Hi folks!
Sounds like the rest of the world is going to hell except here in the North.
Maybe the North is truly the only safe place on earth right now.
Whitehorse (the town got its name because early settlers believed the rapids of
the Yukon River looked like the flowing mane of a white horse) is a rough town
with a soft spot for tourists. Heck, I know Wal-Mart allows RV's on their
parking lot but we saw a METROPOLIS of RV's in Whitehorse. The Wal-Mart cashier
was scary though. After claiming she knew me because we both originated from
Winnipeg, she also boasted that she has seen enemas performed live and once
barbequed a hamster. Mary and I ran out of Wal-Mart and were almost run over by
a drunk RV operator...
The Yukon Brewery gave us so many free samples that we staggered to the car and
designated my mother as the driver. (She in the meantime had run across the
street and bought a 5-cent lemonade from a local youngster). Yukon brews the
best beer in Canada. I am not kidding. The Yukon Gold, Arctic Red and Cranberry
Wheat Beer are some of the best North American beers I've ever tasted! My father
and I almost threw out our 32 remaining cans of American beer when we arrived
home, but as beer drinkers, we realised that quantity still wins over quality.
Heck, Whitehorse is so courteous they stop for pedestrians at crosswalks, give
you information at tourist information centres and smile at you even if you say
you are from Ottawa. They even build ladders for spawning salmon so it
facilitates their journey to their imminent and gruesome death.
So the next day we departed even further north and heading to Dawson City. NEVER
drive this route if given the opportunity. The scenery was so unspectacular that
watching my mother roll her hair in curlers every evening is far more
entertaining. The local tourist guide proudly described this highway as the
forest fire route. I expected to see fires and see if my dad's powerful
turbo-diesel powered truck could outrun them. Alas, we were simply treated to
the remnants of forest fires which were...hold your breath...endless black
sticks. My wife and mother slept most of the way and my father kept
mumbling..."There must have been a fire here." As I looked out the window for
over 500 km, the landscape did not distract me from the fact that the radio was
silent and my dad's breathing sounded like Darth Vader on crack.
As I'm writing this, my mom is laughing out loud reading her book. I hate it
when people do this. Their laughter cuts through the air like a pendulum blade
in a torture chamber slowly inching towards your defenceless flesh. You never
know what they are laughing about and feel like you are floating in an empty
salt-laden sea devoid of life.
What the hell was that paragraph about? Anyway, we stopped for lunch and were
greeted by thousands of wasps. They all seemed to migrate to my mother's
excessive use of hairspray and thus congregated around all of us. One of them
migrated up Mary's shorts and promptly caused her to run halfway to the Arctic
Circle. My dad, after succumbing to numerous stings to his groin area causing
his testicles to swell to the size of a grapefruit calmly continued swatting at
them while mumbling that they were just bugs... I blockaded myself in the
trailer and ate everybody's lunch...
Speaking of bugs, my father always proudly checks the front of the truck every
stop to see his growing collection. He has yet to fly-fish on this journey and
is always looking for bait. He only stopped doing this after being confronted by
an insect-rights activist who threatened to snap all his fly-fishing rods in
half and plant them alongside all the burnt trees.
The road's condition was not impressive. My driving managed to entertain the
whole family. Major bumps were a traumatic experience. Each time we rode over
one, my mother clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and then proceeded to
shout Oiiii! This would awaken my father and cause his head to connect with the
roof of the truck. The four-hour old gum that was sitting in his mouth became a
deadly trajectory and splattered all over the windshield. Mary would finally be
rudely awaken and scold me for not driving more sensitively for my dear parents.
After all, the contents of the trailer could shift so radically that my mother's
neatly hung symmetrical towels would be shaken out of place by close to 3
millimetres!
So we arrived at Dawson City. My father grumbled vocally because our campground
was nothing but gravel lots. However, this entire area is nothing but gravel
lots. Dredging machines (they burrow for gold and leave a ton of debris
behind...kind of like teenagers in public parks after dark) have transformed the
landscape here. Forest fire smoke has also taken over the air here. For the
first time, my father believed his headache was from something else other that
my eternal singing, whistling and babbling.
Mary and I explored Dawson City on our own during a huge music festival. Even
though this town has barely over 1000 people, there were thousands more from all
around the world taking part in this giant outdoor party. Everyone carried open
alcohol and were not fined. However, there was a $1000.00 fine for littering.
The entire force of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police must have been stationed
here as well.
The sun actually set after midnight so it was really neat riding our bikes in
daylight for that long. We even saw an arctic fox on our bike ride back to the
campground. Its colours were black and brown. They only turn white in the winter
time like most Canadians. We dreaded returning to the trailer at that time
because that meant we would have to climb over my parents' bed. However, my
mother was up dusting a toaster and my father was outside scraping bugs off the
truck grill in preparation for his fly-fishing the next morning.
He didn't catch any fish... However, he did see insect-ravaged hung-over
teenagers walking barely clothed through the stream looking for their iPods. He
returned to the trailer in disgust and offered to sell his fishing license to us
for half the price.
As we explored Dawson City, we realized that tourism was the only thing keeping
this town afloat. Plaques proudly proclaimed that certain turn-of-the-century
buildings were left as is to create an authentic look. Sadly, I think it was the
lack of money to help restore the buildings. The bars smelled like a brewery
gone bad and the gift shops were just plain bad. However, the place had
character.
Tomorrow we take the ferry for 30 seconds across the Yukon River to the Top of
the World Highway. This will lead us to Tok (pronounced Toke) Alaska. We will
remain in Alaska for over two weeks. We are now much further from Vancouver than
Thunder Bay is. This is one mighty country. Thanks for reading!
Steve
