They Always Leave

In just a mere 36 hours we will be crossing the tense threshold of metal detectors and security guards, amid blaring intercoms that beg the presence of untimely passengers. Having fully accepted that what lies ahead is entirely beyond my expectations, I can only be sure of my crossed fingers, praying that the detectors remain silent and that our names stay well and clear of the shameful intercom bursts.

And here is where I stop writing like a dramatic scholar and cut to the chase. We got the shots (parents breathe easy), travel insurance has been purchased (begrudgingly), and genuinely enjoying research I have done enough for the both of us. I have been shown that it really is possible to fit the MEC store in your 36L and 38L backpack, and I can’t thank the friends, family, and all around beautiful people enough, who have given us awesome supplies and advice over the last couple of months. To all my family and friends back home, you are the absolute best and I love you to bits. To all the new family and friends up in Prince George who have not only welcomed me into their homes (and more importantly, their dinner tables), but also showered me with Christmas cheer in all its forms, I cannot begin to express my gratitude. But I’ll start with a big thank you.

The name of the blog is an indicator of my survival status, and though I can’t speak directly for Darrian, I will do my best to report on his status of being as well when time and internet allows. Once I figure out this whole blogging contraption I will be sure to post pictures, though not enough that I won’t be able to bombard you with a hefty photo album upon landing back on Canadian soil.

Stay tuned
All the best,

A Memory of Mountains


We used to be something.

I could’ve told you to the second from the shadow of a pine when the rain would come down
and in the winter, the light of the sun used to spill a red hail of ochre
she heard our conversations, and wanted to remind us that color hadn’t died with the shrub grass and cotton moths.

Wild flowers clung dried and buried in coyote fur. She sent those too.

We used to hear the whispers of Everest, a god in her own right, on tired winds
whose backs had been broken by the beat of a hummingbird wing
and the salt of several oceans.

I won’t lie to you, we weren’t that kind of something. But my god.
We were at least something.