NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 3, Issue 3 by NorthWord Literary Magazine

volume 3 | issue 3 | FREE

volume 3 | issue 3

editorial

contents

northern canada collective society for writers president Suzanne McGladdery

editorial

treasurer Joanne Hlina

welcome home

public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

community report

Kiran Malik-Khan

InTer-CoNNecTioN

Lucie Bause

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

hope beyond hurt: climbing the mountain of success

Eileen Lucas

the rock wall

Veronica Ephgrave

freedom path

Faren Taljaard

climbing the bucegi mountains

Sarah Foss

ISSN 1920-6313

uphill

Kiran Malik-Khan

cover Lucie Bause

climbing music mountain

Dorothy Bentley

design & layout Rachel White-Murray

the pen

Curtis Gladue

in a heartbeat

Cathy Yard

to climb a mountain

Veronica Ephgrave

virtually unprecedented in our national history.

getting there

Kevin Thornton

The submissions in this issue were written in a pre-fire world, but the stories they

not my mountain

Erin Stinson

and poignancy, as none of these authors, or this guest editor, had any idea what was

our mountain

Chris Bowers

lost soldier

Aiman Naeem

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

contributors

not my mountain (watercolour)

Erin Stinson

dream blogger, reach higher (while in a camo tutu)

Jon Koeger

web www.northwordmagazine.com

This Issue: Volume 3, Number 2 Winter 2016

issue editor Theresa E. Wells managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

Theresa E. Wells

When i was offered the opportunity to rewrite the foreword of this issue to reflect a “post-fire” world in wood buffalo, I quickly agreed to do so, but not because the

theme of this issue was any less compelling than it was before May 3, 2016. The reality

is that the theme “Climbing the Mountain” became the backdrop of tens of thousands of lives as on that date we fled our home communities in fear and uncertainty.

The origin of this theme was rooted in my own personal fascination with the highest

peaks in the world, like Everest and K2. I have no interest in actual mountain climbing, but since I was a child I have been intrigued by those who tackle mountains that claim

lives—in some cases, like K2, one-quarter of the lives of those who attempt the climb. Over the passage of time, I came to realize that while some choose to climb physical mountains, we are all mountain climbers in a sense as we all go through peaks a nd valleys in our lives and face our personal mountains.

Sometimes we choose the mountain; sometimes the mountain chooses us. On May 3, fate tossed an enormous mountain in front of us. It was, for many of us, very possibly

the tallest mountain we had yet faced in our lives, and the climb was, and continues to

be, arduous. Yet we persevere, much like the stoic mountain climbers in the books I have been devouring for decades; with courage and tenacity we seek to scale a mountain

tell and lessons they teach are more relevant than ever. Every word has new meaning lurking ahead. We wrote about scaling mountains without ever knowing about the one

we were about to encounter and without realizing what it would take to climb this particular monumental peak.

What we learned on May 3 and in the months since is that there will always be a new

mountain; some will be larger and some will be more daunting than we have ever

before seen. Some will even be enveloped in smoke and flames. What it takes to climb the mountain, however, does not change: bravery, determination and the sheer will to keep placing one foot in front of the other.

Oh, and mountain climbing is accomplished far easier with one other thing: friends. My friends, just as we have climbed together since May 3, I invite you to come climb with

call for submissions NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 3 northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

deadline October 30, 2016 theme Take a Deep Breath We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction),

me again today as you read this issue and reflect on the mountains we have conquered in the past few months.

Theresa E. Wells |

fifteenth issue editor

poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

community report

by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director

“If it wasn’t for NorthWord, I wouldn’t be writing poetry,” Reinalie Jorolan captured the feelings of many fellow

welcome home Welcome home to Wood Buffalo. Our community has come through a traumatic summer, and for many of us the wounds are still raw. However, we know from centuries

of experience that art heals humans. We find solace in producing art, and in enjoying

art in our surroundings and our lives. NorthWord: A Literary Journal of Canada's North is proud and happy to continue to provide a venue for artists to heal themselves and their community.

Like Fort McMurray itself, NorthWord is rebuilding this year. Send your poetry, prose, and

visual art to northword@hushmail.com, and consider taking a turn on the NorthWord executive board. Could you be our next treasurer, secretary, or distribution coordinator? We’re also eager to meet the friends of NorthWord at upcoming events. Join us in

late October (stay tuned to our Twitter: @NorthWord, and Facebook: NorthWord for

updates) for the launch of this issue. Spring will see us launch our next issue, "Take a Deep Breath," for which we are planning an exhibition and sale of all our 17 covers, and a silent auction.

So we remain #YMMStrong. T ogether. Safe. Resilient. And, as we look to a new normal, we look to thrive together. The arts are alive in Wood Buffalo, and we continue to be the voice for the literary arts. Thank you to all our contributors, readers, and advertisers for

local poets with these words. She was one of the readers

at the magazine’s ‘What’s in a Name’ Issue Number 14 launch event on April 17, 2016.

Held at River Station Arts, Wood Buffalo’s newest arts

facility, and NorthWord’s new home, the launch saw

poetry readings from those published in the issue, and a spirited open mic session. The issue was edited by Joanne Hlina, our outgoing treasurer. Cover art was by Dawn Booth, managing editor of Connect Weekly.

As always, the traditional chat between the current and incoming guest editors was a highlight of the event.

“It was a lovely afternoon in a beautiful new venue. It was a pleasure to chat with Theresa Wells (guest editor

for this issue) as we discussed issue themes and the joys

and challenges of being a guest editor for NorthWord. Mountains and Names: challenge and identity,” said Joanne, who will be missed. She has now left town to take care of her elderly father in British Columbia.

Local visual artist, and our former cover artist for the

“Surprise” issue, Erin Stinson will be the next guest editor.

your continued support

Left to Right: Joanne Hlina, guest editor, and our outgoing treasurer with Dawn Booth, cover artist for the issue.

She has picked “Take a Deep Breath,” as her theme. You

can send original poetry of no more than 50 lines, prose, fiction or non-fiction, 3000 words maximum, and art to

northword@hushmail.com. All names will be removed, and only alignment with theme matters. Deadline is

October 30, 2016 at midnight. No late submissions will be accepted.

NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald

Island, River Station Arts, Chez Max, Jamaican Restaurant, Blue Mountain Bistro, Keyano College Bookstore, Keyano Reception (front desk), Keyano Library, Points North Gallery, and the Thickwood YMCA.

For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www.

facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: Reinalie Jorolan reads her poem.

@NorthWordYMM.

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the cover: InTer-CoNNecTion lucie bause

I have been interested in observing and representing patterns in Nature in my artwork over the past few years. Branches, fractals, animal migration and seasonal patterns have been some of the subjects of my paintings.

InTer-CoNNecTion Series began as an idea to continue this exploration but through a more abstract approach along with an experimental painting process.

While I was working on these pieces, physically moving around the table in circles as

I painted, I contemplated many ideas, noticing how this painting experiment was becoming an unexpected meditative process. I started to wonder if I was making mandalas.

