But who's counting?

We have forty days left in our Yukon sojourn.  Forty days that get shorter and shorter, and forty nights that get colder and colder. We aren't really counting.

It began long ago when Sherry MacDonald, the writer, was awarded a three month residency at the Berton House in Dawson City. 

We had lots of time to think and plan the writer's retreat and review the duties and responsibilities of the consort-to-the-writer (that would be me). When the time came at the end of September, we were ready. I even had my consort handbook prepared and approved. We even knew what to expect. For weather. And cold. And the dark. It would be great!

And when we arrived almost fifty days ago, we enjoyed some truly beautiful weather. There were days of sunshine and temperatures approaching ten degrees. We barbecued on several occasions, took leisurely walks on the dyke and even ate on lawn chairs in our backyard one warmish evening. 

Winter came to Dawson City slightly earlier than usual this year. The ferry was taken out of service about a week ahead of last year and the river is now completely frozen over. Snow is everywhere. We have awoken to temperatures as low as minus thirty-seven, and delight when an afternoon is sunny and a balmy minus ten.

Today, the sun remains close to horizon, and even though it rises around 10:00 a.m., we don't really see it from our house until it clears the hill behind us after 
2:00 p.m. The nights, increasingly long with every day, now begin shortly after 4:30 p.m.

It has been a great experience. The next forty days, and nights, will be too. 

And remember. When somebody tells you it's a dry cold up here, don't be fooled. Dry has nothing to do with it.  It's just bloody cold.