The Quest for Canada

I have a yearning; I want to go north where the air is cold and crisp, and in the summer is humid but not hot. I want to go to a place where sight will replace mystery, for mystery is all it ever seems to be. I want to see the wild as if I were the only person left to roam on earth, I want to sway to the music beating through me. The vast wilderness ahead of me, as I scan city lights. A large tower before me, and the people saying "EH!" around me. Gorgeous men with hockey sticks and furry countenances. A taste of Europe but still on the same continent. Speak textbook french with people that I do not understand (and I doubt they understand me), get caught up in Indian names, for rivers, for peaks, for landscapes, for lakes, for towns. Open my mind up for adventure, and leave all else behind. Be serenaded by the owls at night, and hear the percussion of water as it falls into the misty unknown. Swim in the Great Lakes, soar over mountains like an eagle, and only right over the border, between here and there. I will be gone but not too far away. I want to go north where the ice melts halfway in May, and returns again in September. I want to feel cold like no other, and never feel it again. I want to build a fire, and watch the auroras dance in the sky, while the wolf howls and the snow softly falls. Behind me is the United States of America, set in her ways, before me, is nothing, pure and true. And I want to go there before I die.