While descending through the thickest of the black and the grey, an intricate whirlwind of smoke and cloud spiraled away from the wing of my plane. Portions of the heavy midday sky began tearing apart and exposing small pockets of a city long lost in my memory. The tall thin trees, the deep gray rock and the glowing green leaves. The emerald tone lakes, the short city streets, and the long roads to nowhere. Everything looked inviting. This was the town where I grew up. The town where I started pedaling and never let my wheels stop turning. I stepped off the aircraft, through the incandescent noise of another cluttered airport and into the wild I’ve always known as Whitehorse.
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