I started learning more about mandalas and found that “the word "mandala" is from

the classical Indian language of Sanskrit. Loosely translated to mean "circle," a mandala

is far more than a simple shape. It represents wholeness, and can be seen as a model

hope beyond hurt climbing the mountain of success eileen lucas

When a mother falls ill, every child needs the reassur-

high school education, the only jobs I managed to find

my mom took a massive stroke and was left for dead on

to three jobs a week to help make ends meet. My hus-

ance that she will get better. That was not the case when

the side of the road, until someone found her and help

arrived. She later fell into a coma for two months before passing away, leaving to mourn my twelve siblings that

were still at home, ranging in ages from two to fifteen, plus another seven whom were out on their own. I was

twelve years old at the time. To make matters worse I was unable to see her, because she was at a hospital that

took ten hours to travel to and finances were limited to the home necessities.

for the organizational structure of life itself—a cosmic diagram that reminds us of our

I was left with a father who was an alcoholic and very

minds.” (www.mandalaproject.org)

and sexual abuse. I left home after finishing high school,

relation to the infinite, the world that extends both beyond and within our bodies and I discovered that while traditional Hindu and Buddhist mandalas are created and used

as sacred tools to aid in meditation, similar, mandala-like forms can be found in nearly every culture internationally including Christian, Islamic, Celtic, and Aboriginal. Some

examples include stained glass windows, domes, celtic knots and medicine wheels.

an invitation to contemplate the sacred nature of the mandala.

times I still do, because I escaped the turmoil, but left eight of my siblings to the hands of a very cruel father.

child. Even though there was no way I could have helped

and when many times reports of the abuse were given

to the Family Children’s Association with no help given, I still carry the guilt today. There were many days after

leaving that I would imagine opening up an orphan-

age where all my siblings could go to live a happy life. I would be the one in charge, and I would be the one to rescue them, and to be their hero. Unfortunately, lots of

times there are no happy endings, but there is always

hope to hang on to, and that is how I learned to cope with things in life. I knew the only way to survive was to stay positive.

From an early age I dreamed of becoming a person who would help others. With no confidence and just a

hood Education Diploma Program and was accepted. I

was told that it was a pilot project and all expenses for the three week residency would be paid for by the college. The college was in St. John’s, Newfoundland, all the

way on the other side of the island from where I lived, but I was determined, and needed this to work for me. A definite sign of hope!!

Degree in Early Childhood Education. It seemed that

of now forty years. For years, I felt a lot of guilt, and at

my siblings, especially in my emotional state of mind,

relationships, material process, positive and negative shape and design. They are also

decided to try my luck. When I enrolled in an Early Child-

at the age of sixteen. A year later I married my husband

versions of this culturally rich, powerful and fascinating form.

paintings. These paintings aim to engage the viewer though visual patterning, color

With his persistence, understanding and belief in me, I

Completing the program gave me the confidence I

Looking back now, I realized I was a very traumatized

InTer-CoNNecTion is an ongoing process of discovery and series of abstract circle

band always encouraged me to seek a higher education.

abusive. I endured daily episodes of emotional, physical

Looking at Nature on micro and macro levels presents unending examples of mandalalike forms from single cells to galaxies. I am inspired to learn, find and paint more

were low paying ones. Sometimes I had to work two

needed to proceed in obtaining a Bachelor of Arts once I started studying, I was unable to stop. I continued

my studies and received both a Bachelor of Education Degree and a Masters of Education Degree. I managed all

this while holding down a full time job, raising a family, and going through a number of serious surgeries. I also

had to depend on student loans to finance my education, which played havoc on our low income jobs, but perseverance was number one on my priority list. Failure to

me was not in my vocabulary, and to move forward, I had to succeed. This was only manageable with the

huge support of my husband, children and family. My sister Sharon would call me every night to see if I had eaten during the day. She knew I suffered from anorexia

and made sure I was doing O.K. My family were more excited than I was after each degree I accumulated. I do not look for recognition after I accomplish tasks, but

I know I am one lucky lady to have my family in my life who assisted me in my educational journey.

Becoming a teacher and a school counselor allowed me

to work at my passion, helping children. I can help them 5

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when they endure pain and suffering. I can relate to

I am a woman, I belong to the Qalipu Mi’Kmaq First

give them hope so that one day they too, can find the

people would say that the odds were against me, and the

their stories, empathize with them, but most of all I can happiness that I was so lucky to find. Do I have bad days? Of course I do, and it would be silly for me to say I don’t. I

now know how to find the strength to lift me up and not allow others to pull me down. Staying positive is difficult

at times, especially with so many negatives in life, but I consider myself proof though, that it can be done.

I would like to think that one day when the children I

have helped, will use the strategies we worked on to stay positive, and they in turn, can make a great life for them-

selves. Like my sister Gertie Mai once told me, “We can’t

Nation of Newfoundland, and I am also a survivor. Most

odds placed obstacles in my path; however, I feel they were qualities on large pillars, holding my strengths that

freedom path

faren taljaard

Chin up

Eyes to the horizon.

She slowly absorbed her breath... lest that long-held tear falls, Out of her obvious eyes and into the world.

led to my successes in life. I believe that every person is

“Freedom?”, she whispered...

deeper, have courage, and want to move forward for

Between herself and what she imagined afar...

capable of having those pillars, you just have to look

yourself and the ones you love. Climbing success moun-

tains is not an easy task, but it can be done. You just have to find the confidence and positive support that help

along the way. Everything else is just icing on the cake, so to speak.

save all the children, but even if we touch the heart of

Acknowledging the existence of everything, A better place, a bitter path.

Edges, hills, peaks, and valleys, Unknown territories...

She bit her lip and asked, like the last round of anybody's echo... “Do I walk alone?”

only one child, we've done our job.”

But

Bravery...

Perseverance, Courage, and Hope,

Responded a special kind of compass, for that special kind of road...

the rock wall

She followed...

veronica ephgrave

“I don’t know if I can do this.” “Why ever not? You did it fine last year.” “My foot hurts though.” “That’s ridiculous, you’re a young man, you should be fit enough to do this without even feeling it. When I was your age, oh boy, I could’ve…” “Dad, please.” “Ok, ok, I know that you don’t want to hear your dad babble on and on about the past. Now see, you’re so much higher! I’d say you’re almost there.”

“I’d hope so, been doing this for twenty minutes now.” “I thought you left your phone in the car!” 6

Then one chosen day, trailing between “I wore a watch, it’s been twenty minutes. There; at the top now.”

“Look at that! I’m coming! I told you that you’d do it, wait for your old dad to come up!”

I stared at my dad about fifty feet below. Of course,

if I was almost fifty I would be down there also. The

thought of aging was quite sobering, and I realized that doing a simple thing such as this would be the least of my problems; I’d have bigger mountains to climb by that point in time.

