Personal Narrative: Winter's Signature

Winter’s Signature

I’m riding my Triumph Bonnieville over the Perrine Bridge into Twin Falls, Idaho. The sunset blinds my view of the river valley. Before I cross, my eyes adjust to the low and large star, then Snake River’s landscape is suddenly introduced into my veins. I catch a moment of the magnificence that is below and outwards from the side of the bridge.
As the day fades into the evening my need for accommodations is trumped by my thirst; I ride to a local pub. In the pub it is just the bartender, myself, and a large selection of beers on tap. Slouching at the counter I unconsciously finish a freshly poured pint. I am weary, and my eyes show exhaustion from travel. My unspoken words are heard, and the bartender starts pouring another

Before the bartender can respond, the young woman confesses to enjoying a shot after a long drive. The bartender informs the young woman he carries no hard alcohol and only the locally crafted beers. The young woman asks the bartender which one is good, pointing to the beer taps. She has never tried any of those flavours before. I suggest trying the second one from the left; she won’t be disappointed. She nods to the bartender, and he pours her a pint. The young woman takes a sip and introduces herself: Mia.
Mia and I begin to converse. I tell her I’m riding to Reno, and she tells me she’s driving to Portland. Only our pints and a night of rest in Twin Falls are common between us. Each of us finish and order another draft, and Mia asks where I live. I answer central Alberta, and she is curious about how far north that is. Before I can respond she prompts me with another question, asking if I’ve ever seen the northern

I tell her throughout the Alberta winter I can witness the northern lights several times. Mia moves to the barstool directly beside me. Mia has seen pictures and read about the phenomenon, but she desires to witness the winter marvel herself. Her enthusiasm is invigorating. I begin to brag a little about having seen the northern lights; Mia slouches as I cheapen the lore. Quickly, I add about having to endure the entirety of the very cold and very dark winter just to see them on occasion. She sits up straight, the wonder is restoring, and Mia begins smiling again.
Mia says she has never travelled to Canada. I promote that Canada’s beauty is not defined by the northern lights, but accented by them. The farthest north Mia has ever been is Seattle. I tell her the border is just an imaginary line, and not to hesitate in her next opportunity to cross it—the trip won’t be a disappointment.
We reach the bottoms of our pint glasses, and the end of our conversation; we leave on our separate paths. Later, in my motel room, I feel a humble honour in having shared my memories of the northern lights with Mia.
In the morning I venture further south on my motorcycle. After a few more days on the road my trip is ending, and I arrive back