by Gail Heney | Sep 30, 2026 | Weekly Musings
Prologue
Travelling up the Dempster Highway (740 km of rutted, washboard, potholed dirt road) had been a long-shot wish for us. The lateness of the season, threats of a flat tire, stone-chipped windshields, no gas stations, off-grid for days, kept us silent and resigned that we “shouldn’t”. Having driven almost 500 km toward Dawson City, we came upon the cutoff. The corner had a last-stop gas station and a large wooden sign announcing the start of the Demptster. A sideways glance between us, with an unspoken, we’re here, we might as well, we pointed Mertyl north. After 74 km of body slamming and brain rattling, and with silly grins on our faces, we pulled into Tombstone Territorial Park for an overnight. Set in rolling arctic-like tundra, the ground thick with lichen, dollops of snow on the mountains surrounding us, a pleasantly loud Blackstone River bordering the rear of our campsite, we were giddy.
Update
We have exited the Yukon, now heading south on a rolling, worn and bumpy, almost paved Cassiar Stewart Highway. We have 723 km on this roller coaster, without connection to the outside world. Like the Dempster Highway of the Yukon, it’s a Hotel California route . . . no check out, no turn around, you can never leave.
So far, the land is flat and scrubby, with forest fire remnants once again evident. Sadly, we have travelled through many areas decimated by wildfires; imagining the raging sweep of flames licking the green needles off the trees, leaving the forlorn charred trunks to slowly rot and return to the earth. In the Yukon, the brilliant gold Aspens dotted the blackened landscape and offered hope of regrowth. It seems here nature has abandoned this scarred corner of British Columbia. Our “Go Camping BC” brochure is promising us a must-see destination campsite on Boya Lake – a highlight to any trip to Canada’s north.
Our second visit to Whitehorse was a delight. We visited a gallery and shop with paintings, pottery, jewelry, and leather goods from local artists, and a museum that included the story behind Sam McGee’s cremation and the frantic Gold Rush that began in the late 1800’s. I had the best scrambled eggs of my life at the Burnt Toast Café. It was refreshing and energizing after our drive by Dawson City. Despite being assured it was much different during the summer, I experienced a disturbing visceral reaction of being in either a ghost town or on a movie set, without a director yelling Action. The period storefronts were meticulously painted, goods in the windows, welcome signs on the doors that were locked, with an eerie black vacancy behind the windows. We picnicked in a deserted manicured park along the Yukon River and hit the Klondike Highway back toward Whitehorse.
As we enter the fourth week of our MERT, I am struck by how often we lean forward in our seats to get closer to the windshield and therefore to the outside and utter an “oh wow”. Sometimes I pick up my phone to take a picture; many times I ask to slow down so I can take it in with my eyes and store it in the photo album of my mind. We have spent over 85 hours driving in silence; Mertyl’s creaks, groans and brief chats with the dogs the only break in our visual immersion in all that is around us. Local radio stations hold no interest; cell service is scarce. Our one indulgent diversion has been to listen to Mathew McConnehey read his memoir (Greenlights). Sharing a set of earbuds, driver with the left, passenger the right, we have relished his stories, life lessons, musings, wisdom and humour, many times glancing at each other when his words landed with heavy relevance and poignancy. We have begun London Falling; I am voting we save it for the unremarkable stretch through eastern Saskatchewan and Manitoba as we head east toward home.
I am also aware of a sense of calm, easy temperament, and natural rhythm that has permeated my body, mind and spirit. While my senses are more acute, my emotions are gentler. I’ve lived most of my life as a human nerve ending, so this shift to a soft light on a dimmer switch feels magical.
Epilogue
Boya Lake campground blessed us with an emerald lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and a beautiful hiking trail. My lake dip was chilly though my feet sunk in the grey green silt bottom were kept warm.
by Gail Heney | Sep 27, 2026 | Weekly Musings
MERT Dispatch #2
I am sitting at our tiny Arborite kitchen table in an RV park in Whitehorse, Yukon. Mertyl has carried us 6,000 km. We have prepared and eaten all our meals and bedded down in our home on wheels for all but two nights. We have cleaned our camping attire and sheets at two laundromats, impressed by the regulars who arrive with their own soap, several pounds of quarters, and a clean basket for dry, folded clothes. Still rookies at life on the road, our precious daily routines are taking shape.
