Travelling alone is a practice of letting go. The constant movement ensures that nothing (and no one) sticks. As the uneven pavement spreads out behind me like a shredded ribbon, the changing landscape reflects my changing mind. But I’m finding it impossible not to judge. My mind is in a constant state of comparison. Bella Coola, for instance, is much prettier than Dawson. Dawson has a much higher funk factor than Whitehorse. Whitehorse is cooler than Prince George, but not nearly as exciting as Toronto – and I miss Toronto. So I practice letting go.

I both gave and received a lesson in letting go last night. I let go of my teflon tough exterior long enough for Shai to kiss me. I don’t know why I was so shocked. I’d spent the previous night in his cabin, after all, listening to Eva Cassidy on his MP3 and talking long into the night; and naïve as I may seem, I knew some romantic thoughts had crossed his mind. It was strange and foreign, but perhaps a nice time and place to be reminded I’m free to kiss whomever I please, even if I’m not ready. “Come to Inuvik with me,” he said. “Then we’ll fly to Tuktoyuktuk and dip our toes in the Arctic Ocean.” Hmm. Sounds lovely, if cold, but I’m going the opposite way. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you already,” he insisted. But travelling alone is a practice of letting go, I said. Or something like that. “I’m Jewish for god’s sake,” he said, “not Buddhist.” Yeah, and you've got the entire Middle East peace process to negotiate. Get to work.

Gail’s husband John cleaned up at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s. I watched his pile of red chips grow over a couple of hours into an impressive pyramid weighing down one side of the poker table. He started with around a thousand bucks and left after the first cancan show (no Moulin Rouge, but cute and entertaining) with almost two. I couldn’t see the cards from where I stood, so I didn’t get a feel for his strategy. Earlier in the day, though, he’d told me people come in from the mines with heavy pockets and before long they’re drinking… “You just wait and watch,” he said. He drank coffee and bought me a glass of Chardonnay but I wasn’t playing – I was riding Henk. I knew I’d break rule #1 again. My excuse is that this is a one-horse town after ten, and Henk’s it.

Gail and John have me very comfortably ensconced in a renovated motel room with a real bed, a large tv, and a shower that spews hot water when you turn the tap – no wood chopping necessary. Much as I loved the hostel and its rustic charm, I have to admit it’s wonderful to sleep in a large bed in a warm, dry room, and have a bathroom all to myself. Maybe I’ll even shave my legs; although if I get stuck here, I’ll want to get a head start on the “hairy legs competition” in February.

I saw my naked body today in front of a mirror and realized that I had exactly one month’s worth of fat reserves on my hips and thighs before leaving Toronto. I’ve shed several skins since then and dipped into the reserves somewhere on the Alaska Highway. With the energy it takes to shiver and stay warm up here in the Yukon IN AUGUST, I’ll have to take up eating caribou. Either that or start heading south tomorrow…