Perception is in the brain of the perceiver

How two people can have polarizing ideas over whether something holds beauty

Traveling through the Yukon territory was another eye-opening experience in how others perceive.

It was a work thing. It was a dream come true for me—a chance to go to the Arctic Circle. We spent two weeks traveling to all areas serviced by government road maintenance crews, John and I. We had been sent up to install electronic equipment in road maintenance heavy equipment.

Most of the landscape was in stark contrast to what I perceive as beautiful, mostly subarctic and semi-arid with small trees and shrubs. John was citified, not used to life on the road, especially in the remote north, yet he was forced by The Corporation to travel with me, much to his consternation.

How citified he truly was became crystal clear on a long, straight stretch of highway. As always, John’s lead foot had us travelling around 130kph until we weren’t. I think I still have a seatbelt bruise.

“Look!” he exclaimed, “a bear.”

Our abrupt stop left us on the shoulder of the two-lane highway, with the bear around 100 yards up ahead. Before I could say anything, John leaped from the truck and was now standing in front of it, facing the bear.

In this situation, how many of you think automatically of the Darwin Award?

I cracked my window and yelled. John didn’t understand my panic; I yelled louder, “Get back in the fucking truck, you dumb city fuck.”

Just then he saw the cubs, then old episodes of Wild Kingdom must have flashed through his naïve, excited brain, and, as the momma bear began to lumber in our direction, he bolted back into the truck.

I didn’t really know John, nor he I, we worked loosely together but shared no social circle. Two weeks of sharing a truck and motel rooms brought much understanding.

On this trip with me, he was extremely conscious of wiping surfaces and not touching door handles or light switches with bare skin. He was not quite a germaphobe, but left untreated, he would advance to paralysis, I am quite certain. To be fair, it’s not exactly tourist central up there, so yeah, some places were pretty gross.

Our second motel after arriving at the end of the world might just have cured him. There were not enough alcohol swabs to clean our accommodations; we slept in our clothes and shoes and even shared the bed because the couch had a life of its own.

Perhaps he wasn’t the best man for the trip, but needs must. The Yukon isn’t the easiest place to find vegetarian cuisine, and this was only April. Poor John was getting tired of grilled cheese sandwiches.

It wasn’t for any particular health benefits, or even because vegetarianism was in vogue at the time, John honestly could not bear the thought of animals being raised to be killed, usually in less than desirable fashion. To put a fine point on the idea, he even sponsored a rescued pig!

Finally, we were booked in a decent resort at the edge of the Arctic Circle, Google informed us it had a restaurant with a salad bar. John’s spirits rose, and if memory serves, he started to drool. An end to his grilled cheese marathon was in sight. We arrived in time for a late supper and were about to enter the dining hall when we noticed a rather large sign stuck to the door. On it, scrawled with a sharpie and in poor handwriting were the words, “closed for the season, eat in the bar.”

Oh dear, how bad could it be? They must still have salad? I mean this is 21st-century Canada. We walked across the lobby to the bar's entrance. It was quite impressive—the entrance, large metal-bound doors with various designs carved into the heavy wood. The door opened with a groan; maintenance wasn’t a priority in the winter.

John went apoplectic! As I entered the room, I understood why. Picture the smoking lounge and bar belonging to Allan Quartermaine, with every hunted animal in the Yukon on display. I mean, there were dozens of heads on the walls, along with every other animal that could be killed and stuffed. It was too much for John, and he ran to the john. Once the retching subsided, he ordered his grilled cheese sandwich and went to his room. Perception eh!

Over the course of the trip, we clocked over 2000 kilometers, and they all looked the same. One morning we went for breakfast, and our server had a Germanic accent. We chatted for a bit, and she disclosed that Austria had been where she lived until her fiftieth birthday. Tired of her existence, she moved to the middle of nowhere, Yukon. Naturally, I asked her why, “the beauty,” she responded.

Now, dear reader, by this point, we had been traveling this vast land to and from every populated town. Beauty is not the adjective I would use to describe this desolate land.

Of course, I mentioned my predicament and queried her definition of beauty. I have been to Austria, dear reader; have you been there, or seen any pictures? Look it up and tell me if you think it is beautiful.

See, that’s the thing about beauty; it’s a perception, and perception is individual.

This particular Austrian individual found beauty in the barren isolation; for her, it was the lack of people that made it beautiful.

If you are considering a trip to either the Yukon or Austria, seriously consider your perception of beauty.