husky mitts

Barclay the French griffon modelling husky mitts in the blue morning light by the river...purple felt mittens held on with extra-strength velcro that we bought at the Dog House, a local shop dedicated mostly to huskies. in two weeks, the Yukon Quest begins, with teams of sled dogs coming through Dawson en route from Whitehorse. in the spring melt, apparently all k inds of mitts appear that were lost in the snow by dogs running through town.

river gi'ver

spent the afternoon at the Arts Centre (in an old Oddsfellow Hall downtown) being part of the "Yukon River Gi'ver Dance"...not that I know how to line dance, in fact I've never even seen Riverdance/Lord of the Dance/or any others. However...Rae Spoon, known as the bravest banjo player to ever escape from Alberta, came up with the concept of designing a Dawson dance (for eventual play on youtube--stand by) to be performed in large heavy boots & parka. it was really hot inside the Oddsfellow Hall, so we eventually took our parkas and dance steps outside to the riverbank --much to the amusement of skidoo drivers whipping by in clouds of powder snow.

river ice

walking towards the river this morning there is a new sound, loud, that I can’t figure out until I get close to the junction of the two rivers. Then I see it: there’s a tear in the ice on the Klondike, and the noise is that of the water rushing past, very grey, turning the ice at edges blue. I’ve never thought about how fast rivers run underneath their layer of winter ice, but the Klondike certainly is in a hurry. Not sure if this is an example global warming (it has been suspiciously mild up here lately, barely lower than -12) or just a fluke tear in the ice that happens every now and then.

Kid Koala

went to the most "all-ages" gig I've ever seen last night...ages 4 though 60+something, all to see Kid Koala, the scratch dj from Montreal. every single one of these people had apparently already heard of Kid Koala, except me. my only criticism of the show is that it was very short...mind you, with all the kids doing cartwheels in front of the turntables, maybe short 'n sweet was the best way to go. in with the usual scratch stuff, Kid Koala (whose off-stage name is Eric San) included a fabulous tribute to Louis Armstrong, Drunk Trumpet, and did some pretty cool things with Blue River...he's known for including thrift store vinyl and odd-ball movie soundtracks (last night's set including Jessica Rabbit) in with the classic beats. so now i'm educated and I can say "Kid Koala's a classy turntablist" (which is a new word that I really love).

Sam McGee

walking down by the junction of the Klondike and Yukon Rivers, there is a wooden panel for the “Klondyke Millennium Trail” and right next to that is a sponsor panel for the Trans-Canada Trail. I’ve often thought that it would be an interesting project to walk all across Canada on the Trail, so it pleases me to walk a tiny bit of it here. The odd thing about the sponsor panel is that, in with the various sponsor names, corporations, dates and so on, there is a good-sized space with the name “Sam McGee” and no further information. Now this intrigues me because Sam McGee is a fictional character from one of Robert Service’s most famous long poems, so the idea that he sponsored the Trans-Canada Trail is...interesting.

Robert Service 133

yesterday was the 133rd birthday of Yukon poet extraordinaire Robert Service…this is his old cabin, from my living room window. And in honour of his birthday, the sun got to Dawson City yesterday afternoon: actual rays of sunlight coming in the windows of the buildings nearest the river, and a marvellous day for walking outside. A friend has told me that you should let your teeth see the sun—something to do with absorbing vitamin D that I really don’t understand—but I decided not to walk around with my teeth in a bracing leer. The sun hasn’t gotten to where I’m staying yet, as I’m up in the part of town that is in the lee of the hill, but soon, soon…

There’s a rippled edge of snow trimmed in icicles hanging off the eave on my house here—the ripple comes from the pattern of the tin roof. Nearly a century ago, legislation forced the roof (and sometimes side and back walls) to be covered with tin, in an attempt to keep the town from burning down so often. I imagine that in spring, the whole snow pack slides off the roof in a big sled-like whoosh. But I’ll be back in Paris by then, right when the really old cabins, like the one Robert Service used live in, bloom with spring flowers…because the roof is covered in mud & grass for insulation.

Dawson bars

we’ve discovered the infamous “Pit”, which despite its ominous name is really just a run-down bar in the middle of town, with all kinds of paintings, classic little glasses of beer and a pool table shimmied up with different wedges of wood in an effort to keep the surface level in a very crooked old hotel building. Slightly more upscale is the saloon at the Downtown hotel, which also has a pool table. But I’m looking forward to visiting Bombay Peggy’s, a 1901 hotel bar which previous writers have advertised as the best place in town. It’s named for Margaret Vera Dorval, who ran a bootlegging business and brothel in the building in the 1950s. The current owners bought Bombay Peggy’s in 1998, moved it from the swampy end of town where it was (many of Dawson’s historic buildings have been dragged into better locations, as the town has shrunk), and added a back section, making the house large enough for a hotel and thus legal as a drinking establishment. I particularly like this photo, from its big move.

Dawson's riverbank

mild day (-15) so I went for a long walk along the Yukon River with the goofy dog (who spent her time leaping into snow banks) and I tried to imagine how the place looked in 1898 when the Gold Rush hit. Suddenly 20,000 people descended on this previously calm bit of riverbank...a swampy area that the First Nations didn't use for habitation because it flooded too often. Pierre Berton has a great description of Dawson by the end of that crazy summer, in his book Klondike:
“Dawson was a city of sawdust and stumps and the skeletons of fast-rising buildings, its main street a river of mud through which horses, whipped on by clamouring men, floundered and kicked. In between these threshing beasts moved a sluggish stream of humanity. They trudged up to their calves in the slime, or they negotiated the duck-boards that were thrown across the black morass, or they shambled in a steady flow along the high boardwalk that was mounted on one side of the street.”