The poetry festival is over. Last night the Yukon poets read at the Old Firehall, doors open to the green river making its way to the Bering Sea. It’s been a glorious weekend here in Whitehorse. In an hour we’re going to Carcross by bus and then taking the White Pass-Yukon railway down into Skagway.
What I loved: the wild roses, so vivid and prolific; tall spires of fireweed; ravens conferring on the roof of the government building across the street from this hotel; the scones at Baked (and the rich espresso); the conviviality of this particular group of poets; bill bissett’s Honey chant to close the festival; cold beer after a long walk; Karen Solie’s boots; my plate of Arctic char at dinner yesterday, a moist fillet of tender fish with a bannock alongside, on the deck of the Klondike Ribs and Salmon Barbeque, served with a tall canning jar of ice water. I’ll never forget any of it.