, as soon as we crossed water we saw immediate evidence that we were in the land of the wild wood buffalo. Meandering, messy tracks with occasional sniff spots denting the snow like snowpants-clad human butt prints. We drove into town first to see if we could find ourselves a place to eat lunch - the day was getting on, and we were getting hungry.

We found a little greasy-spoon (seemingly the only place to eat out other than at the gas station), and while I ordered a chicken burger and Shannon ordered a fried egg sandwich…Rosie and Adam ordered buffalo burgers. When in Rome…

30 minutes later, when we were back on the road and in the midst of encountering our first wild wood buffalo, Rosie whispered softly to the beasts: “You are beautiful. And delicious.”

***

Our first encounter was with a cow and her calf, who seemed more than slightly annoyed at our childlike glee at the occasion of meeting them. Or maybe it was the fact that our car stalked them slowly from behind….

then inching along beside them as they walked along the highway...

then inching just past them, and stopping dead in front of them so they’d have to walk around us or head off the road entirely:

They opted for the latter:

Then we shot them.

When we tired of shooting them, we continued our hunt for more buffalo. Ten minutes up the road, we came upon three more.

We shot them, too.

And the big bull on the far left reminded me of a Sith Lord.

We continued north up the highway (which would take us to Yellowknife if we continued on a few hours more), and took a few more pictures of the scenery:

and then we decided to head home while we still had a couple hours of daylight left. On our way back, we saw the most beautiful sunset:

Oh. And the shooting of the buffalo? Cameras, people, cameras. Who do you take me for? A redneck?

The End.