The Bright Lights of the Yukon - Vacation Part II
The drive is a long one, more than 30 hours . . . but having travelled the same voyage myself ten years earlier, it was actually easier this time with my wife. Snuggles, and whispered conversations about the trashy, pot-bellied young woman with a daughter far too old.
Whitehorse is damn cold at 4 in the morning, but they have Timmy's up in the Yukon as well. We got sussed out that first day fine and dandy, as we booked ourselves in the Beez Kneez hostel, bought some supplies, got a new sleeping bag*, and set up a canoe rental for the next few days.
It was cold, the old sleeping bag was old, and well . . . she was well past her prime. She had a melted foot from some campfire years back, and she had lost a lot of her loft. She was also too small, especially as it wasn't just me anymore. In short - we had to let her go. I just want it to be stated clearly: I won't just think of you as another old bag, but instead, I will fondly reminisce on our time, as I would with an old friend.
The three day canoe trip on the Yukon River and Lake Laberge was the highlight of our trip. The wife got to experience something very close to what I call "real wilderness camping", and we both got to commune peacefully with nature once again. The current is fast despite the breadth and depth of the Yukon, so paddling hard isn't a big concern until arriving at the long lake. Thus, for the most part, I paddled in a very laissez-faire manner while we enjoyed the raw scenery, revealing herself anew as we rounded every new meander.
I won't do nature any justice trying to write Tennysonish accounts of our trip, but suffice it to say we had an awesome time of it. No bears, moose or elk were spotted, but we saw beavers, eagles, and osprey.
Three days from launch, we were picked up (along with our rented canoe), and taken back to Whitehorse - just in time to meet an old friend. His name is Sui, as in how you would call forth a swine . . . sOOOOO EEEEEEEEeeeh! Anyway, that was the way I was taught to speak with pigs, thus that is the way I describe his unusual name, especially since he is German.
We drove up the next day to Dawson City (catching a ride in Sui's rental), a full day's travel, but one filled with beautiful scenery. As YJ slept in the back for over half the ride, Sui would make constant stops along the way for pictures, as he would be giving a slide show and lecture to some schools back in his homeland. I followed suit most of the time, as I was in the peculiar position of never having travelled the route, despite the fact I had been to Dawson before. Ten years ago, I had travelled the riverway, instead of hitching on the only road between Whitehorse and Dawson City.
I haven't mentioned yet, but the main reason (in the beginning, at least) for the whole trip had been a reunion. A bunch of us had met then and bonded strongly, fellow travellers and Yukoners, and for the most part we had stayed in touch. The idea had been sprung by one of the three brothers (the integral binding force of the friendships and reunion) to get together for the outhouse race, the event at which we all came to know one another. But alas, one by one the three brothers emailed in their sorrys, and none would be present. Nevertheless, I remained on course for many reasons: my wife and I love nature and adventure, I would get to show her more of Canada and true wilderness, and - I love the place.
After a 7 hour drive with a one hour stop to cook lunch at Five Fingers rapids, we met Cherebear at "the pit" (Midnight Sun Saloon), after having a meal at the home of the Sour Toe Cocktail. Although I had explicitly planned to do this on my second visit to the far north, I somehow never got a chance to down a shot of liquor and kiss the toe. (btw - all names used in the vacation trilogy have the distinction of being real names, or at least nicknames by which the person is commonly called. I shit you not.)
Cherebear rambled into the bar late, as Sui and myself flanked YJ whilst drinking beer. The bar had over a dozen sots ponied up to the bar and scattered akimbo at the tables, either watching the entertaining pool game or staring at my wife. It was our first, but not our last, touch with the odd affinity natives held for YJ. Although clearly Chinese/oriental, she was either mistaken for native quite often, or treated as such. (if you are thinking it was a similarity to Inuit, you would be mistaken, as there are none in Dawson. Generally, they are isolated communities and they don't mix at all with "us", and the only time I had seen Inuit in a city was in Anchorage, Alaska where a minority wintered) Oddly though, both the wife and I tallied an even number of "hits".
Cherebear was the mother of our old group of acquaintances, and she hadn't changed a bit. Although she never really took to my wife (dominant woman of the house syndrome), she and her husband Clayton were very kind and accommodating. We instantly sussed out accommodations for the week, and leapt at the chance for a free ride instead of tenting for under 20 bucks a night at the river hostel. The camper, situated across the road from her house amid a junkyard of rusted dump trucks, dredge machinery and pick-ups, was as good as our home. Sure, it had no heat, no electricity, and no working toilet; but it was luxury digs compared to a tent.
Our first few evenings hanging around Cherebear's lodge were quite pleasant, as we became well acquainted with her new husband Clayton, and good friend Big Bird, fellow Dawsonite. We ate well, and we drank heartily, and we shared our tales.
Two days later, YJ got see her first Aurora Borealis with me, and the next night, her second.
And the Viking ship began to built . . . but that, my friends, is for chapter three . . .
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