It’s minus 40 degrees outside and the smoke from my wood stove is rising like a black poker in the blue, blue Yukon sky. People would be out skiing on a beautiful day like today, but my Christmas present to myself is a guest from Toronto.
She was impressed by my Mazda truck when I picked her up at the airport. She was struck by the splendor of the hoarfrost that coated every tree and rooftop with silver glitter. She was, I think, a bit turned on by the way I could steer with one hand and shift gears with the other while looking out for moose that might cross the winding road to my place.
When I removed the padlock on my door, she was embraced by the scents of wood smoke and roast beef. A bold Shiraz, some smoked salmon, and we were ready to dine. We were hungry. Dinner was languorous. I knew from experience how weary she would be from the Toronto-to-Whitehorse-in-a-day journey. So, I invited her to lie down on my bed and rest while I warmed the wild cranberry crumble in the oven. Naturally, after a long day of cooking, driving, and being on-the-lookout for moose, I was kind of whooped myself. Thus, we remained—a pretzel of passion, horizontally entwined for six days.
On the seventh day, I heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of Sorrel boots on snow.
Knock, knock, knock. Shit!
Did I deadbolt the door behind us? Did the truck in my driveway insinuate that I was home with the kettle on? Who could guess what treats I might have cooked up in the last six days?
I answered the door in bare feet and a bathrobe.
To my red-faced friend, I said, “No, no, not to worry. While most folks might not know it, I always walk around buck-naked day or night in my log cabin in the bush. It’s always best to call in advance of a visit. And if I happen to be in the outhouse when you call, I do have an answering machine. So, I always, eventually, get the message.”
Two weeks of bliss. The cross-country skis, which she had brought at my request, simply gathered wood smoke dust.
