Photos from Yukon Territory
BYOB
The Yukon is a place I didn't know I wanted to visit. I did spend a season of my childhood pouring over Jack London’s writings, so I should’ve. (There is a replica of the cabin he lived in, set up in Dawson City). His writing lingered with me as much as Frank Herbert’s did. It was Dune that inspired my curiosity about the desert. It was London’s I understood with our long dark, often sub-zero and snowy Upper Peninsula winters.
Also, sled dogs weren’t exotic to me. They were frustrating. I say that because I had to feed and water the neurotic malamute tied up outside. Before you get upset, I was there first. I tried to bring that dog inside, he hated heat. He also loved to run. Run anywhere. Far away. We (my mother and I) tried running him behind the truck for miles to see if after that he’d sit calmly in the yard. He’d catch his breath and be off again. Don’t bring home a malamute or husky unless you enjoy running, a lot. My father brought home Kody in some nostalgic haze for a dog he had as a kid. A dog that sat in the yard waiting for him. (That mythic malamute must have been old or lame). This malamute brutalized every visitor by pretending to be a sweet pettable yard dog. Before a warning could be uttered, Kody would have my visitor pinned facedown on the ground. If you found yourself in this position, you were in for a full-dominance humping by a wolf-sized dog while you desperately clawed your way free. You were on your own too, no way was I going down with you.
If Kody wasn’t enough, we kept a friend’s husky for a while after their personal tragedy. His yard stay was temporary. In that short, short time he murdered a poodle. We didn’t have a poodle. Our nearest neighbors, through the woods, didn’t have a poodle. The best anyone could figure; it came from the campground over two miles away.
Kurt and I camped alongside the Yukon River across from Dawson City for a few days. At that time we thought we had a choice. Later after driving through the smoldering trees, we’d learn the road out had been closed due to the wild fire. Ignorance can be great.
There is no bridge across the Yukon River at Dawson City.
There’s a Ferry.
And the day we left, the Dawson City side traffic was stacking up waiting for the ferry. Weird. That was a clue the road had been closed.
I was skeptical about crossing with the camper. Then a full 18 wheeler pulled up to cross. The math didn’t look right, but we crossed first and I’ll never have to know how it felt to share deck space with a semi.
As good wanderers, Kurt and I chose a quieter road, Highway 4: Robert Campbell Highway, through the Yukon. An uncivilized land. No towns. No cell service. No fuel. A sprinkle of campgrounds. Signs of bear and moose, but none who wanted to sit for portraits.
And I guess I should tell you it was surprisingly challenging to find wine. They have separate stores for selling alcohol in the territory and the damn things always seemed to be closed. If you’d like to chill at your campsite with a drink, plan ahead▪️
I loved this one!! Especially all the humor and talk of the dogs. Don’t get me wrong I love all of them but this one in particular had me laughing! 🤣🤣🤣
The lack of wine would be tricky. Good heads up!! Great photos.