Every morning when I turn on my gas stove, for just an instant that first head-achey whiff sends me right back to a little log cabin in Harvie Heights, Alberta in 1992. The one-room cabin was so old and in need of repair that in some places there were half inch gaps between the logs. I could literally see the heat escaping. We stuffed the spaces with towels and wool socks but to compensate we’d have to turn on the gas oven to keep from freezing. It was my first time away from home. I was nineteen and homesick and broke but I knew why so many people moved out West and never came back. Pictures in textbooks did not do the Rockies justice. In person they were like a holographic Hollywood backdrop; so real they seemed fake. I don’t think there was a day that went by that I didn’t look around in awe. Read more
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