Yukon Chatter Bug

We finally got a couple of nice days recently, and it’s about time. It was announced in the news that the Yukon has been the hardest hit with a bad summer in all of Canada. Really? Gee, who knew? Our warmest day was back in May, according to the report, and we’re supposedly in for a very cold winter. You’d never know that the Yukon is semi-arid with all the rain we’ve had this year; add to that the cold, frost, and yup, I agree…pretty bad summer.

For the last three years I’ve tried to do something with part of my yard, but I can’t seem to get anything to grow. Our yard is on a north-facing slope, and most of anything I want to grow is in the shade. I guess it doesn’t help that I have zero gardening experience, and the Yukon isn’t exactly the best place to learn, what with our short summers and being in a plant hardiness zone of 1 or 2. I was so shocked when a friend of ours on Gabriola Island mentioned that his basil (or was it rosemary?) in his outdoor garden comes back every year. I can only dream.

Needless to say, this year I wasn’t really in the mood for gardening. We’ve had frost in July on more than one occasion this year, so when I decided it was time to do a little something with a small part of my yard, I decided that a low-maintenance landscape was in order. It looks kind of plain for now, but it’s a start. You can’t see it in the photo, but I also planted a new tree that doesn’t mind shade (according to the lady at the nursery). It’s hidden behind the flower pot. Today, I’ll be doing the other side of the walkway.

If you’re wondering why we didn’t just didn’t put grass, the usual semi-aridness of the Yukon translates into people here using inordinate amounts of water for their lawns.

My photographs are disappearing randomly on my blog, and it’s bugging the heck out of me. There’s no rhyme or reason, it seems. The ones linked to other sites come up of course, but many of the ones I’ve uploaded from my computer aren’t coming up.

HELP!!!!!!

[Update: Apparently WordPress is working on it. I do hope they fix it soon!] YCB

Where the Buffalo Roam (near Watson Lake, Yukon)

Can you say “buffalo burger?” MMMmmmm

Teslin Lake, Yukon

Can you say “c-c-c-c-c-cold water?”

Liard Hotsprings, BC (on the Alaska HWY coming to the Yukon)

Can you say “AAaaahhhhh, much nicer!”

Yukon River (near Wolf Creek)

Can you say “Gold Rush?” Many a boats navigated these waters in the day.

Shreddies

Can you say “Na-na-na-na-boo-boo?”

Well, I meant to post more photos, (Kluane, sheep, bear, etc…), but like I said, I’m having technical difficulties. So this is the end for now.

The Yukon attracts many athletic types, in addition to artsy-fartsy, hippy, and, well, you name it-types. So Yukon cyclists (the REAL ones that travel the shoulders of the Alaska Highway with 120 km/hr vehicles throwing rocks when passing and that do the KCIBR) will probably snicker, giggle, or simply fall off their bikes rolling over laughing just from reading the title of this post.

So you cyclists, keep in mind that I haven’t put my tush on a bike seat in, uh, about nine years. Holy smokes! I thought it had been six years, but I just figured out that I’ve been here for 6, lived in Mississauga, ON for 2, and was in Toronto before that, which is where I last rode one of those things. Why so long?

The last bike I had wasn’t the right fit. I think the frame was too small, and every time I rode it, I felt scrunched up and uncomfortable. So instead of buying a bike rack for my car, I was so turned off that I ended up just giving it to a friend when I moved from Toronto. Good riddance!

Anyway, to make a long story short, I was warned that my first time cycling up “The Hill,” I’d probably have to stop about three times: just below Range Rd.; next to the Games Centre; and somewhere near the traffic circle on Hamilton Blvd. Imagine how pleased I was to be able to make it up the first time with only one stop near the pool. Mind you, I was panting like a dog locked up in a car on a hot day, but I made it! The second time up The Hill I made it without stopping even once and never looked back. It just keeps getting easier.

I still get cyclists who pass me so fast that my head spins, and I have to get my bearings straight in order to double-check that I’m still going uphill and not down, but I’m pretty proud of myself when my butt bike finally gets passed that pool. But it gets better.

Yesterday, there was a woman on a little electric scooter who ended up in front of me in the bike lane on Fourth Ave. She was all dressed up in a business suit with fancy pink high-heeled shoes. She looked damned good, even if she was a little scrunched up on her scooter. I couldn’t help but to yell out, “Sure, rub it in and stay there right in front of me while I pedal my butt off!” We both laughed before she turned onto a side street.

Those REAL cyclists would’ve made her head spin too.

PS: I replaced “arse” with “butt” to avoid the risk of being impolite. “Besides,” my hubby said, “it’s a British word.”

ME: It’s very popular on the East Coast; everybody uses it there.

HUBBY: Uh, where do you think they came from?

TOUCHÉ

When I asked my husband to name three things he knows about me in response to Don’t Bug Me’s tag, his answer was: “You’re so small.” The problem? I’m not small, I don’t try to pretend like I am, but I guess when you’re 6’6″, just about everyone else is “small.” It’s not a problem, really.