Dad panted as he held the beam at the top. “This is a

pretty high rock wall, isn’t it? I’d say it gets taller every

year.” I couldn’t help but agree, saying, “Yeah, it’s so tall

The lilies and green

Fields of precious wildflower -

She pressed her hands into the ground and felt the earth breathe harder. Wind-swept and cares afloat,

The years somehow had passed her...

Those soiled hands and muddied feet,

Now danced in sync with her laughter. The clouds above had shifted, in wonderful pace, As raindrops gently touched her face...

She smiled and caught them with her fingers,

“Freedom”, she whispered, and needed not to gaze, For she knew it there, in that place.

it feels like a mountain.”

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climbing the bucegi mountains sarah foss

It was a beautiful August day, the sun not yet high but its warmth already caressing our shoulders. Five friends

and I awoke early, excited about what the day would

hold and what beauty we would see climbing the Bucegi Mountains in central Romania. Making last minute

runs the night before to ensure we had enough water

and snacks to carry us through the six hour journey, we packed our bags and headed out to fuel our bodies

before the tremendous trek. While excited—I had heard

of the great hiking trails in Romania and wanted to climb a mountain during my six month mission trip—

there was trepidation. Will I be able to do it? What if I

can’t? As much as I loved hiking the trails of my hometown, I worried about whether my body could handle this mountain.

Not thirty minutes into the hike I had already regretted my decision to go. Why did I think this would be a

good idea? It was getting warmer, the trail was getting

steeper, and as much as I tried to ration out my water, the reserves were getting low. In an amateur moment of genius I thought bringing an entire bunch of bananas

was a good idea. Potassium! Energy! Wrong. How I

wished now I had brought more water in its place. The

views were beautiful; we often stopped just to take in the view of the village and the lush valley below, or to rest in the moss and gaze at the canopy of trees above

us. Outside of those moments, however, I realized how unprepared I was. After a certain point, it felt as if my

muscles had turned to stone and every step became a huge feat. I remember a moment so vivid it was as if

time had stopped: I looked up the steep path before me, and then down at the rocky climb I had painstakingly

physical, it was mental, and I had to reach within myself

to find the strength when there was no will to continue. Thankfully, I was hiking with my friend Sabrina. Of the entire group, she was the only one who did not leave me

when the rest went ahead. She saw my struggle but did

not run off for fear of being held back. She stayed with

me, even taking my heavy backpack to lighten my load. If it wasn’t for Sabrina, I probably would have turned

foreign hikers who’d suddenly gathered in their midst.

of “can it just be over already” I had really made it! I was

ing children who were very curious about this group of

the bananas from my pack, which they happily accepted. When the rain stopped and we turned to go, the father gifted us one of his remaining bottles of water.

We continued on our journey, the rocky steps turning into gravel paths more reminiscent of the trails I

had hiked back home. The area around us calmed into

a vast expanse of grass and rolling hills. Remnants of rainclouds sailed by as the sun began to poke through again. Soon we made it to the gondola, and through our

me that, despite all the sweat, doubts, and exasperations so proud of myself for persevering, for pushing through. I knew that I didn’t accomplish climbing this mountain

all on my own, and I realized the importance of having a friend who doesn’t give up on you and will not let you give up on yourself. A friend who will tell you what you need to hear, help lighten your burdens, and encourage

you to keep going. A friend who helps you see through the fog of lies that tries to blind you and prevent you from fighting the fight, running the race—climbing the mountain.

back and never made it to the summit of the mountain. She encouraged me. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She helped me fight the battles that came from every angle of my mind and body to hold me down.

Hours passed and it felt as if we had made very little progress, the path continuing upwards seemingly to no

end. Eventually it began to rain and we had to scram-

ble up the steep slippery rocks. Not knowing how much

further we would have to go, we hoped we wouldn’t

miss the last gondola that would bring us back down to the village. We saw people turning back, telling us as they passed that the path was too hard for them to finish. I did not speak enough Romanian to know what they had said, and thankfully Sabrina did not tell me

until we reached the top. After what felt like an eternity, we finally got over the worst of it. The sharp mountain edges had smoothed into a grassy hill, giving way to

open skies: the last leg of the journey. My water had run out long ago and I was desperately praying that some-

where along the way there would be a spring to take the burning thirst away.

rience, but to turn back would be to give up and miss

Because it was raining so hard, the family invited us into

I wanted to do was sit down and cry, but I wouldn’t let

myself. This battle up the mountain was no longer just

Out of nowhere we stumbled upon a cabin where a

out. I had never felt so stuck, but it was decision time. All

descent we saw how far we had come. It was surreal to

Sabrina, full of good ideas, decided to give the children

completed. I could not bear the thought of going either way. To continue would be to drag out this painful expe-

made it there before us, sitting on bunk beds entertain-

family with several young children were vacationing.

uphill

kiran malik-khan

Ever yearned for someone sitting next to that person? Disillusionment is a tumour growing within. It is a soundless echo, an uphill battle without a

destination. Just like I’m not sure what I want you to read, or understand through my words. And, really, I couldn’t care less.

I’m going to call this stream of consciousness writing. I’m going to call this a soundless scream. You get it, don’t you? You, who has been questioned for

your choices? Do they understand your struggles better than you—the judg-

ing, maddening, superficial members of a cold, and ditzy crowd? They don’t.

And, really, when has being right and alone ever stopped you from saying, or doing the right thing? They don’t get to curb your enthusiasm. You. You get it.

You don’t owe anybody answers. Climb. Rise. Arrive. Be. Undaunted.

their cabin to wait out the rain. So here we were, thankful for a rest and to be reunited with our group who

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climbing music mountain

in a heartbeat cathy yard

dorothy bentley

The mountain has changed since our last trip. The few scattered plywood

the pen

breathe, count to thirty-three;

curtis gladue

in the sky, the Heavens suspended

The release of the pen

of our unrequited dreams

For millions around

above the dark land

snapping off in the storm to grow again. New green.

Fashion a walking stick

The tiny condominium he’s rented is halfway up the ski hill. It’s pretty fancy,

older you get soft.

landing low; tough blow.

draw trees growing up to you

got in the way and time slid. You know how that goes.

shower and indoor plumbing make up for it. That’s the thing, when you get

Riding high affirming phrases;

the bag of tricks: sing happy,

tantly agreed. It isn’t that I dislike or quit skiing; it’s just the business of living

the-mountain feeling I grew up with and still seek—although the hot tub,

the emotions of past glory:

away from the light; pull out

to two days of skiing as it’s been awhile, like a twenty-year-while. I reluc-

nicer than our place at home, but it doesn’t give me that funky cabin-on-

Sad start, slow notes plodding through

Don't wallow in the hollow

Bill has talked me into returning to the mountain, but I’m not sure if I’m up

So simple in stature

Yet its power

Unlike any other

A-frame cabins nestled in the trees along with the quirky leaning outhouses

have disappeared. The lure of the soft flicker of candle light wavering in the window and wood smoke reminding you that hot food awaited are also

gone. I miss the velvet darkness under a pin pricked sky. Stars. Now, a regular little city has sprouted: pizza places and a sushi bar along with other res-

taurants and touristy shops. There could even be sidewalks hidden under the snow heaps. A plethora of condominiums, chalets, and streets claim the mountainside. Lights pollute the darkness.

