Father Vincent Travers, O.P.
I was a passenger on Air North’s Flight 506 in mid-March 2007. When the plane made its final approach to Whitehorse airport in the Yukon, my neighbour turned to me with a smile and said, “Your first day in Paradise.” The scenery was stunning. The mountains were carpeted with snow, and every tree was like a Christmas tree. Incredibly, I was in the Land of the Midnight Sun.
One of the first things I noticed in the airport were the colourful banners unfurled, announcing to the world: “Yukon – Larger than Life.” These banners were hanging in vantage spots all over the city, and when I travelled throughout the territory, the banners were unveiled and on display along the Klondike and Alaskan Highways, and in every village I passed. The more I travelled and the more my work took me over this vast territory, the more I discovered the silence, the beauty, the tranquillity, and the more I felt like Moses before the burning bush—I was speechless. It brought me to my knees. I saw creation, “charged with the presence of God,” to quote the poet Hopkins.
Canada’s Frozen North is bewitching. There is mystery and magic in the air. Once the place grabs you, it doesn’t let you go. There is no need to worry about the potholes on the road, you simply enjoy the journey. The pace of life is slower, less busy, and has fewer distractions. Nature provides sacred space. Robert Service, the bard of the North, calls it the spell of the Yukon: “The beauty fills me with wonder; the silence fills me with awe.” The silence seems to exaggerate the immensity of the place. In this
extraordinary environment, it’s easier to get in touch with your heart’s desire, see what really matters in life, than get trapped in what is, often, mere side show.
The church of Our Lady of Sorrows mission in Fort Nelson, British Columbia
The tranquillity is sensational; the air is crystal clear, pollution free, and a “dream come true” for environmentalists. To experience this place is to celebrate God’s love for the world. There are no traffic hold-ups.
A traffic jam in Whitehorse is five or six cars backed up at the traffic lights during peak traffic hours.
In a short period, I have seen more of this enormous territory than many local people who have lived here all their lives. Moving between different locations is, at times, like moving between unknown worlds. Not surprisingly, the writers of Star Trek stole the phrase “Final Frontier” from this part of the world. There are a lot of worlds out there, and sometimes when I arrive in them, I feel like Captain Kirk in having boldly gone where no Dominican had gone before!
Two years ago, I was working on the beautiful West Indian Island of Tobago. If anyone had told me I’d be in the Arctic, I’d have thought they were crazy. I never saw it coming. It came out of nowhere.
After Tobago, I was visiting Vancouver to promote my book The Road Home. I met Bishop Gary Gordon, a colleague during my five years in Vancouver; he had just been ordained bishop of the Diocese of the Whitehorse. Well, between the jigs and the reels, when I told him I would be back in Vancouver in the spring, he invited me to the Yukon to give some Lenten missions. This was an invitation I could not refuse.
Ten days after my arrival, Gary and I were driving in a blizzard along the Alaskan Highway to Fort Nelson. It would take fourteen hours to reach our destination. My first reaction to the wilderness was one of intimidation. It
was so vast and I was so small, but with each passing mile, Mother Nature cast her spell, and I was breathless with the wonder of it all. If it’s like this on this side of heaven what must the beauty be like on the other side?
It was an amazing journey. We passed through the Rockies, but all we saw was a blanket of whiteness. Even so, it is one of the world’s great sights, and in my travels, I have seen some of the competition. We had close encounters
with some of the great wild life in this part of the world. I saw my first moose, caribou, and buffalo. In fact, we met several herds of buffalo grazing by the side of the road. I’m told they have poor vision. One stood a few paces from the car. It surveyed us with an air of ponderous disdain. Nothing about our presence moved him. His demeanour declared nothing more than he had seen it all before. Gary got out and took some photographs. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour; I stayed put. I had
no desire to make a name for myself.
A couple of hours beyond the Rockies, we drove into an RV park. A sign on the side of the road said, “Hot Springs.” I thought Gary was stopping to give his dog Celty a run. “Come on, Vince,” he said, “time to swim.” He was
waving a towel and swimsuit in my direction. Swimming in a blizzard? He was deadly serious. It was the last thing I wanted to do. Unwillingly, I got out of the pick-up truck. The scene was surreal. I kept saying to myself, “He’s a nice guy. He’s a bishop. He wouldn’t do me any harm.”
At the entrance to the campsite, a large notice board had been erected with a poster informing travellers what to do if they encountered a bear.
Rule one: Do not run. Bears, it explained, can run faster than thirty miles an hour.
Rule two: Back away slowly.
Rule three: If the bear makes contact, play dead. If the attack is prolonged, fight back furiously.
I had been warned that if a bear gets hold of you, you’re better off praying, not fighting, because he’s going to kill you, and you better hope it will happen quick. I was looking for excuses to get out of this caper.
“Gary, we’re in bear country. Let’s get out of here,” I pleaded. He couldn’t keep a straight face. He was enjoying my discomfort.
His voice went up an octave. “Vince, there is nothing to worry about, the bears are in hibernation.”
To be honest, I hadn’t the guts to follow my instinct and do a runner. I followed in his snow-made footsteps. He knew the trail. It was at least a kilometre.
I was convincing myself that the hot springs were some kind of indoor swimming pool. After what seemed like an eternity, I saw a wooden building.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Changing rooms. We’re here!” He said it with glee.
It was then I saw the river and the steam rising. This was bizarre. We were going to swim in a blizzard. I’ll never forget the cold as I stood at the riverbank in my swimsuit. It was minus 25. I knew at that moment how the famous Sam McGee character felt in Robert Service’s poem:
“Talk of the cold through the parka’s fold,
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then our lashes froze,
Till sometimes we could not see.
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one,
To whimper was Sam McGee.”
I was whimpering! But when I stepped into the river, the warmth of the water hit me with a lively sting. This was heaven on earth. I felt like the cat that swallowed the canary. Gary was standing on the bank of the river with a smile as big as it was broad, a smile like sunshine. He was delighted to see me smiling. On the walk back along the trail, I’ll never forget the feeling of well-being surging through my body.
We resumed the journey and headed for Fort Nelson in the snowstorm. At some point along the road, I felt the irresistible call of the Yukon. This was the last thing on my mind. Nothing happens by chance! It was a voice from above. This was divine intervention. God writes straight on crooked lines. God works in such mysterious ways!
(Father Vincent Travers, O.P., serves in the Diocese of Whitehorse, Yukon. His new book, Larger than Life@God.com, has just been released and is available c/o Sacred Heart, Cathedral, 5119 – 5th Avenue, Whitehorse, Yukon Y1A ILB.)
