I come from the lands of lichen and moss. Lands of gold and destruction.

Of skidoos, ice fishing, and smoked salmon slick with its oils, campfire stories about little people and how time stood still

a place where eyelashes stick together like a mascara of ice, and air makes your face hurt like tiny botox needles,

We don't get the immediate smooth skin but once the rash heals, we get a waxy finish—same, same.

There is something really special about the Land I come from, something that is unexplainable.

The Yukon always calls to me.