It’s become a joke between us where he’ll say it when it’s totally irrelevant:

Me: I’m feeling so blah today. I don’t know why.

Him [in a whisper]: It’s because you’re so small.

Or when his arms are wrapped around me in a great big hug:

Him: MMmm, you’re so small and cuddly.

So, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Now I’ve taken to telling him, “You’re so tall.”

DBM: Here are the three things my husband knows about me:

1. I’m small (NOT)
2. I’m an itchy person (you don’t want to know what look I gave him on that one)
3. I read many English words incorrectly

Number one has already been dealt with, so let’s move on to #2: “You’re an itchy person.” Huh? Okay, it is mosquito season in the Yukon, and some people attract them more than others. At least that’s my theory. We’ll both be sitting or working out in the yard, and an hour later I look like I have the chicken pox, while Dave has a couple of little red specks that disappear within an hour. Life’s just not fair. Maybe I should correct #2 to read: “I attract mosquitoes”

As for the English, let me explain. French is my first language. I grew up speaking French at home and going to French school, but the community (and province) is predominantly English-speaking. So I don’t have an accent either way, but when I read out loud, sometimes I mispronounce words.

Several years back, I was talking with a friend and somehow the word “horizon” came up (pronounced HOR-rah-zon – emphasized syllable in large caps). She started to giggle, which turned into one of those belly laughs. You know the ones. To this day, every time I use that word, I have to mentally work it out.

A more recent one that came up:

melancholy – mel-ANN-kulee – my hubby didn’t even know what the heck I was saying.

Now, keep in mind that I know exactly what the words mean and how to use them, but because I don’t have an accent, I sound like a moron when I mispronounce words. At least if I had a French accent, people would attribute it to that.

And I’ve been hired to teach kids starting this fall. Ssshhhh…. I have to admit it doesn’t happen very often, but it’s embarrassing when it does.

So, DBM, I rarely respond to tags, but because you’re new in my blogosphere, and I like you because you like bugs, my work here is done. Now, don’t bug me (just teasing)! I can pass it on to:

Laurie the Librarian currently studying in Newfoundland, but will hopefully find the time

Kara in Faro, even further north

and Michael & Fawn (you two count as one, and I can’t wait to read your posts)

According to DBM’s tag, here’s what you do:

You have to ask your significant other to tell you three things that they know about you and then publish this information on your blog. You also have to pick more victims and then go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged. The comment must end with the word ‘pthththth’. I don’t know why, I am just repeating what I was told.

When driving along Second Ave. on Thursday afternoons, you can always spot the peaks of white tents in Shipyards Park. This is where locals set up their wares at the Fireweed Community Market. Aside from the ol’ faithfuls that are there every week, there are always little surprises tucked in here and there. I love farmers’ markets.

My friend Deb got me into going to markets when I would visit her at her cottage at Sauble Beach. Before moving to Whitehorse, I never imagined that there would be a farmer’s market, let alone any farming here. We do live north of the 60th, after all. How naive. It’s almost as bad as people down south thinking we live in igloos and travel with sled dogs in the Yukon.

At our little market, you can get elk burgers, bison burgers, freshly-squeezed orange juice, fireweed jelly, fresh vegetables, plants, and the list goes on. This past week, I indulged in two local specialty items: morel mushrooms and wild rose syrup.

The rose syrup I tried in a spinach salad with strawberries, pine nuts, green onion, and bacon (the spinach and green onion also courtesy of the market). It was a little on the sweet side, so I’ll have to adjust my dressing recipe for next time. I’ll also have to whip up a cool drink of rose syrup and gin on our next hot day, if it ever comes. That and a little drizzled on ice cream sounds like a nice afternoon with my feet up in the yard. Come on sun!

As for the morel mushrooms (which were at a really good price), I finally tried my friend’s cream of mushroom soup recipe. It was delicious! I mixed them with a couple of portabellos and button mushrooms.

For those of you who don’t know what morels are:

• look like brains fried on drugs
• usually found in areas where burns occurred the previous year
• hollow
• They’re used in French gourmet cuisine (very expensive mushroom)
• May cause poisoning symptoms for some people when consumed raw and/or with alcohol, though I’ve had them (cooked) along with a glass of wine in the past without any reaction

You can go to Wikipedia or Shroom Boom if you want more info on morels.

Aaahhhh!!! The mushroom soup soothed me, comforted me, and helped me forget the rain.

In a previous Sea Cadet camp story, I mentioned that at 13 or 14 I was well ahead of my peers in the boob department. One camp activity that really brought that them to the forefront, shall we say, was the obstacle course. The obstacle course builds teamwork, muscles, and problem solving skills, and some problems are unanticipated, to say the least.

The course consisted of all kinds of fun, scary, and seemingly dangerous concoctions. Swinging from ropes like Tarzan, crawling on your stomach in tunnels and under barbed wire, and walking across a rope bridge. All fun, fun, fun, until I reached “the pit.”

The pit was a huge hole, about the height of 1 1/2 people. Across, there were several horizontal logs set up where you had to climb over one, under the next, and keep going over and under, then climb out of the pit with the help of your peers.

