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.