As a child, the autumnal beat of summer's demise, signified my grandparents' annual
migration North to us, who waited impatiently in Whitehorse, Yukon for, beyond our parents, the two people my brother and I could not adore more. And while Ida and Clare Hedegard's destination was family centred, my grandfather Clare had the fishing bug firmly implanted in his brain. With the Chilkoot Lake and river outside of Haines, Alaska teeming with five thriving varieties of salmon, my father and grandfather were on a mission: who would get to the coveted spot first.
migration North to us, who waited impatiently in Whitehorse, Yukon for, beyond our parents, the two people my brother and I could not adore more. And while Ida and Clare Hedegard's destination was family centred, my grandfather Clare had the fishing bug firmly implanted in his brain. With the Chilkoot Lake and river outside of Haines, Alaska teeming with five thriving varieties of salmon, my father and grandfather were on a mission: who would get to the coveted spot first.
A flat expanse of shield rock, pommeled by retreating glaziers, meters from the shore,
offered the perfect footing to cast off from. The quick river currents that drained from the fjord were teaming with sockeye. The salmon run was my father's and grandfather's delight, our family albums stocked with both happily showcasing their catch of those days. Whomever got down to the slippery bank first, haphazardly making way through the river currents to that rock seemed always to return to camp with the bounty.
From the high tides of the Bay of Fundy to Grey Mountain over-looking the valley of Whitehorse, my geographically inspired childhood marked me as an outdoors girl. Hard to believe, so firmly now ensconced in the big city lifestyle of Toronto, house firmly nestled inches from it's neighbour, my world-view still sits firmly within the canopy of my backyard maple tree. I prefer outside; as long as there is a stretch of trees, a parcel of blue sky to raise my eyes up to, I am good. Somewhat, the 10-year-old me, firmly nestled in my soul, who waits for Dad to pass the fishing rod so I can scramble down to the fjord banks to try my luck with the Dolly Varden's is thoroughly puzzled with the city buzz. Where is the crispness to the air, the yellow expanses of boreal forests, the high-bush blueberries, the dusting of snow-covered peaks, the expressive talk of the salmon that got away?
And luck be the one who waits, for what came in through the library system this week but Daniel O'Malley's sophomore novel Stiletto. A rather embarrassing gleeful fan of The Rook, with me badgering countless friends to read it, Stiletto is my salvation. A little humour amidst the tears is much needed, and so I tucked into it's large tome post haste. Half read and not willing to simply bypass a proper review I digress, returning to fishing, and all the Dads who baited their daughters' hooks.
The path of grief is trodden by us all, and as I follow down it's memory laden, saddened grounds, I walk with tears in my eyes, and happiness in my heart. I am the daughter of a great man. As I look to the skies, SF book in hand I shall remember to live my Best life.
offered the perfect footing to cast off from. The quick river currents that drained from the fjord were teaming with sockeye. The salmon run was my father's and grandfather's delight, our family albums stocked with both happily showcasing their catch of those days. Whomever got down to the slippery bank first, haphazardly making way through the river currents to that rock seemed always to return to camp with the bounty.
From the high tides of the Bay of Fundy to Grey Mountain over-looking the valley of Whitehorse, my geographically inspired childhood marked me as an outdoors girl. Hard to believe, so firmly now ensconced in the big city lifestyle of Toronto, house firmly nestled inches from it's neighbour, my world-view still sits firmly within the canopy of my backyard maple tree. I prefer outside; as long as there is a stretch of trees, a parcel of blue sky to raise my eyes up to, I am good. Somewhat, the 10-year-old me, firmly nestled in my soul, who waits for Dad to pass the fishing rod so I can scramble down to the fjord banks to try my luck with the Dolly Varden's is thoroughly puzzled with the city buzz. Where is the crispness to the air, the yellow expanses of boreal forests, the high-bush blueberries, the dusting of snow-covered peaks, the expressive talk of the salmon that got away?
The seasonal shift signifies a myriad of emotions for me and with the passing of my dear father this September I keep tightly bound to my memories of joy. As this very sad summer comes to an end, and my stack of detective novels tower beside me, I am happy to report that my SF bug is back. I spent nary a minute reading science fiction, needing the comforting English-inspired murder mystery as anchor to the turbulent waters of grief. Some lean on food, I require fifty whodunnits.
And luck be the one who waits, for what came in through the library system this week but Daniel O'Malley's sophomore novel Stiletto. A rather embarrassing gleeful fan of The Rook, with me badgering countless friends to read it, Stiletto is my salvation. A little humour amidst the tears is much needed, and so I tucked into it's large tome post haste. Half read and not willing to simply bypass a proper review I digress, returning to fishing, and all the Dads who baited their daughters' hooks. The path of grief is trodden by us all, and as I follow down it's memory laden, saddened grounds, I walk with tears in my eyes, and happiness in my heart. I am the daughter of a great man. As I look to the skies, SF book in hand I shall remember to live my Best life.
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