Having found the switch for the propane heater and figured out Mertyl’s furnace settings, we now enjoy a leisurely morning coffee regimen without having to put on a hat, mitts and down jacket. After coffee, we take the dogs for an exploratory walk and intersperse exercises reminiscent of our circuit training workouts at the gym. That and jump up and down at least 120 times, as prescribed by our daughter. Breakfast is prepared and often eaten on the road. We are diligent about stopping at designated lookouts and scenic vistas, anything that might offer a decent cup of coffee, and interesting dirt roads that sometimes take us to a pretty spot. We never pass up the opportunity to get rid of garbage, pump out our septic system, top up with gas ($2.10/litre), or get fresh water.
We have visited the smallest and the largest Canadian Tire stores. The former in Nipigon, Ontario, the latter in Grande Prairie, Alberta. In addition to the usual coffee pods, fire starters, spray cleaner and cloths for endless wipe-ups, we had to replace our kettle. Anything loose on the counter becomes a projectile on the bumpy roads, curves and steep hills of northern Canada.
Each late afternoon we find a site to park and stay for the night. Some have been beautiful, treed lots with a picnic table and fire pit; a few resembled dreaded trailer parks, with no privacy and views of the highway. Our neighbours always keep to themselves, in a quiet and friendly manner. It seems to me there is an unwritten privacy code for nomadic living. The connection is with the land and their rig.
We aim to have a long walk or hike at some point each day. Once we have settled and eaten dinner, we spread out our maps and logbooks as we plan the following day. Brochures and tourist information are reviewed, evaluated, and tested for plausibility. Some of the largest ads, in the glossiest print, with promises of food, one-of-a-kind treasures, local art, espresso coffee, and free Wi-Fi, are now ramshackle buildings and rusted-out pick-ups, evidence of a once-thriving business, with a faded sign, “closed for the season.” We now have a healthy degree of skepticism that keeps us flexible and open-minded, while lowering expectations and seeking out the undiscovered.
After the planning session, we play Cribbage or Gin Rummy. Records are being kept for the end-of-MERT tally. As we rarely have cell or internet service, our strategy sessions, reading, and research are neither virtual nor artificial.
What’s it really like? The driving, the roaming, the isolation, no Starbucks, no cell service, camping, Bison in the middle of the road, bear spray in our pocket? We are existing on so much less, and yet life feels more vibrant and real. We sleep deeply, relish the silence, slow down to take in the views, and are never in a hurry.
People living in the remote communities we have visited are a mix of born-and-raised and transplants. Those who have grown up here can’t imagine living anywhere else. They speak with pride about their community, are genuinely interested in where we come from, and engage fully and without haste about everything from the weather, the bears, the fires, and the cost of gas. Anyone who has migrated to live in the north speaks with passion about the simple lifestyle, the outdoors, sports and adventures, and the challenge of the elements. They too don’t want to be anywhere else.
The pictures I have taken are mementos of daily discoveries. The people, conversations, and experiences of rugged, untouched nature, and the tenacity of the communities in this magnificent and distant piece of Canada are embedded in my mind and body. Words feel inadequate.
by Gail Heney | Sep 17, 2026 | Weekly Musings
We are six days into our Most Excellent Road Trip (MERT). We have become accustomed to the creaks, groans and lumbering ride in our 24-foot RV. I have named her Mertyl. She is glossy white with blue and red stripes that are reminiscent of Canada Post Trucks. We have sideview mirrors that extend far enough to graze the trees and shrubs as we ramble through campgrounds, searching for our reserved patch of gravel and dirt, locating the post with the electrical plug (always hidden in the forest), and maneuvering our bulk, not too close to the picnic table and firepit. Once landed, we plug in the very heavy electrical cord, release the dogs and tether them to the picnic table, turn on the water heater and pump, and start our campfire and charcoal BBQ. Captured in a single sentence, the routine looks much simpler and shorter than it actually is. We have six storage compartments on the outside of Mertyl. During our packing, we designated each to hold related items. That system held up until camping night two. We are learning through experience and fine-tuning the logistics and procedures for setup, meal prep/cleanup and tear down. As we wander through the parks with our dogs, we are painfully aware of our newbie status. Veteran campers know the importance of an outside mat to manage mud, dirt and gravel. They have tarps and rain flys to go over the picnic table. Their fires have admirable flames and no smoke. They hang welcome signs; some even have planters. They have the most scenic location, always with access to the beach or river.