We arrived later than planned. The sky, an amazing purple, bleeds down to a rosy pink as dusk begins to settle. After lugging our stuff up three flights and

along an endless, outside cement corridor we finally find our elusive unit. A

red cheeked man tells us there have been two feet of fresh snow three days

and keep climbing—climb to Music

Nations freed

Plant a flag, take a photo, smile.

Millions taken!

After dinner we settle on the couch. Bill props his latest chess book against

This one though

crack open the novel I have been trying to start for over a month. I am antici-

Mountain peak.

Climb music's mountainous crescendos beyond falsetto hellos.

Turn around and descend victorious; live in the now.

Enjoy goodbyes.

The one I hold Frees me

Me from within

And allows all those to see What is really within!

previously. Bill rubs his hands in anticipation. I just rub my chapped hands.

his chest and rests his eyes. I fret about tomorrow’s skiing, but eventually pating an evening of sinking into my story. What actually happens is we spend the evening listening to a herd of little elephants stampede in the unit

above ours. There are giggles. At least there is no fighting. We are temporarily distracted by the noise of the snow-cat plowing outside our unit. Its lights

bob and dip across our blinds as it spews diesel fumes into the night air. Thankfully the cat stops around 10:00 pm and the elephants at 11:00 pm. I am getting old and grumpy.

I had forgotten how early dawn flushes the mountainside. At 5:30 the cheesecloth curtains in the bedroom allow a beam of really rude light to

poke me in the eye. I get up, make coffee and read while I wait for Bill to stir. I covet his ability to sleep through anything, in any light conditions. I briefly consider dropping a pot lid on the kitchen tile. I make a second pot of coffee.

I think about trying out a snowboard, maybe taking some lessons but then

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decide I don’t want to spend the day picking snow out

lodged in watering eyes. I manage to make it down

that it is almost 2:00 p.m. and I have skied 12 kilometers.

the recent snowfall the plows have been clearing park-

toward checking out the Nordic track, saving down-hill-

At the bottom of the incline I shuffle off, out of sight of

submerged icebergs of thick sour cream dotting a sea of

mountains of the rock-studded snow behind the chair-

of my nostrils. Bill is set on down-hilling while I lean ing for the following day.

After breakfast we agree that the first person back starts

dinner. I’m sure that Bill thinks I will be the first to return. We go our separate ways. Bill, with a fair hike ahead of him, struggles further up the hill to the ski rental while I slither down the hill and walk a kilometer out to the Nordic track.

The day is overcast but threatening to clear. My boots crunch through the snow as I walk the side of the

deserted road. There is no one about; not even a cheeky Whiskey-Jack to cheer me on. My breath crystallizes in front of me, wreathing my head in fog.

Finally at Raven Lodge, I glance over the empty parking lot missing the three busses tucked behind the far side of the lodge. Good…I’ll have the trails to myself. I

enter the lodge through the heavy double glass doors

and explore the upstairs, consider another coffee, but

my stomach disagrees. Wandering around, I find the ski rental place downstairs. A long line of young kids, push-

ing and shoving, snake their way through two rooms

and down a hallway. Gads, I’ve hit a school outing and

it will be noon before I’ll get my rentals. One of the staff spots me and motions me forward. She whispers, “You’d better get your gear before this group. You’ll be through in no time.” I profusely thank her.

Outfitted and ready to go, I step out onto the snow. Inhale and kick my boot tips into the harnesses until

a slight click lets me know that I am one with the skis.

the lodge, and hide in the trees to recover. What sadistic bastard planned these trails?

Without a soul in sight, I drink in the cold air along with

the silence. The only sound is my laboured breathing in

tandem with the swish, swish of skis against the snow. It takes a while before I re-discover the ancient rhythm.

After three loops on the novice trails I feel confined and

anxious to explore the longer trails. A small blister burns on my left heel and forces me to reconsider so I grudgingly head back to the lodge hoping to catch the blister

before it breaks. I don’t. The staff at the lodge gives me Band-Aids and moleskin to tape my other heel. I ditch

a pair of heavy wool socks and trade in my boots for a slightly smaller pair. But the damage is done and I will

spend the rest of the afternoon with burning heels. I should have remembered to tape my heels this morning. I know better.

This time I head for the intermediate trails which are much longer, covering steeper terrain. On one hill, with

a steep curve at the bottom, my spirit is willing but my

body is not. I overshoot the turn and narrowly miss

kissing the rough trunk of a mountain hemlock. To add insult to injury the drooping branches release clumps of snow down my neck. I am frustrated with the decline

youth.

have fish-scale skis so there is no need to stop and wax. I

My shoulders are killing me and my heels have achieved

inferno classification. I haven’t forgotten the long walk

back to the unit. My Scottish ancestry demands that I get my money’s worth so I make one more short circuit.

Finally common sense kicks in (where was it three hours

ago?) and I head for the rental room to return my gear. When removing my boots I ignore the large pink stain

that seeps through the bandage on my left heel. Hunt-

ing about in my pack I retrieve the thick pair of wool socks and carefully pull them on. I gingerly slide on my

hiking boots and slipping on my pack I head up the stairs and out the heavy double doors of the lodge. I think I am smiling, at least I can feel the cold air on my teeth. Inside I am crying.

Down the road I shuffle twitching with each fiery footstep. Preoccupied with the pain I discover that I am back at the junction where the road traverses the steep hill-

side leading up to the unit where we are staying. I stop. Look up, way up the winding twisting road, and think— oh hell, another15 minutes aren’t going to make any difference. My searing heels beg to differ.

a parking lot that services the green chairlift. I remember eyes calculate the location and height, my brain decides

that this would be an easier route back up the slope. And it is until I reached the back of the chair lift. Because of

ing lots and roadways, and they have piled massive lift. I get an inkling of what Shackleton must have felt on his incredible journey through the Antarctica.

Refusing to lose my elevation gain I struggle through the frozen mounds. Slipping and sliding, sometimes buried up to my crotch I negotiate my way to another parking lot and head towards the road again. Upon reaching the

road I discover, to my disgust, I am a mere few yards from where I stood earlier. Gritting my teeth I set my shoulders and begin the long plod up the steep road.

Later, lying on the couch watching the evening sky deepen I tell myself to get up and start dinner; Bill will be

back from the slopes soon. Myself refuses and continues

to lie captured in the embrace of the couch’s soft folds, heels throb and body seizes to the point where it hurts too much to move. I want a hot, steamy bath and a pot of tea but it means getting off the couch and that is not quite possible yet.

Bill finally arrives, red ear tips and an even redder nose. He brings the crisp mountain air in with him. He has

had a grand day and his legs are wobbly. His face is wind burned and it is all he can do to strip down to his long-

johns before he hobbles to the couch. We try to outwait

each other for who is going to start dinner. We eat crackers and cheese for supper as we fight for couch space.

