I made it. I’m really here. I only managed to close my eyes for a few hours on Thursday night in Whitehorse, fearful I wouldn’t hear my 4:45 am alarm go off. So instead my brain woke me every hour just to be sure I knew the time in appropriate intervals.
Air North brought me safely to Dawson City and the flight was full. We had to make three approaches due to fog but snuck in on the final try, thankfully, or we were headed back to Whitehorse until the fog lifted.
We flew in a Hawker Siddeley 748, which quite coincidentally I was a flight attendant on a billion years ago in northern Ontario. So how fitting was that I ask you. The service was great and we flew low enough that I could check out the incredible landscape all the way from Whitehorse to Dawson City.
A kind member of Dawson City picked me up at the airport and delivered me to the house that will be home for the next four months. I was giddy. Could have been the lack of sleep but I like to think it was excitement for what is to come.
I sat and took in all the moments that happened in this house from Pierre Berton’s childhood to all the many writers who came and found inspiration here.
And what should be right directly across the street from me, that I can look out “my” living room window at?
Robert Service’s cabin
I spent the day walking in the beautiful sunshine. It was a gorgeous day. I blended in with the tourists and felt deliciously invisible. No one minded while I snapped photos and peered in windows (of shops, not private residences in case you were concerned). I walked the bank of the Klondike River. I felt very much at home.