Arctic char

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.

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