Ice cream. The lure of ice cream resulted in a high speed dash for Dawson City. It was the first time I’d been behind the wheel of a car after ten days being chauffeured over the Dempster Highway. The loose gravel made my hand unsure. Two once red, Dodge Caravans now blending with Dempster dust vanished into a roiling cloud. Eventually I found them parked along dusty Front Street – the passengers lapping ice cream. That was exactly two months ago.
Entering Dawson City the Klondike Highway transitioned into a dirt path. The dirt streets seemed oddly appropriate. They matched the frontier appearance of the 1898 gold rush town. Twisting an ankle on a loose rock while crossing Front Street made the uneven boardwalks seem a luxury. The dirt streets of Dawson City complete its historic atmosphere. Vehicles having arrived from the Dempster and the Top of the World Highways blended perfectly with the rough streets.
I have developed a fondness for Dawson. The characters living here are a bit eccentric – particularly those who spend the winter. Everybody is friendly. The historic buildings add charm. Looking down the side streets and alleys drives reality home. Here the original buildings tell of the hardships had. Buildings leaning at odd angles; the lowest logs rotting as they dissolve the permafrost. The combination gives the town a strangely haunted appearance.
The town is in consideration of UNESCO designation for its historic nature. Parks Canada maintains many building of cultural significance. Private parties maintain other parts of the town’s historic character. Overlooking the town is the cabin and home of Robert Service. Around the corner is Jack London’s cabin. Down the street is the elegant Victorian Grand Palace Theatre while not far away is Gerty’s Place – a casino and home to a nightly carnal display featuring Gerty and her Girls.
In July Dawson City was a whirl of activity. It was Dawson City Music Festival. Hundreds of people arrived for the music and thousands for a weekend beer fest. Music – sometimes noise – clashed as concerts and street musicians vied for attention in the parks and on street corners.
Trying to separate myself from the riot I stayed at the Dawson City River Hostel high on a hill on the other side of the Yukon River. Even there the occasion celebratory clamber wafted through.
It is now September. Only one RV park is still open. I was the only one using the 126 sites of the Yukon River Territorial Park. It was dusk when I walked the streets at 8:00. I was the only one there. Most tourist businesses – even the ice cream stop – bore informative signs, “Closed for the Season.” Some optimistically advertised, “See you next year.”
What struck me the hardest was Front Street. It was no longer a dusty, pothole ridden dirt track. Instead – an election promise made good – it was covered with asphalt then topped with strangely peculiar putty. Bitu-Seal a muddy coloured top layer to hopefully appeal to the residents unhappy with the change. Bitu-Seal is produced near Paris, France. In historic fashion it made its way north by freighter – it crossed the Panama Canal and was then loaded on freight hauling lories for delivery in Dawson City. Never before has the substance been used in Canada, nor has it experienced Canadian cold or permafrost. I’m sure Front Street will soon celebrate by creating sharp potholes – at least it won’t be dusty.
Dawson City is no longer a dusty frontier town.
Leaving town I had planned to visit paradise in the north – Tombstone Park, Blackstone Plateau and the Ogilvie Mountains, maybe even Fort McPherson if the weather held. I pained over the decision. The weather forecast was marginal. It could still be justified – I’m sure. Finally I checked the road conditions: fare and poor conditions with mud and ruts making travel difficult. A travelers advisory was posted for icy conditions. Major sections of highway were snow covered. Even the Peel River Ferry was closed – high water. I am always ready for adventure – but this was beyond what I was prepared to experience.
I spent a few minutes at Dempster Corner looking longingly north before following the Klondike Highway south. There was more traffic than I expected. My mind started contemplating the Campbell Highway from Carmacs to Watson Lake. From my map it looked like 600 kilometres of gravel road following river banks and lakeshores. The decision was not pressing. It was still hundreds of kilometres until the junction.
At Stewart Crossing I considered an overnight excursion to Mayo, but it just wasn’t sitting right. My alternative, I stopped at the garbage dump hoping to see a bear. Instead I collected an odor which adhered to my car. I drove to Pelly Crossing with the windows open trying to cleanse the car of the lingering stench. It seemed to have worked. Leaving town I spotted the dump road. This time I resisted the bear chasing detour.
It was nearing sunset. I started looking for a gravel pit but this time a sign caught my attention – Rock Island Lake. Once before I’d explored near the lake for a campsite but found the local party site. A nearby road looked promising.
It was perfect!
A small opening at lake’s edge. Rushes growing in the shallows. Ducks carrying on their quiet conversations.
Crawling into my tent something else caught my attention – cackling, trumpeting, honking in the distance. It grew louder. There was no way I was going to sleep. Sandhill cranes also considered this a perfect resting spot. From all around the lake I could hear their calls. From the ridge above the lake they were calling. Even from the sky. It was near deafening. I lay there for ages listening. Each time I nearly fell asleep they called louder. In the morning it was harshly silent.
The cranes were gone.
