Part I: June 1999

Starting to Feel at Home

At this camp we felt at home and really began to relax. I would fish and even manage to catch one or two. We would walk the banks and watch the woodland buffalo. Some days we would just sit around the fire and talk about nothing in particular. I'd catch myself watching Bridge and saw a genuine beauty in her at the strangest moments - in her expression and concentration while chopping firewood in the rain, or making a meal and not getting flustered even though she burnt her fingers over the unpredictable heat of the camp fire. Then there were the moments when the sun peeped over the white mountain tops and lit her face while she slept. One-time moments I was glad I was there to see.

It occurred to me that for the last five years of our relationship we had only been together in body, nothing more. Both of us had been too busy working, little quality time was spent together and if it was, it was spent discussing problems we had to address or working around the house. This was not what it was about. Our adventure was showing us what was really true and possible for our relationship. We were being together, really being together. We weren't waiting for the other one to come home from work or to come to the table for a meal. We weren't sitting mindlessly together on the sofa watching television. We were here, in the Canadian wilderness, miles and miles from anybody, totally responsible for each other and doing everything together. The only thing that interrupted our fun and loving all-day conversations was the call of a loon or the flight of an eagle over top. Whatever it was it would be fleetingly worth it, and not a phone call from a double glazing firm or more bills arriving in the post.

Our life-changing adventure was finally beginning to take effect. We were beginning to shed our entrenched way of thinking, valuing and appreciating. Since we had left our comfortable world in Polperro our muscles had firmed, our hands had hardened and our skin had tanned, but the overwhelming difference was the sixth sense. A sense that tunes you into the other person subconsciously; being aware of their safety and their comfort. A comfort that doesn't cost a diamond ring to enforce, just a cup of hot tea, an acknowledging wink or a gentle reassuring touch.

When the lake had risen five to six inches we knew the snow was melting in the mountains and that the ice would probably be gone from Lake Laberge, so reluctantly, we left our lake.

On the way back we met a beat up 1970 Ford pick up truck weaving down the muddy road towards us. An elderly man about 600 years old was at the wheel, his teeth seemingly left behind in a tough moose steak about the same time he bought his truck. One eye had gone on strike and the other was shaded by the peak of a tatty baseball cap that read, "I wish life was this dirty."

"Hello" we said, switching off Pricey. "Wha?", he yelled back. "Hello, have you got the time?". "Wha? I can't hear you my trucks running, if I turn her off she'll never start again." He bellowed spraying saliva in a wide ark over the inside of his windscreen. He swore, then smeared it around with his sleeve. We pointed to our wrists to enforce the point and he moved suddenly, as if he'd sat on a nail. He thrust a grimy hand into his jean pocket, pulled out a wristwatch with half a strap, put it on the end of his nose and winced at it. "9.30", he shouted. "A.m. or p.m?", we asked. He put it on his nose again. "P.m", he confirmed, with a shake of his head. Then we asked him what day it was, something that we later learnt never works with Yukoners. His one eye shot off at a skyward angle, his tongue came out of the side of his mouth, and after a long pause he said he had no idea, but Monday was sometime last week. We left, trying to work out what we would do when we reached Whitehorse in the middle of the night which was in fact our lunch time.

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