I am a foreigner. The knowledge meant nothing to me when I first started this journey, but after the biting wind, which cuts through my coat like a knife, rips the map from my useless gloves, it’s time I face my own ignorance. I have been wandering, it feels, for ages.
Not only am I tired, cold, and lost, but after a sudden rumbling beneath my feet causes me to freeze with wide eyes, I am forced to question whether I am even on solid ground. I only manage to release one last cry of alarm before my fears are proven, and the earth gives way, plunging me into frigid water.
Desperate, I claw at the floating sheets of ice until I manage to pull myself up and out of the frozen grave, dragging myself across the ground until I feel I am safe—at least as safe as I can be. My teeth are chattering so hard I feel they may break, and I am shivering as though the cold has penetrated my very soul. All semblance of warmth I once knew has turned into a distant memory.
If I am ever to escape this arctic tundra on my own, I need to get through today. I need to build a fire. Somehow in this numbed state, I manage to find some wood. I then pull off my gloves and open the box of matches, which may be my salvation. Quickly, I reach to strike the first on a nearby tree. It breaks. The second refuses to light. One after another, I waste the feeble things, and with each one my panic rises. My fingers go numb and in my frustration I lite the remaining matches all at once. Finally, there is warmth. The little blessing comes at a cost, for I know that if this fire goes out, I will have no hope. I drop the lit matches onto the wood, and it crackles to life. The sound is like the sweetest melody to my frost tinged ears. I tentatively blow, nurturing the little miracle as it grows, spreading until it’s a reasonable size.
Then there is a cracking sound. By now I have learned that this is a warning. It is not from below, but above. I was so desperate for warmth, that I hadn’t thought to look for an opening in the woods to light the fire. The tree branches give way due to the fire’s rising steam, and snow rains down, covering me and the little miracle.
Defeat is on my mind as I push the snow off of myself, but hope makes one final mocking appearance. I swear I see a man, camping only feet away, his fire so great that I can almost feel it. I muster what little strength remains in my frozen body and reach for him, forcing my icy lips to form words, attempting to say something–anything–that he might notice me. It seems to work. The man turns and my soul cries out.
The man is me. Hope is lost. My first winter in the Yukon has proved to be my last.
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Lou.Summers 