Where does a trip start?

February 13th. A Friday.

Where does a trip start? 

Does it start precisely at the end of the previous trip? Did this current pilgrimage to the North start at the wrap up of a trip that ended just two days ago? Or did it start after the two rotations of the Earth that left just enough time to air dry a freshly laundered bra and fold it away into a rolling suitcase taller than a husky?  Or did this trip to Churchill start much earlier? Did it start when overseas visitors and adventurous Winnipeggers insisted I go to the place that they just returned from exploring? I worry that this trek to Canada’s only northern port started with my susceptibility to Manitoba’s “Spirited Energy” marketing campaign. 

But I suspect that going to Churchill, Manitoba started even further back, before I moved to Winnipeg.  It must have started with my father's love of  the paintings of Lauren Harris, which enticed us to stare and stare and stare at representations the geometric, minimalist north.  And the ache for the cold gained momentum as my desire grew for a countermeasure to the numerous desert excursions that caused me nausea.  Those suffocating, sun-scorched afternoons made me crave the frosty air framed by extensive dark skies prickled with stars and fluorescing  curtains. Perhaps this trip was well on its way by the time I bought the only book I’ve ever purchased for my coffee table:  Polar Obsession. 

The tug to go north certainly waxed when I became annoyed at the American company that bought the train line, Churchill’s life line, and then let ties and rails sink into the bog. Shame on you OmniTRAX.

One thing for sure is that for me trips never start with anticipation. Mindfulness accompanies my preparations, not anxiety and not thrills. I systematically fill tiny toiletry bottles, download my boarding pass onto my cell phone, backup my laptop to an external drive, and throw out the garbage last minute to ensure the house won’t stink when I arrive home. But in my heart of hearts I do not believe that I am travelling to the place printed on the itinerary. Sometimes I just sit down in a comfy chair and with a spent sigh wonder what would happen if I actually did nothing. Would I still magically appear at the planned destination?   Luckily a sensible thought creeps to the surface of my consciousness --  if I don’t keep packing clothes in a suitcase and arrange transport to the Richardson Airport, then I’ll just lose a bunch of money. And sometimes when an airplane swoops to touchdown on the tarmac I’ve been known to do the unexpected --  swear. “How the F did I get here?” Here of all places? How? Me?

But I know how this particular trip should start. It should begin with an apology to Joe. I talked for years about going to wintry, exotic Churchill to see the dark sky and aurora. Our pal Ken planned to go with me. And when Joe found out he asked to come too. But the trips I tried to book always fell through — perhaps not enough students signed up or the COVID pandemic rightfully caged us in bubbles. Now I know that Ken, blessed with octogenarian status, can’t come because of the cost of travel insurance. Still I would’ve liked to have invited Joe. Please forgive me Joe – the Churchill Northern Studies Centre only told me I was going myself three weeks ahead of the date that they would like me to give a lecture. And just before heading in the direction of the pole  I dashed eastwards to Kingston, Ontario; my godchild's father passed away and they needed help with his estate.  Between trips I was only home for two days in the 'peg – two days in case one was needed for a cancelled flight westward and the other was just enough time for the aforementioned  freshly laundered undergarment to dry and be stowed.

So this blog starts with my apology to you, Joe. And I hope you and Ken can vicariously enjoy a sense of this special town on Hudson Bay in the season of sea ice and aurora.  

Flying over Manitoba enroute to Churchill