#08 - Winter, Well Done

It’s time to show some respect for Old Man Winter

Around the time of the spring equinox, a group of people gets together to “burn away the winter blues” in Whitehorse. From what I gather, the participants construct an effigy of Old Man Winter from willow branches, march the condemned twig figure along the banks of the Yukon River, and finally set him ablaze in a giant bonfire. This ceremony—I suppose it now qualifies as a Yukon tradition—may also involve something called the “dragon of spring,” but don’t quote me on that.

If this spectacle had been part of Yukon life when I was a kid, I’m sure it would have kindled my pyromaniac fantasies, if nothing else. But as far as I can recall, we usually managed to make the annual transition from winter to spring without the aid of Wiccas or puppets of fire-breathing monsters.

Now that I do have the opportunity to participate in a local faux-pagan ritual, I’m not inclined to pick up a torch. And it’s not because I’ve overcome my boyish obsession with fire. No, it’s because I’d never kick a man when he’s down, even symbolically.

And I have to say, Old Man Winter has been looking a little down of late.

The Yukon’s winter climate isn’t what it used to be. Or at least it feels that way in the southern Yukon. Chalk the changes up to global warming, but Old Man Winter seems to have loosened his legendarily harsh grip on the land. No longer is the mere mention of his name guaranteed to put frostbite on the eardrum. To my mind, it’s just as likely to conjure the image of a balmy bluebird day on the local ski trails.

Sure, we can still count on the occasional biting cold snap to remind us that the frosty old geezer hasn’t lost his dentures. But it wouldn’t be too great an exaggeration to suggest that he has settled into a kinder, gentler semi-retirement.

So, it’s puzzling why some Yukoners are so enthusiastic to hasten winter’s demise every March. Will they not be happy until we’re all waterskiing in January?

I can understand the fuss Yukoners used to make when the ice finally went out on the Yukon River at Dawson City (and much later than March). They had ample reason to suffer from the winter blues. They faced a tougher environment—with no modern conveniences to cushion the blow. After months of isolation, the river’s break-up promised the long-awaited bounty of fully laden paddle wheelers. Consequently, the event had real meaning for everyone in the community.

I wonder how those pioneers—a hardier breed than today’s Yukoner, that’s for sure—would regard a painstakingly (if not painfully) contrived ceremony to beat down the personification of a relatively toothless version of the Yukon’s signature season. They might suggest we stop trying so hard to live in an episode of Northern Exposure.

The way I see it, anyone who chooses to call the Yukon home has to realize that winter is part of the bargain: darkness, cold, snow, the lot of it. Beating up on the biggest chunk of the calendar is like calling yourself stupid. If you’re smart, you embrace Old Man Winter and feel lucky that he’s around at all.

If you’d rather be playing golf, you’d be well advised to relocate. The world has plenty of places that tilt less towards winter, more towards summer. At best, Yukon summers are fleeting affairs and, given the alternating cycles of fire and rain in recent years, that’s probably a blessing. Around here, living for summer can be like waiting for Godot.

Living for winter, on the other hand, is just good living.

This column was first published in the March/April 2008 issue of above&beyond magazine.компютри втора употреба

© 2008 Mark Koepke / Photo by Chris Wheeler