It’s been a little more than six months since Ingi and I took off for the trapline – me for the first time, and Ingi for the last.
Those months in the bush were the biggest adventure I’d ever had, and they percolate in my mind every day – the obvious memories like our first moose sightings, our first catches, my first skinning experience, and the anomalies, like showering from a bag in an old tub with hose running out the door to drain and muskrats drying out in the corner; and the subtle nuances of cabin life and the connection I had with Ingi.
I’m not done writing about it – I don’t think I’ll ever be done writing about it – but I’m done writing about it here, in this format.
This won’t be the last you’ll hear of it – I have a story to tell, and I will. A rich, compelling story fraught with wildness and humanity and incredible coincidences I couldn’t make up if I had to. But it’s time to move this particular project into the present.
Ingi was family – an adopted father, a mentor who left a remarkable impression on me in the brief time I knew him. Our time at camp in his final few months served a purpose, though perhaps not the purpose I had expected. For Ingi, it was a culmination of his time on this earth. For me, it was almost a rebirth, an awakening, a jumping off point. It inspired me in how I want to carry on with my life, and it’s part of why I am where I am.
One day at the kitchen table at camp I was going on and on about all these ideas I have about places I want to go and things I want to do.
Ingi said, “You just want to live life.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
I can’t think of a better way to honour Ingi than to do just that – live a real, beautiful life.
I hope you’ll continue to join me as I explore some of Canada’s north, and its south, east and west, and look at new ideas, new ways of living, and new adventures.