The following day we both decide that one day of skiing

is quite enough so we lounge about until it’s time to pack

up. It has taken a good month for my heels to re-grow

their missing skin. They have finally stopped throbbing through the night. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

it into my daypack. I take a long pull on my water bottle. The sun appears on and off throughout the afternoon as I swish my way back to my youth.

pounding and eyes tearing. Knees slightly bent and

After exploring more trails, I head back to the lodge for a

wide open and trepidation two-stepping with hope

trail map out in front of me, I am surprised to discover

splayed too far apart, bum sticking up in the air, mouth

the edges of my cinnamon bun rich with plump raisins.

seeing the chairlift from our unit’s window. While my

do, however, stop to remove one of my sweaters, stuffing

With wobbly knees I swooooosh down the hill, heart

cup of coffee and wonder if I should call it a day. I pick at

and out, always on the cusp of disaster. Ahhhh…foolish

steep mountain slopes, pausing for no one, whisking in

steep hill, that grows steeper by the minute. All the trails grew up on skis, but I must admit it’s been a while.

pink, my body begins to stiffen. I hobble over for a second

Then off to my right I notice a narrow road leading up to

The temperature rises and the snow becomes sticky. I

are down there, even the novice loops. I am not a novice, I

As I dive into a bowl of borscht soup, dill sprinkled with

in my skiing ability. I used to love tree running down

Then, looking down in dismay I realize the trails all start from the back of the lodge which is built on a hill, a rather

without doing a face-plant, but it is a graceless descent.

well-earned lunch. Glancing at my watch as I spread the

volume 3 | issue 3

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

getting there

to climb a mountain

kevin thornton

veronica ephgrave

“Magnum iter ascendo; sed dat mihi gloria vires”

Why would I, when the rocks are so sharp

Under my gentle feet?

Step one, step two, step three, step four I feel a small stone,

To the bottom.

It is too far down

For me to hear it smash. Step five is too far;

The trial was too much, I lose grip

And fall freely.

I had a bungee cord,

I didn’t die,

But I wanted to.

I can usually step

It’s the boulders

That pose a threat. I decided

I could do it myself. I was wrong.

Pitch fork, nails

Ropes, bungee cords,

More supplies I thought I needed.

I’m trusting the wrong source. If it was all up to me,

I would’ve lain

Under a falling boulder long ago.

But it isn’t up to me; something kept me going, I’d say it was you. One day

I made it to the top.

Your glory shone as the morning sun.

twenty years since the school closed, and the motto

back to the officer and let’s all walk out of here.”

The old gym had been the only place big enough for

the trial. Every day, as she had leant on the door frame swapping out her winter boots for her court shoes,

Avila had read the motto and promised herself she would look it up and find out what it meant.

The trial was over now and she hadn’t. Everything was packed away and the room was empty: save for Avila, and her former client, and the Sheriff’s officer.

There was also the gun, which felt like the fourth

member of the drama. It should have been in the

officer’s holster. Instead, it was in Genny’s right hand.

It was the sight Of that glory,

That glorious sun,

That answered the why, why I made the decision To climb a mountain.

here. She met Dad here, was impregnated here, and bought into what they taught here. She drank their Kool-Aid all right. That motto suited her, suited the

school. It was a place always driven by a need to climb. The school for the people at the bottom of the hill,

always looking up at those with the grand houses and the best view. This school fucked her up, and then she fucked me up. And now here we are.”

“Genny please, put the gun down. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

kept trying to save me, kept trying to explain why I

ground. She had the Glock pointing at the officer’s right ear. And she had Avila sitting facing them.

advice? I don’t need your help. I never needed it. You

did what I did. How could you when I don’t even know myself.”

“Why am I here?” said Avila. “There’s not much I can do for you now, Genny, and this stunt isn’t going to help.”

get an angle on Genny. Avila looked ahead of her at the

I wrote about.

by the time I went to high school, but my Mother came

sitting in front of her, legs spread out and flat on the

My heart was bruised, my wrist was sprained, I wore a makeshift cast. I developed arthritis, it took me longer to type this poem than actually do what

“She abused me with that motto. This school had closed

“Do you think I made them bring you here to give me

the far wall of the gymnasium. She had the officer

Over on the far right behind her there was a skylight,

My mind wasted away, I grew deaf,

for a long time. My advice to you is to give the weapon

Genny, who was sitting on the floor with her back to

My baby toe was broken.

I had a scrape on my knee.

“No,” said Avila. “Look Genny, you’re already going away

looked out of place. Over the small ones, they’re easy.

the school motto. Do you know what it means?”

wall. Even where the paint had worn away, the shade of the letters still allowed it to be read. It had been nearly

It rolls, it is loosed, Falling, gracefully,

The faded words of the school motto still clung to the

and put on your expensive shoes. You always looked at

and a policeman with a rifle was behind it, trying to

officer being used as the shield. She was young. Tears

had streaked her face and her lower lip would not stop quivering. She looked at Avila with longing, as if she wanted to swap places.

Genny started to speak in a normal conversational tone. It startled Avila. “Every day when they brought me here from the police station, I watched you stop at the door

‘You don’t have to do this,’ the Police psychologist had

said. ‘But she said if she doesn’t see you, she’ll shoot the hostage.’

‘What do I need to do?’ Avila asked. ‘Try to keep her talking. The longer she talks the more she’ll relax, we hope.’

Now that she was here, Avila realized that the Police, having assessed the location and Genny’s position,

wanted her to relax so the sniper would have time to 15

volume 3 | issue 3

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

do his job. They couldn’t charge at Genny across the

still stepped around her as if on broken glass, she was

down, and one of their own was a hostage. The police

couple of months or so she sees guavas in the shops

expanse of the gym. They hadn’t been able to talk her sniper was plan A, and plan B, and plan C. They needed Avila to keep Genny talking. Until they shot her.

“LISTEN TO ME,” Genny screamed suddenly. The hos-

tage winced as the handgun ground into her ear. Avila realized that she must have betrayed, somehow, that her mind had wandered.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a stressful day.” “No shit?” said Genny. “Think what mine’s been like? At least you weren’t sentenced to life in prison. I was.”

Avila coloured a little. “We’ll appeal, Genny. I’ll do everything I can.”

“Oh shut up Avila. Can I call you that now? Are we close enough to be on first name terms? We both know I

don’t stand a chance. I’m not mad at you. You did your best with what I gave you, which was nothing.”

“Then why are you doing this? Why did you take a hostage? Why did you make them bring me back?”

“Because someone needs to know. It’s the answer to the question you’ve been asking me for weeks. Why I did what I did.”

She settled back against the wall. Avila thought she

was relaxing until she realized that Genny had moved

and she’d buy them for me as a little treat. It didn’t

matter I told her to save her money. She always did it, bought those damn guavas. We might not have paid the electricity for two months, that didn’t matter. As

long as we had fresh guavas, she’d be happy because

I was happy. Except I wasn’t happy. I had holes in my shoes, but we had to have guavas. It was as if buying

guavas was a reset button. ‘Look Jenny, I’ve fucked up

your life but it’s all right because we have guavas. We

can sit and eat exotic fruit and pretend we’re normal.’” She was still talking quietly.