Most campers are friendly, always curious as to where we’ve come from and, more importantly, where we are going. There is an inevitable expression of appreciation when we tell them we are headed to the Yukon. That’s something we’ve talked about doing . . . they all say. The unfriendly few glare at our dogs and my shiny red rain boots. While there is no dress code for camping, baggy, cozy, dark coloured, and plaid seem to be the most popular. I almost fit in with denim overalls and an oversized plaid jacket. My sweet husband can’t help but look like a preppy golfer, in his Canadian Open quarter-zip and Lulu pants.
This morning I watched the sunrise from our picnic table at Rushing River Provincial Park. Just east of Kenora, it is our final night in Ontario for several weeks. The peace and quiet of the early morning were stunning. The dogs knew to be still as they sat on either side of me, always on guard. While journaling, I decided to list the likes and dislikes of our trip so far. I love waking up with a current of anticipation and curiosity, as each day we are journeying to where we have never been, so there is always the potential for wonder and awe. I find peace in living with much less and no agenda. I am happy driving, eating and sleeping in nature, without noise, people, traffic and the undercurrent of urgency. As we approach exits to enter larger towns and cities, we look at each other and silently agree we don’t want to get that close to concrete and crowds.
The dislikes were few. Mertyl is compact and built to be efficient. Each day I learn a new trick. To cut down on the rattle, jingle and crashing noises that accompany potholes, curves and gravel, everything must be wedged into tight spaces, laid on its side, or cushioned with rubber matting before we roll out and onto the highway. It is remarkable how jarring the noise is of a tube of toothpaste falling into the sink as we round a corner. Battening down our belongings is a daily mild pain in the ass. The greatest annoyance, and one that creates bruises and four-letter utterances, is the daily collision course that is unavoidable when sharing 200 square feet of living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom with another human and two large dogs.
As I finish this dispatch, we are now in Saskatchewan. Each day offers discovery and appreciation. The view from my window as we cling to the right lane and hold our breath when transports whiz by is a long, straight ribbon of dark asphalt. I want to remember the vast blue sky and endless fields of gold. The Welcome to Moose Jaw, The Friendly City, sign affirms my faith in community. I shake my head and turn my phone over when a headline pops up, reminding me of the aggressive insanity beyond our borders. Feeling unplugged and untethered is what I had hoped for.
by Gail Heney | Aug 12, 2026 | Weekly Musings
I’m preoccupied with the notion that Ozempic and AI are the uncontrolled catalysts for our demise as humans. I alternate between anger, fear, and hopelessness. Until I notice my garden. There is a random six-foot-high sunflower plant smiling tall and strong in the midst of a jumble of creeping vines with beautiful gold flowers (I can’t remember what I planted; however, I have harvested 8 cucumbers and now there’s a large squash of sorts hanging over the chicken wire fence) and huge tomato plants drooping with red-orange bounty. I decided the sunflower is a sign of hope, reminding me to seek out small pleasures and have faith in the universe.
Sinking low again this morning after a glance at the headlines, I headed through our fields of barley and soybeans with the dogs. Both crops are solid dark green carpets, until I spot a lone tall stalk, with three tasselled ears of corn tucked neatly behind the large floating leaves. Not quite a miracle of nature, however, a sign of tenacity. We have never had corn in that field. Of course I stopped to talk to her, examine her beauty and sturdiness and thank her for being there.
My optimism and faith in humanity depend on these moments of joy and awe. Otherwise, I am left with my bewildered thoughts. Now that the GLP-1 medication is readily available for people wanting to lose weight, be it ten pounds or one hundred, millions are eating less, dining out infrequently, and posting pictures of their skinny selves on Instagram. Protein-rich cottage cheese is scarce, and no alcohol beer or wine is the norm. During a recent lunch with a friend, I noticed her nibbling on her salad and then boxing up more than half to take home for dinner. She had lost 30 pounds. I asked if she had changed her eating habits and started to exercise, the usual routine for long-term sustainable weight loss, pre-drugs. She is walking a bit more, though mainly relying on medication for weight management. She will be on it for the rest of her life.
A long time ago, I worked in psychiatry as an Occupational Therapist. My caseload included patients with eating disorders. Their weight, whether it was not enough or too much, was tied to their emotions and psychology. I wonder what will happen to those souls whose battle is not with food, but with themselves. To feel less afraid about the deluge and availability of these “miracle” drugs, I need to believe we will find our way to a healthy middle ground of medication and emotional recovery.
Beyond the billions of dollars and resources devoted to evolving artificial intelligence (AI) is its limitless potential to impact every aspect of our lives and our humanness. A gift to scientific research and medical diagnostics, AI now permeates every business and household. The warnings are real and prevalent. What becomes of problem-solving, critical thinking, and creativity when a bot can tell you the answer (not necessarily the best or most correct) in seconds? Or a scene can be acted without a real person, a piece of art produced without a human seed of inspiration. A book written, an essay submitted, a meeting conducted without engaging our brain and voice.
