You drive out of Whitehorse until the streetlights vanish and the dark becomes total. Then you wait. Aurora hunting is mostly waiting, for the clouds to part, for the forecast to hold, for the sky to decide.
When it comes, it comes slowly. A pale green smudge low on the horizon, easy to mistake for a distant town. Then it lifts, and curls, and suddenly the whole sky is moving in slow ribbons of green and violet.
The cold is serious here, well below freezing on a clear winter night, so you dress in every layer you own and bring a thermos of something hot. The clear nights are the cold ones; that is the trade.
There is no photograph that does it justice, though everyone tries. Better to put the camera down for a while and just lie back on the hood of the car, watching the light fold and unfold above the spruce.