“That girl in the song, she shot up her school because

she didn’t like Mondays. Well I shot my Mother because

were little,” said Avila. She tried to remember the story behind the song but it escaped her.

ful but there was one little detail she missed.” “What was that,” said Avila.

“I hated guavas”. As Genny said this she wrenched

the gun away from her hostage, opened her mouth, inserted it, and pulled the trigger. *** Three days later Avila finally arrived back in the city. killed her Mother over guavas?”

“Well then,” said the partner after a minute or so of

silence. “Good work Avila.” He turned away and looked out the window, and Avila picked up her files and

began to leave. As she reached the door the senior partner said, “Did you find out what it was? The motto?”

Genny didn’t seem to hear Avila. “We went to Mexico

“Yes,” said Avila, “I did. ‘Magnum iter ascendo; sed dat

Every day we ate them. It was one of the few good

me strength.’”

once and the buffet in the hotel always had guavas.

times we had together, her and me, and even though I

I see your smug demeanour,

Boasting of an insurmountable face.

The challenge is tempting—hard to resist, My tendency you know far too well.

Head down in stubborn determination,

I'll plough head first into your tangled mess. Overgrown and full of thorns,

Lost in the darkness of a suffocating canopy.

This is no conquest; you aim to bring me to my knees.

Avila chose not to comment.

“I remember it. My Gran used to play it for us when we

Mountain, you're in my way.

fantasy world where everything was bright and beauti-

cared enough to ask me about them. She had this little

“Did you ever hear that song by a band called The was it called again? Something about Mondays.”

erin stinson

Stumbling blocks of crusty stone under my feet,

“Guavas?” said the senior partner, debriefing her. “She

Boomtown Rats, came out about forty years ago? What

not my mountain

in all those years of buying that fucking fruit, she never

further behind her protective wall of tear-stained Sheriff, changing the angle for the sniper.

fine for that week. Then, when we came back, every

You extend the invite yet leave me exposed. I'm enticed; I want to overcome.

Training without end for mountains along the way, But I am no fool; I do not have to entertain them all. Some—like you—are not for my feet to tread,

Taunt all you want, you are not meant for me. I've nothing to prove,

I do not care to reach your summit.

The victory is seeing you for what you really are, A distraction, eating up time and purpose.

The strength I need is not to climb and clamber,

But to muster a single seed of unwavering faith. You—not I—are the one who has to move,

Under my command you'll be cast into the sea. For you, O Mountain, are in my way.

mihi gloria vires,’ ‘The climb is difficult, but glory gives

volume 3 | issue 3

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

our mountain weekend vacation to Banff for my birthday. Life over the last few months had been quite hectic and had

its share of ups and downs so I was quite excited at

the idea. It seemed like a good chance to take break and refill my cup, so to speak. Additionally, I had

never been to Banff so I quickly agreed at the oppor-

tunity. She had even picked out the hotel and several activities we could do during our stay. We made the

necessary arrangements with work, packed up the car with our bags and our dog, Phoebe, and we set out on ten hour car ride to the mountains.

After an uneventful trip, we arrived at our destination; a quiet little hotel nestled at the base of Mount Norquay. The first night consisted of a quiet birthday dinner at the bistro located within our hotel and an early bed-

time. A long car ride and fresh mountain air certainly have a way of making you appreciate how amazing

sleep can be. When I woke the next day, I felt like it had

been the first good night’s sleep I’d had in years. Incredibly refreshed, we faced the weather perfect day which

included trail walking with our dog, shopping and more dining. We eventually made it back to our hotel and crawled into bed for yet another early night.

The second morning of our stay, I felt even more

refreshed than the first. After showering and having a rather decadent breakfast, we decided that we had

enjoyed our leisurely trail hike the day before so much that another would be a good way to start the day. It

would also allow Phoebe the chance to burn off all the excess energy she had been saving up since she had been spending half the day cooped up in the hotel

room. Much like we had before for our first trail hike,

we grabbed our backpacks, water, various items for the dog and my camera, laced up our boots and set out in our car for another trail.

in tow. We each took a sip of water and renewed our

upwards on what look like a mixture of earth and a few

further, could it?

corner and looked up. The trail went on a steep incline

chris bowers

My wife suggested that we should take a small

part it easy going. Then we finally rounded the first

After fifteen or so minutes in the car and following

multiple signs in various directions, we realized that we may have gotten ourselves lost. While we knew that

we were looking for the Tunnel Mountain trail, and had a general idea of where the mountain was (it’s rather

difficult to miss), we hadn’t really taken the time to look up the directions to the trail head. This led to several

interesting conversations, an increasingly antsy dog in the backseat and me trying to interpret the GPS map

on my smart phone. An hour and several scenic routes later, we had arrived at our destination, located a mere 7 minutes from our hotel. We shook it off, more deter-

mined than ever, put the dog on her leash and started a trek we would not soon forget.

Before we get into what happens next, there are a few

additional pieces of information I need to explain – for context. The first of these being that our dog, Phoebe, was at the tail end of recovering from surgery to the ligament and bones in one of her rear legs. She had

been hobbling around on three legs for a month until then and the recovery period lasted another 8 weeks. The surgery worked fabulously and she healed well.

This was her first real outing after completing all the

necessary physiotherapy. The second of these is that

neither of us are avid hikers. We like to take trail walks often, but these are usually city trails and we dress

accordingly. Let’s be very clear that what we are about

to embark on is a mountain trail on a sunny warm day in February. Unbeknownst to us, the weather over

the past few weeks has been a mixture of snow, quick

thaws and rapid freezes. The third and final of these is that we chose the trail based off of an overhead view layout of the trail on a map and it being described as

an easy one hour scenic hike. It mentioned nothing of

large patches of ice. Despite this, we kept moving for-

ward while minding each step we took on the smooth, glistening parts of the trail. After twenty minutes and working up a good sweat, we reached a plateau and a sign board signifying ….. the start of the trail?! We

sighed, looked at each other, and then looked up the

next section of trail that stretched before us. We had

come too far. We were determined. We were fearless. We moved forward slowly while the dog wagged her tail gleefully and ran ahead.

The first few hundred meters were steep and covered in what looked like one solid sheet of ice. I thought I

had been smart bringing my heavy winter boots but what I hadn’t taken into account was the fact that

these boots aren’t meant to deal with slippery surfaces. And so, backwards I went; multiple times, in fact. My

wife watched me with a look of puzzlement on her face as the distance between us grew further and further. Unable to assist my predicament, she turned and

continued the hike with our still (supposedly) recover-

ing dog in the lead. All things considered, the dog was doing much better than us; stopping every ten feet on the leash to make sure we were keeping up with her tail still wagging.

