Reflecting on Four Years in the North

I often think back to those early days. My first days in the north. 

Everything was new. The smells, the sensations (cold!), the lack of light, and the feelings deep inside me. I was equal parts scared and strong and life seemed a dichotomy of stillness and massive upheaval. For the first time in a long time, my days lacked discernable structure. I was more or less jobless, so I spent my time walking, unpacking, exercising, and cooking. We had Chilli, who was just two months old, and I recall spending many mornings curled up with him watching movies. 

That was four years ago. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday and at other times it feels like it was a lifetime ago. 

We all tend to take stock at the end of one year and the start of another. Though I’ve never been big on new year’s resolutions, January 1st has become a significant date as it marks the beginning of my chapter in the north. The weeks before and after January 1st are a period of contemplation and reflection about the impact remote living and the Yukon in general have had on me. 

Life in Beaver Creek is steady. There aren’t many surprises and days are simple. Nature and community are focal points. And still, in my four years here, no two years have been the same. In fact, I’d say that each year had its own theme. Year one: learning. Year two: laughing. Year three: living. Year four: growing.

Year one: learning

I knew nearly nothing about life in the north. Sure, I’d done my due diligence and researched the basics. About Beaver Creek I knew only what Google told me. Most of which was wrong. A charming picture, but horribly out of date. I’d looked at images and seen the distances, population, climate. I knew about winterizing our vehicle and we’d had the foresight to do that in Vancouver. I knew to invest in warm clothes. I knew I’d need to cook, and had learned about things like meal plans and grocery lists. But all of that was theoretical. The real learning started when I arrived.  

I had to learn the practical, simple things like when the post office was open, where to dispose of garbage, what trail led where, and how to describe where I lived when I had no physical address. And I had to learn things that took more time and required intuition and continued learning. Like people’s names and how to identify a local so you knew to wave when they drove by. I learned that when sharing home phone numbers, you only needed the last four digits. That the pop-in is a normal thing and that gossip is rampant and dangerous. I learned how to identify animal tracks and what to do should I have an encounter. I learned what a ‘quilling’ was but only after I witnessed my friend’s dog have a run-in with a porcupine. I learned the strength of my relationship with C. I learned what I was capable of through numerous backcountry hikes and solo bike rides, and even a solo multi-day bike ride. Most of all, I learned to love the north, absolutely.

Year two: laughing

The theme of our second year in the north was, perversely perhaps given that the world was dealing with a pandemic, ‘laughing’. It was 2020. And quite quickly the world ground to a halt. The year was marked by suffering and uncertainty. The change for us was far smaller than it was for many. A trip to New York with a friend was cancelled; the school I work at shifted to online learning, a mode unfamiliar to us all; the border between Canada and the United States closed to all but those engaged in essential travel. This meant trips to Alaska were no longer a possibility. 

We weren’t able to travel, so instead, we spent time together and sometimes with the couple in our bubble and we explored locally. I gave myself a haircut (complete with hacked bangs) while on FaceTime with a friend. We laughed so hard it probably contributed to those jagged bangs. C and I spent a lot of time outside. Along with the other couple, we searched for morels in an area scorched by a wildfire the previous year. We looked for days on end, belly laughter echoing through the burn area when we saw each other’s soot-covered faces. We went fishing. I am about as far from being a fisher as you can get, so when I caught a fish, I screamed. Really screamed. So that our friends expected the worst and ran over. Again, the laughter! In the summer, when travel restrictions eased, my best friend and her husband visited. We always laugh when we’re together, but this time it was harder and longer and often about not much at all: the number of mosquito bites she got, our mutual inability to set up a fishing rod, games we lost or won, music we listened to, movies, food. We laughed at everything. Maybe that laughter was a way to cope with the profound uncertainty we were all facing. A way to get through it.

Year three: living

At the end of our second year in the north, I received troubling medical news. The early days of our third year in the north were characterized by intense anxiety – a palpable concern that a serious diagnosis was imminent. I was barely present at the start of that year. I was in a haze, going through the motions, doing my best to get through each day. I seriously wondered if I’d be told I was dying, after all, the word ‘cancer’ had been used to describe what I was facing. And then, in early January of our third year, I was told that I had a myeloproliferative neoplasm. It was a serious diagnosis, but I realised I could and would live. And thus, the theme of the third year was born. 

C and I got married. We exchanged our vows at the edge of the frozen Wheaton River and spent the next four days in an off-grid cabin, reading, playing cards, and wandering through the snow. It was perfect. I ran. A lot. In -30 and even -40-degree weather. I pushed myself physically and mentally and C and I explored what life would look like in light of my diagnosis. We watched my brother and sister-in-law get married and saw another brother start a family. Our definition of a nuclear family changed, and we realised that we are whole together (+ Chilli, of course!). The year ended with a visit from my parents, and it was wonderful. They lived with us! Jumping into the snow, embracing the cold, going kicksledding. They did it all.

Year four: growing

This past year has felt a bit like a test. At times it seemed as though the universe was saying, you’ve had three years to learn and laugh and live (oh god, I feel like a live, laugh, love meme would offer levity here), and now it’s time for a test. Now don’t get me wrong, this year has been full of incredible experiences – we’ve had wonderful people visit: C’s childhood best friends who got engaged while hiking with us in Kluane National Park, friends from university, and C’s parents; we’ve traveled and camped and hiked and skied; we’ve experienced community here, made new friends, and laughed with old friends. But, for me, it has been a hard year. 

I doubted myself this year. I let the inner monologue in my head take over. I call her Cruella, and, as her name suggests, she’s not exactly kind. I’ve struggled with my PhD work – in particular, with how long it’s taking. I wondered what parts of me were loveable and I fixated on the areas that I saw as deficits. But each of these things inspired me to grow and change. I worked hard to find compassion and inner peace, and now, looking back, I feel at peace with this “test” and proud of how I tackled it. 

At one point, during the summer, I shared with a friend that I was having difficulties and she told me growth is hard. I resented that comment. I felt misunderstood; what I was feeling hardly felt like growth! But now I realise that’s exactly what it was. My fourth year in the north is the year my psyche went through a period of intense and often painful growth. I look ahead with the knowledge that the work I’ve done this past year will stand me in good stead through the fifth year in the north. And I know, with every fibre in my being, that this will be a great year.