As we drive across Tennessee towards the Smokies, our hosts tell us about the Yukon. The open spaces. The lakes, beside which you can pitch your teepee. Hadn't they spent whole summers by the lakes, in the Yukon, in their teepees?
We have trouble, W. and I, imagining ourselves in teepees. Our Canadian hosts – latterly stranded in Nashville – are people of the expanses. They have expansive souls. We, however, have crabbed souls. We're men of the city, W. tells them. We'd be lost in the Yukon.
What would we do there? Looking out over the lakes, we would have to search our souls – a melancholy act. We'd have to contemplate our failure yet again, and from a new perspective. How could it end but in a drowning, two blue corpses face down in the water?
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