I had finally regained my composure after the third

or fourth time sliding backwards. I got up on my feet, brushed myself off and looked upwards ready to con-

quer the trail when an elderly couple walked by me as if they were simply taking a leisurely stroll. Was I, a man in his early thirties, being shown up by a couple nearly three times my age? I nodded hello as the couple gave

me an amused and somewhat dirty look and continued right on by me, just in time to see my wife sliding in

the same fashion as me down the trail, frustrated dog

resolve to finish this. The top really couldn’t be much Another twenty minutes later, amounting to a total one hour and a half spent ascending the mountain,

we had finally reached the top. At this point, we were tired, sweaty and bruised, but we were finally at the

peak. We took a moment to breathe in the view and were welcomed by a sign the congratulated us for

reaching the top, which was then followed by a history that started with “hikers have enjoyed the easy walk

up Tunnel Mountain for over a century.” We rolled our eyes and turned around, now sharing company with

several older couples and hikers, all of whom managed

to pass us on the trail with little to no effort at all. After observing them for a while, we suddenly couldn’t help but notice that they were all wearing ice cleats.

Despite everything that happened on the way up, we

enjoyed our time on that mountain. We breathed the fresh mountain air, took in the sunny view, explored

nature around us and took crazy pictures of ourselves. I also spent some time reflecting on everything that’s happened over the past while and where I am today. There will be times when life gets crazy and you feel like you have no control. There will be moments in

life when you have to move backwards to go forwards. What is easy for some may be challenging for you. However, anything is possible with the right tools,

experience and perseverance. When it comes down to it, you must be able to laugh at yourself and be willing to learn. We now look back on what happened with a smile on our face. That day, we conquered our moun-

tain. The only thing left for us was to find our way back down. We sighed, packed up our things and followed Phoebe, her tail still wagging excitedly as she darted down the icy mountain trail.

elevation. Now, let’s go back to where we left off.

The first steps out onto the trail weren’t all that bad. Yes, there was some snow and ice but for the most

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

lost soldier aiman naeem

You can never tell that it’s coming – it’s just there one

of windows, in the cracks of the darkness. You use it

this horrible sinking feeling. It pulls you down with

the sorest of storms. Untying each anchor, one by one,

day. Just arrives all of a sudden, like an unwanted guest, all of its weight. Low. Lower. Even lower. There is no

lowest and it seems that there will never be one. It is a

pit without a bottom: a deep, dark and cold place. Your

fingers do you no good as you grasp your surroundings and try, who knows how badly, to resist the sinking, to stay afloat. No lifebuoy will do you any good against

the anchors that weigh you down. Your mind is a void,

lost in an eternal storm, or so it seems, because as soon as you open your eyes and see a light that awaits your arrival - everything changes. It’s not easy to see, but it never gets easier. The light disappears just as quickly

as it appeared but you believe, you must believe, that it exists and will return. It will be there for you and it will give you hope. You try and fail but you try again,

and fail, to revive your fallen spirit. Try, fail, try, fail, try,

fail, try...and you succeed. There is light, in the slimmest

as a guide as you begin your battle, your fight against

is unbearably slow. Each passing day, the cutting dark

wind feels more and more like a soft lover’s kiss. A year of fighting feels like a second of progress. At times you question why you try in the first place. One day, the

answer becomes clear, as you feel the burden lighten... and all of your being is finally, finally, at ease. It’s

because there is no way out, no other way up. You thank yourself. You drain your tears. There is an ambience of glory in the air – you have climbed the mountain, you

have reached the top. You have thwarted the storm and it is unbelievably, unfathomably, and uncontrollably

sweet. And you sit there at the edge as you bask in this

happiness, soaking each ray, devoid of fear or hesitation, because who knows how long it’ll be before the horrible sinking feeling returns.

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volume 3 | issue 3

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

Climb Every Mountain? Really?

A column by douglas abel

Climb every mountain,

To the extent that the myth of the conquering hero

Follow every byway,

ity. Those who reach the top in any endeavour—physical,

Search high and low,

Every path you know.

“Climb Every Mountain,” from The Sound of Music.

The inspirational/aspirational song from which the lyrics above are taken has become iconic, as have the sentiments behind it. Life is an adventurous quest

for more challenges. Striving and, even more important, achieving, are everything. The watchwords are “faster, higher stronger,” the command is “Just

do it!”. The prohibition against a supposedly wasted life is “Never stop exploring.” The only place to live fully is “on the peaks,” and “on the edge.” The very

existence of mountains creates an existential duty to climb them. As George Mallory explained, when asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, the simple and unassailable reason is “Because it’s there.” No wider purpose, no

analysis of costs and benefits, no possibly useful result is required. Mountains exist to be climbed. People exist to climb them. Those humans who fail or

refuse to do so are, really, lesser humans than those who make the climb. Or those who die trying. Like Mallory.

To all these motivational sentiments I am compelled to reply, “Really? Why?” The mountain climbing dream is not just about personal aspiration. Since its

birth in the Classical world, rebirth in the Renaissance, and flourishing in the Romantic excesses of the 19th century, the dream has developed a belligerent, almost militant aspect. The mountain is not just there to be climbed. It must be subdued. Reaching the top of the world’s highest peak became “The conquest of Everest.” Man wins, mountain loses. And once conquest has hap-

pened, domination and subjugation follow. Witness the “discovery” of the

“New World” by intrepid European adventurers. After these worlds were

reached, they were claimed, divided up, tamed, populated and exploited, resources pillaged, indigenous peoples enslaved and all but destroyed. Climbing and questing are never ethically neutral. One person’s discovery is another’s invasion. Once you climb the mountain, you own it, just as you “own

the podium.” And the mountain never gets a say in whether it wants to be

conquered. Although it may have the last laugh. It may still be there after the climbing exploiters have exploited themselves into oblivion.

Another aspect of the mountain-taming myth that can be as destructive as

it is inspiring is competition. For there can only be one person to climb the mountain first. Great efforts of exploration become vicious contests: the Race

dominates societies, it can be used to entrench inequalsocial, economic, cultural, political—do so because they are stronger, more ambitious, smarter, better in some

way, or in every way. Those who fail to reach the top are less worthy, in some or in all of those ways. The one per

cent deserve to have; the ninety-nine percent deserve to have not. In mountain-conquering mode, social justice

becomes social Darwinism. Every non-winner becomes a well-deserved loser, who didn’t try hard enough, didn’t

have what it takes to “make it.” No one asks what non-

intrinsic advantages—money, position, family—the social equivalent of a huge, expensive team of Sherpas—

the mountain conquerors had to help them to the top.

has ever done it before. Winning, however invented, is the

only thing. Losing is unacceptable . . . unless you’re a loser. Sadly the struggle-and-conquer motif seems to have penetrated even into the last moments of our lives. In

obituaries today, almost no one seems to have just died, peacefully. There must be a “courageous battle”—against disease, against injury, against simple old age. It is as

if failure to avail yourself of every effort to resist death, however painful, extreme, debilitating, or futile, is a moral failure. Peaceful acquiescence and simple enjoyment of

what time may be left is cowardice. Death must be fought, and the fact that the fighter must lose is irrelevant. For

mountain-climbers the only acceptable response to the end of life is to

They won. You lost. Shut up.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.1

Since losing is unacceptable and winning is everything,

Resistance may be futile, but the last breath must be a

has come increasingly to dominate our society. There is

unbeatable foe,” but you are morally obliged to keep beat-

the quest to be first, or best, at something—at anything—

only one highest mountain, and only one person to be

first on top of it. But the quest to invent things to be first or best at is never-ending. The Guinness Book of Records

is full of preposterous firsts, or mosts. It doesn’t matter

how ridiculous, wasteful, or pointless the “achievement” is. Can I be first in the number of bananas shoved up my

nose in thirty seconds? Then great! I won! The book says

so right here! Thank God I’m not just ordinary. Thank God I’m not . . . a loser.

