That elusive midnight sun finally showed himself last night in a magnificent display of fire orange reflected by the inky blue of the Yukon River and light grey clouds over the mountains. The evergreens between river and sky were backlit and somehow a vertical rainbow spewed out of a cloud behind it all. Of course the photos I took do it no justice.

Hmm. I'm finally here. The Yukon. "Canada's True North," they call it, or in French, "Le Nord avec un grand 'N.'" Feels good. There's a considerable amount of funk in Whitehorse, but I'm definitely picking up a redneck quotient. Last night while walking the waterfront path back to my campsite, I heard some whistling and cat-calling from the other side of the highway. I looked over and a van full of guys in a parking lot were cheering me on, probably bolstered by cheap beer. Oh brother. What do they expect me to do? Go over and party with them? I waved and carried on.

I've been sleeping like a baby in my tent. I'm getting used to all my worldly possessions being spread out in the tiny three by six foot area. It's simple, and despite having to admit to missing the comforts of home in Toronto--my cosy bed, three meals a day, a companion who never sits still, my kitty, lots of laughter, security, serenity, et al, I'm liking this.

The other day in some remote locale somewhere high on the Alaska Highway I was stopped for gas and chatting with someone I can't remember. A middle-aged man in an RV came over and asked me if I was travelling alone. When I said I was, he looked at me with the most quizzical expression and asked in a serious tone if I was having fun. When I told him I was having a blast, he just shook his head and walked away. Couldn't wrap his brain around how I could possibly be having any fun alone on the highway in the rain in the middle of nowhere.

I've been very selective about who I tell the whole truth to. In fact, I think Bret is the only one to have gotten an honest response, evasive as it was. Having a similar adventure of his own, I knew he could not only get it, but find a way to admire and relate to what I'm doing.

Still, my story to most people is I'm from Toronto, I'm riding until September or so, I've got a boyfriend and a cat waiting for me there, and I'm writing along the way. I understand that for most people the idea that I have no home to go to after all this, combined with the fact that I'm alone out here in the middle of nowhere, would just be too much.

A woman in the washroom this morning recognized my boot from the hot springs and said hello. Some gentlemen I met at Liard saw to it that my left boot with the ever-widening hole was duct taped closed. I'm now walking around with a famous pair of Roots Ruff-Tuffs--made tuffer by two layers of duct tape. We thought it would be too much of a fashion statement doing them both, so only the left one has the silver stripe to match Henk's gas tank.

This morning I caught a couple of street performances on Main St. A magician/comedian and two thirds of a jazz trio. I ran into Suat from the Alpine Bakery and we made casual plans to meet his family.

I have absolutely no idea if I'll be in Whitehorse for another day or a year. Maybe I'll be like Tommy G, the mayor elect of Bella Coola and run out of money before I get a chance to head "home." You'll come to Whitehorse and find me sitting at a round table in some cafe telling tales of how I ran out of cash having the adventure of a lifetime and got stuck in the Yukon for a long cold winter that lasted forty years...