Sharing my concerns with a kindred spirit who, like me, is feeling existential threats from pharmacology and technology, along with the surreal political landscape, we committed to noticing the beauty around us, the people we care about, and the things we love to do. Celebrating simplicity and focusing on stretching our brains and bodies will keep us connected to reality and in touch with our humanity.
by Gail Heney | Jul 13, 2026 | Weekly Musings
I am again in a familiar state of creative yearning complicated by the convenience of summer social activities and chaotic clutter in my nest. It starts with invitations to golf, to the beach, or for coffee and some shopping. It spreads to a handful of clients that have somehow found me (could be my own fault), and my commitment to volunteering and my recovery program. On my own, I manage to add house guests, garden weeding, and obligatory dog walks and errands. There, another day filled up. Another day of my designated “author time” violated.
As I perch on a vinyl bucket chair with my laptop on the black Arborite table in a big city Starbucks, I am soaking in rare empty time. I am relishing the opportunity to accompany my daughter to a medical appointment and be told I would have to “wait” two hours. I have chosen not to explore the area, poke around shops, or otherwise avail myself of urban amenities.
I have the same wave of appreciation for activity voids when I am on a plane. The freedom of not being able to do anything is an elixir for me.
Many years ago, in a course on neuroscience and coaching, I was reminded of the duality of our brains. In simplistic terms, the right brain is our creative and emotional engine, the left brain the organizer and logistics co-ordinator. As I continue my journey of maturity and self-knowledge (aging), I am increasingly aware of the imbalance in my head. As I ventured behind my closet doors to the tangle of hangers, baskets puking t-shirts and jeans and single shoes spilling off an inadequate rack, I had a moment of clarity. Chaos in my closet leads to clutter in my mind. I needed to purge and organize to calm my brain. Clearing physical space has a way of disposing of my mental and emotional litter.
I filled three bags with clothing, some almost brand new. The pieces were either replicas of what I already owned, or whims that felt exciting in the moment and ridiculous when I took them out of the bag at home. The excess of consumption and waste is disturbing and disruptive to my urge for simplicity and social responsibility. Shame also sits close to the surface.
Like a soothing salve, tying up the bags and having empty space and neatly folded items I like removed me from the din of inertia I had been feeling. The next step was the calendar review. The audit of the coulds, shoulds, and want tos. Only with my left hemisphere clarity could I tackle the double booking, texts and emails taunting me and stealthily infiltrating protected time.
I am the victim and the perpetrator of my predicament. It is easier and safer to say yes, to feign interest and enthusiasm, to busy myself with activities and engagements deemed worthwhile and socially fulfilling. To admit that I am avoiding the hard work of building a book outline, writing chapters, and finding an editor is to acknowledge fear: of failure in all its forms.
Fear is the glue that keeps us stuck, small, avoiding, and otherwise limiting our experiences and potential. As I enter a new decade, I feel I have choice laced with a sense of urgency. Shifting from writing and posting short dispatches to sinking into a consuming and lengthy project is like learning a new dance step, with the goal of being put on stage in front of hundreds of people.
My next tattoo will likely be “if not now ~ when”.
by Gail Heney | Jul 8, 2026 | Intrepid Challenge, Weekly Musings
In mid-June, I joined an old friend and mental health advocate in an interview about my personal journey through alcoholism to my life in sobriety. His questions took me deep, quickly.
While we have known each other for many years, our paths rarely crossed, and our conversations were superficial. When our cursory chats turned to his work in raising awareness around mental health challenges, we found our common ground.
In my early career, I was an Occupational Therapist. I worked in both long-term and acute care psychiatric facilities. Witnessing the frailty and truth about mental illness in all its conditions, diseases and manifestations opened my mind and my heart. It is through my own addiction that I understand emotional death, the power of radical honesty and self-reflection, and the vital role of supportive relationships and community.
There has been societal progress in understanding and accepting the reality of mental illness. Not enough. I respect the traditions of 12 Step Recovery groups, and yet I choose to break my anonymity as a recovering alcoholic if I feel it will help someone or challenge the stigma that still exists.
Please take a few minutes to listen to the podcast – No Magic Bullet. Bobby K’s questions excavate radical honesty, personal growth lessons and the necessity of deep connections.
