An Evening Alone With The Star Dancer

by Sarah Gignac

I am lounging on the hostel's cheap deck chair, watching the northern lights dance. It is midnight and the sky is dark, something that I am having a hard time getting used to. For the last three months the sun hasn’t set so much as dip just low enough to give the streets a duskish feel during the wee hours of the morning. But now, at the end of August, the days are getting noticeably shorter. Fall is in full swing, and the locals are stealing themselves against the inevitable overwhelming darkness that is a Yukon winter.

Whitehorse is the hub of nowhere. It lies in the middle of the lonely Alaska Highway, connecting Canada’s tundra and America’s lonely state with the rest of the continent. The road to this northern town is long and rough; no one ends up here by accident. Those that make the journey are rewarded with the harsh, raw beauty of a truly untamed landscape. Moose, bears, wolves, and beavers make their home along the outskirts of town. The wild Yukon River courses through the city center, and the skyline is painted with rugged mountains and ridges just begging to be explored. It is an outdoor adventure’s paradise, during the summer.

The lights are dim tonight; the star dancer is shy. I’m told she grows bolder as the winter progresses. As the sky darkens the river will freeze, and Whitehorse will be blanketed with a cold, white silence. Not many people brave these winters, but those that do tend to get hooked. Perhaps it is the sheer isolation that attracts them, existing in a frozen shadow where time stands still and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

These locals are an eclectic mix. Artists, loggers, free spirits, hermits, alcoholics, entrepreneurs, - you name it, Whitehorse has it. Despite their many differences, the one thing these people share is their desire to be left to their own devices. It is a place where folks are happy to meet you, and just as happy to leave you alone. Even the summer tourists for the most part are a quiet, unassuming lot. They use Whitehorse as a refueling station (gas, food, gear, bug repellent, beer) before venturing into the bush, taking full advantage of the peace and seclusion the wilderness provides. They trickle into town in the spring and disappear before the first frost, leaving behind the oncoming night and an amazing light show.

The northern lights flicker and sizzle in the cast iron frying pan sky. They flash from white to green before fading out, like a young raver with neon glow sticks wrapped around her ankles and wrists. I think of Phoebe, goddess of light, shimmying amongst the stars, teasing the mortal realm with a psychedelic peep show. A performance that few people are lucky enough to see, and those who do never forget.