Climbing over wasn’t such a big deal, but when I had to get under the log, well, I got kinda stuck. Yup, the twins were in the way. The way I remember it, I was lying on my back, trying to push myself through with my legs, and suddenly, I couldn’t go any further. I tried going for a diagonal manoeuvre in the hopes of getting through thinking if I can get one in, then the other would have to follow.

Knees bent, pushing with my feet, and squirming under the log, I looked up and noticed my squad leader towering over the edge of the pit, watching me, with the sun’s rays glowing around him. Mortified, I felt like digging an even deeper hole to hide in for the rest of the summer.

Eventually, I did make it through to a hoopla of cheers from the girls in my squad. I’d like to say that the satisfaction of completing the course far outweighed my loss of dignity that day, but I’d have to hold my fingers crossed.

According to Wikipedia, personal embarrassment “can be caused by unwanted attention to private matters.”

Ya think?

Lately, I’ve been whining about the rain in Whitehorse, or more specifically, the lack of sunshine.

That’s what I always liked about Yukon summers: glorious sunshine. Except this year. Not only are our summers short, but now, we don’t even get sunshine? What’s up with that? And to make matters even worse, Yesterday morning, on the Carcross Road, we woke up to -4C. It’s mid-July for crying out loud.

Every time I look up the weather forecast, all I see is rain, rain, rain. Except, look at the icons below. This is the same forecast, same city (Whitehorse), same days. Which would you rather have? Even though the chance of precipitation is the same, I think The Weather Network is more pleasing to the eye (and my brain), and it preserves sanity.

On CBC Radio, they interviewed the owners of Sourdough Sodbusters this morning, and they haven’t been able to sell sod because of the rain. Too much rain isn’t good for business. One of the owners, Vanessa, who also hosts the Lotus Paperie blog, still sounded so cheerful though. I should call her up to find out what her secret is.

Oh, and did I tell you that, according to one expert, Juneau didn’t get any rain in June?

CBC Weather Forecast

The Weather Network Forecast

Now that all is well with my 85 year-old grandmother, I can write about last week’s family emergency that came up. Dave and I were house-sitting out of town, but on Saturday he had to work. So, he came home, picked up a few things, and checked the telephone messages. There was a message from a family member, who shall remain nameless, and all I have to say is I’m glad the message was cushioned by Dave receiving it first, and then announcing it to me.

You see, when you have to tell someone what’s going on, a little word of advice: please start with the best news first. For example: “Just want to tell you that Grandma’s okay now, nothing to worry about, but there was a little incident on Friday.” Proceed to tell the story.

This, my friend, has the potential of averting another family emergency, that of another family member, more specifically me, from suffering heart failure. And credit to Dave, that’s what he did.

When I got home today, however, the original message was still on our machine (we couldn’t be reached by telephone), and this is what it said:

1. There was an incident with Grandma on Friday. – [Hair stands on back of neck]
2. I guess she passed out and Mom found her on the floor after getting out of the shower. – [Gasp...Heart races...Adrenalin rushes...Panic sets in]
3. She was rushed to hospital. [This is really serious. Please tell me she's still alive]
4. She was medevaced by helicopter to Sudbury [300km distance - OMG, No!]
5. Doctor says she needs a pacemaker or she may never come home. [Sighs with relief...okay...serious enough, but she's still alive...all along I thought the worse...silly me.]
6. Don’t try calling me, I’m on my way to Sudbury. [Still catching breath]
7. You can call Uncle D., he knows the details.
8. [And here's the clincher] Oh, by the way, don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s going to get her pacemaker, and then she’ll be as good as new. She’s fine. Really.

I’m not upset at all; I actually find this humourous. Not what happened to Grandma, of course, but how the person-who-shall-remain-nameless announced the news. Obviously, it wouldn’t have been so funny had I gotten to the message first. Once the heart starts to palpitate and the adrenaline starts to flow, it takes a lot to bring things back to normal.

If you don’t understand how a woman could both love her [person-who-shall-remain-nameless] dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child. ~Linda Sunshine

Person-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless (Back at ya!)

The headline could’ve been written about me when I was at summer camp with Sea Cadets. A recent post on Boing Boing about a teen discovering a baby bat in her bra reminded me of the incident.

I was thirteen, but by the looks of my …uh…well…you know, you’d never know it. I was an early bird, so to speak. Anyway, part of our Two-Weeks-In-Training, a term that gave reason for everyone to call us TWITs, involved marine survival exercises. One involved jumping off a dock (pretend it’s a ship) to learn how to conserve body heat and energy while in the water. Little did I know, I was getting extra help from a friend.

After everything was over, off to the showers we went to get ready for lunch. As I peeled my bathing suit off to jump under the hot water, lo and behold, a jellyfish was stuck between my boobs. Lucky for me, it didn’t sting. Unfortunately for it, life ended somewhere on HMCS Quadra‘s grey cement floor of the girls’ showers.

RCSCC - Tiger 101