The blog
A meditative state
Sitting out on the counter from a late, late bake the night before were some 5-minutes-too-long-in-the-oven scones.
In the morning now, snow just fell and fell and fell from low, overcast cloud. It seemed like every time I looked out the windows, the clouds had gotten lower until none of the mountains were visible at all.
It really was just the cosiest homebody kind of day, where the 11am sunrise blurs into the late afternoon sunset, and my cosy window lights never lose their glow against the sky outside, and we were supposed to be going to the mountains.
We easily agreed to delay 24 hours, leaving plenty of time for a new batch of scones to be over-baked, however I didn’t. Sugar was still nowhere to be found, and these couldn’t be completely inedible, I was mostly pretty sure.
Aside from having to dodge a snowplow a few times, waiting a day was just the best decision. Hot coffee and heartfelt conversation filled the car as we travelled deeper into nature. Fast moving clouds, mountains of snow, and cold, but not frigid, winter air on my face brought back so much Norwegian nostalgia. Time passed far too quickly, and soon we were stumbling down a snowy hillside in the dark.
Sometime while I was sleeping in the late evening after our heavenly afternoon and getting warm drinks ready just before 11pm, the skies had mostly cleared.
Instinctively upon waking up, I look skeptically to the sky in search of cloud banks, double checking weather maps, looking for where the other shoe is going to drop from. I think that’s the years and years of chasing clear sky, obsessing over the weather night after night, for 9 months of the year. But that other shoe wouldn’t come tonight, we were in the clear all evening, but as ever, that’s just half our story.
“Good, but calm. And it would be nice if things were a little bit more unsettled.”
With the weather as close as we come to worry free in Whitehorse, it was onto the aurora conditions which were good, but calm. Full moons in the middle of winter always give some challenges, as beautiful as they are.
We waited as long as we could tonight in the company of the occasionally heard singing ice of the lake. Careful steps out onto the shore cracked the ice under my feet. It was equal parts alarming as calming. There is something so special about the ice. An early morning flight departure eventually brought us back into town. Despite squeezing every last minute out of our clear skies tonight, the aurora remained quiet. Gentle, but beautiful low across the horizon.
A place beyond belief
In quiet conversation and deep trust
I knew leaving Whitehorse we were in for a long night. Weather maps showed hope, but far, far out. So we drove, and drove and drove and drove.
Our first stop around 100km from town was under quickly disappearing clear sky, but it was our first little taste of the stars and some diffuse aurora. I updated maps and continued further to where it looked like what our eyes could make out on the horizon and the weather maps were in agreement on - a large, relatively stable for Iceland Whitehorse, break of clear sky.
I think our timing tonight could not have been more perfect. It was the kind of timing and circumstance that makes you believe in the pure magic of life. Within minutes of stopping under our clear sky, the aurora danced and danced and danced all around and above us, and continued on until morning.
I can never overstate just how much I love these chases. These nights of powerful weather… the mountain scenery, snowy highways and cold, cold winds are some of the most special moments of life.
Making every second count
Seeing the first seconds of pink sunlight touch the peaks of the Kluane and St. Elias Mountains confirmed to me that setting out from Whitehorse deep, deep in blue hour was the exact right decision.
The days are among some of the shortest of the year now, and the beauty of Kluane extends further than perhaps any other time of the year. The forever low and golden sunlight emphasizes that. You know by now my obsession with light and ice.
Our entire day felt almost eerily quiet with very few passing vehicles. The forests felt predictably quiet - a few squirrels, a lone gray jay, and a grouse couple that, as ever, sent my heart into my throat with their chaotic helicopter takeoff hidden in a tree. Then, closing in on darkness, a herd of somewhere near 100 elk off both sides of the highway halted our plan of a late visit to a lake along the way back home in favour of taking our time loving on all our new furry friends.
These are the best days, the ones of magical light, majestic views, and of making every second count.
Ever humbling
It wasn’t the curtains, all the beautiful structure, the dance or the luminosity. It all felt surreal, humbling beyond reason still.
It was the reds. It was the reds visible to my eyes, in real time. It wasn’t needing a camera to identify them first and then recognize a difference in hue. It was in real time the most beautiful red colour which has alluded me for so long, so many times over the last 16 years. I don’t remember the last time I saw them in this fullness… I don’t know if I ever had.
“George from Toronto”
The sharing of secrets
Sylvia first emailed me a month ago. She and her partner William were coming to Whitehorse, and wanted to get engaged under the aurora. She was forward it wasn’t a secret or going to be a surprise, but they hoped for some beautiful photos. It felt beautiful and spoke right to my heart.
“…and I think after all of our research, you would be the best fit for our special night.”
Just a few days away from our aurora chase, I got a call from William. They were nervous about the continually changing weather forecasts and fickle nature of the aurora. He asked if I would be up for joining them on a helicopter instead - flight-seeing over the Yukon with a stop on a mountain where he could propose. And this was going to be a surprise to Sylvia. The problem, of course, was that Sylvia was in touch with me several times before and had been doing all her research. What if she recognized the way I spoke, or recognized my face.
After one final last minute change to avoid a snowstorm the day before, I arrived early at Capital Helicopters on a clear, calm -23° Sunday morning and after quietly checking in, I assumed my alias of George from Toronto; a tourist visiting for the week who was just happy to be able to get up on a last minute heli tour in good weather.
In a moment of pause just before I left my place, I realized I couldn’t wear my mukluks, insulated Canada Goose snow pants, or balaclava to protect my little frost bitten face. I needed to be slightly unprepared and definitely underdressed. Skinny jeans, clean hiking boots, and an unfortunately now trendy Fjällräven parka has to scream city boy from back east.
When Sylvia and William arrived at the office, I stood sheepishly staring at a massive wall map of the Yukon, deliberately disinterested in small talk or making new friends. I looked up, smiled shyly without really making eye contact, and buried my face back into my zipped up parka studying names of mountains and rivers on the wall 30cm from my nose.
Now on our way out to the ramp after our safety briefing, I introduced myself as George, from Toronto, who arrived on Thursday, was staying until Tuesday, and had never seen mountains like this in real life before.
It was perfect. I was absolutely glowing inside, and enjoying my well calculated social awkwardness far too much.
Sweeping through saddles of mountains, climbing up mountainsides, circling steaming waterfalls in rivers, this was I think the most beautiful I have ever experienced our planet. I was just beside myself. The aviation geek, the nature lover, the winter addict, the photographer, and the hopeless romantic who just loves love… My chest just couldn’t take it.
“No matter how prepared you think you are for this, I promise you, you aren’t.”
After our amazing pilot landed us in -28° at Rose Lake, teary eyes overtook us all and Sylvia, of course, said yes. And finally reaching in for hugs, I could share I wasn’t actually George, I was Sean from Whitehorse, who you’d been emailing with for weeks. The laughter and warmth that ensued was almost too much. We immediately had like a thousand stories to share and there just wasn’t enough time, or warmth.
“Stop I don't want to tear up before the plane.”
In a few goodbye texts on Monday morning just before they boarded their flight back south, there were some watery eyes on each side of the phone. Just a couple of guys having a genuinely soft moment.
Sometimes in life you just meet the perfect people, in the perfect place, at the perfect time, and this was every, every little bit of that.
From about 8,000ft here, above the left edge of the lake, very faintly in the distance, you’ll see Mount Logan - the tallest mountain in Canada at 5,959m.