Dee Raffo

I can see the stars as we wind up the dark, icy path, but my attention is quickly pulled back down to earth as I squeeze the throttle. Underneath me, the snowmobile charges forward up the mountain trail. Where the skiers carve their turns in the day is now a deserted playground, and at the top is the promise of a dinner so synonymous with and celebrated in the mountains, you forget its humble origins. Far above me, at 6,000 feet, a pot of fondue is waiting; all I need to do is get there.

In the shadow of Mount Currie (Ts̓zil in Ucwalmícwts, the language of the Lil’wat First Nation), in the lush fields of North Arm Farm in Pemberton, a group of people stand amid rows of potatoes, carrots and beets. For some, this place is home. For others, it’s perhaps one of the first times they’ve set foot on a farm, which seems counterintuitive given that every day they work with the produce grown here. This connection — to the land, to the produce, to other people — is why they’re here.

I am handed a little wooden paddle encased in golden honey that catches the light of the summer sun. The syrupy sweetness hits my tastebuds, and a bolt of sugar lights up the pleasure centre of my brain. This honey comes from beehives sitting in fields full of fireweed, and I’m transported to the meadows of Pemberton, awash with pink.