What a Loony Buys You
I have about five minutes of internet time left, here in Whitehorse, Yukon. Just came out of a week of camping in the bush, a bit north of 68 degrees, 24 minutes north, as close to the pole as I've ever been.
Here's the sad truth: arctic ground squirrel tastes like chicken. Dark meat.
The last morning, about 50 caribou went by camp, the first of the migration of the Porquipine herd, which, in a week, will send about 35,000 animals through the valleys where we were in Vuntut. Simply marvelous.
And the tent held up in 100-mph winds. What more can you ask?
At Whitehorse, the Yukon River flows swiftly past, and it looks like there are only a fraction of the tourists I usually see here in the summer. No matter. Tomorrow, south to British Columbia, where there is email and phones, but there will not be that incredible quiet of Vuntut, where the only sound you hear are the mosquitoes in your ears.
Here's the sad truth: arctic ground squirrel tastes like chicken. Dark meat.
The last morning, about 50 caribou went by camp, the first of the migration of the Porquipine herd, which, in a week, will send about 35,000 animals through the valleys where we were in Vuntut. Simply marvelous.
And the tent held up in 100-mph winds. What more can you ask?
At Whitehorse, the Yukon River flows swiftly past, and it looks like there are only a fraction of the tourists I usually see here in the summer. No matter. Tomorrow, south to British Columbia, where there is email and phones, but there will not be that incredible quiet of Vuntut, where the only sound you hear are the mosquitoes in your ears.
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 5:34 PM
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