Another pernicious way to circumvent the “only one

conqueror” problem is to take an existing “achievement” and make it harder. Someone has already climbed Ever-

est? Well, what about climbing it without oxygen? What about climbing it walking backwards? What about run-

ning up the mountain? Running up it while juggling? Skiing down it? Skiing with only one ski? It doesn’t matter if the endeavour is pointless, if it’s a waste of time, energy and resources. The only point that matters is that no one

gasp of effort. Otherwise you’re a loser. Death may be “the ing against him.

Yet, how much we lose, and miss, when we believe only in striving and struggle. Mountains can be contemplated

for their beauty and majesty, without ever being scaled. When the great sages went to the mountain tops, they went meditate, not to dominate. And then they came

down, to share wisdom and peace with those in the valleys. Wandering slowly through the forest, seeing its wonders, smelling its fragrances, attending to its

sounds, are activities as humanly fulfilling as racing over the ground in some struggle to win. The haiku is a gen-

tler poem than the epic; it is no less profound. A journey

does not have to be a quest in order to be full of precious moments.

The mountain exists.

Stop, and gaze at it.

If you exist below it,

to the South Pole, the Space Race—the Arms Race. There can only be one winner; there can be innumerable losers. And the winners are greater, the losers, lesser. The winners deserve to win, the losers deserve to lose.

1 Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” from The Poems of Dylan Thomas, New Directions, 1952.

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors

eileen lucas writes, “ I was born and raised in St.George's, Newfound-

douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, ongoing student of French

spending time with my family. I have an awesome husband Gregory,

and Anglo-Saxon, and novice digital documentary maker. He looks at

two grown children and five grandchildren.”

mountains and is glad, “Because they’re there.”

kiran malik-khan is the communications coordinator for the Fort

lucie v. bause has studied at Trent University in Ontario, Universidad

McMurray Public School District. She's a TEDx Fort McMurray speaker,

de Granada in Spain, and the Alberta College of Art and Design in

a freelance journalist who loves sharing stories about Fort McMurray,

Alberta. She is a professional visual artist and educator whose passion

and is a social media specialist. The co-founder and Public Relations

is exploring nature-based themes. Over the years, Lucie has exhib-

Director for NorthWord, she's also the co-founder and president of

ited her paintings extensively and has facilitated art-based classes

World Hijab Day Fort McMurray, a committee that has brought the

and workshops with children, youth and adults in Banff, Canmore

conversation about the Islamic headscarf front and centre in our

and Ft. Mc Murray. She enjoys experiencing and sharing the power of

region. Kiran has been in Fort McMurray for 15 years. Happily mar-

art and the creative process that empowers and inspires people. Her

ried, she has two beautiful boys.

art practice includes painting, photography, mixed-media, as well as a large-scale interactive environmental sculpture called PORTAL XII, which belongs to The Town of Canmore’s Public Art collection. Although dorothy bentley's heart-song is poetry, she writes in many genres. Her devotional guide, Get Organized! Find Your Keys & Figure Out Life, is being released on Amazon and Kindle this spring, under the name Dee Bentley.

aiman naeem is a grade 12 student at Westwood Community High School. She is an avid volunteer, a passionate artist, and loves to write poetry and prose in her spare time. Her work has been recognized regionally and nationally.

ing and the written word are some of the creative outlets for what inspires her. That inspiration comes from observing and reflecting on the world around her with a faith-based perspective. faren taljaard describes herself as a “South African, twenty-something girl, still adjusting to Canada! I'm not much a writer but I love

veronica ephgrave, who hasn’t been receiving any usher shifts, strug-

nature and hiking, and wanted to somehow contribute to this issue.

gles to write at any time other than random occurrences of spare time.

Here's a shout out to everyone getting through a struggle, the hori-

She’s been writing for a long time and is pursuing a career in writing.

zon is nearer than it seems!”

After a long and painful separation, sarah foss is making her way back

kevin thornton is a founding member of Northword. He is quite pos-

to her first love—writing. She is also passionate about traveling, and

sibly the only person who has submitted something for every single

hopes to one day write about all of the beautiful places she will visit.

issue, and is happy to note that he has been published in less than

curtis gladue writes, “I've lived in and out of Fort McMurray for the last 10 years. I’ve just come back up to into the Fort McMurray recov-

half of them. He started writing at a very young age for the fame and fortune. He is still waiting.

ery center as addictions have plagued most of my life. While in rehab

Raised in a squatter’s shack perched on pilings above the chilled waters

in the middle of January, I started to write poetry. Some people said

of Burrard Inlet, cathy yard learned early to forage in the forests and

they really enjoyed them. As for myself, since never writing a poem

can be spotted chewing questionable leaves and bark even today. An

until then, I found it an amazing experience.”

avid outdoorswoman, Cathy has hiked and paddled the rugged coast-

jon koegler is a Bachelor of Education student at the U of L. He spends his summers as a certified mountain guide entertaining, informing, teaching, and learning in beautiful Waterton Lakes National Park. He has an amazing zest for life and a positive outlook on the world.

9" x 12" Watercolour & Ink 2016

home for over 12 years. Painting, sculpture, photography, song-writ-

McMurray 4 years ago and is proud to call it home. You can find more of family, wife and dog for all of their support and encouragement.

not my mountain by Erin Stinson

erin stinson is a multidisciplinary artist, calling Fort McMurray

chris bowers is a writer, actor and photographer who moved to Fort his work on his website cjbuzz.com. He would like to thank his friends,

land. I love nature, writing stories, making aboriginal crafts, and

dream blogger, reach higher

(while in a camo tutu) by Jon Koeger Subject Tricia Reid

Location: Baker's Point, Waterton Lakes National Park

line of British Columbia. From the wild shores of secluded inlets to the saddle of snowy mountain peaks she observed nature in its purest form. A curiosity drives her; the desire to know what might be around the next bend in the path keeps her moving forward.

Background: Baker's Point is part of the 20 km

Carthew-Alderson Trail which gives the hiker breathtaking vistas, deep-blue pristine lakes, cascading

waterfalls, abundance of wildlife, lush forests and incredible memories.