Might as well be on Mars

The five of us were together again, dressed in different gear, celebrating the beginning of another journey, cherishing the memories of our previous adventure to the Yukon almost two years ago to the day.

Emily is the bride in the 2024 picture, and the person responsible for the planning of our Yukon adventure. Peter is Emily’s father, my younger brother by thirteen months. Zachary is Peter’s son, eldest of five other siblings. Rachel is Zachary’s partner. And by process of elimination: me.

I felt fortunate to have been invited. Peter and I had been musing about travelling to the north. He is more of a camper; I wanted to experience the environment before it was gone. They approached me after another person dropped out. I jumped at the opportunity. The plan was to fly into Whitehorse via Vancouver, drive to Dawson City, then up the Dempster Highway, camping in Tombstone and north of the Arctic Circle, back down to Kluane National Park, before heading to Whitehorse for the flight home. It would be a combination hotel/camping adventure by SUV. I brought a camera stand for those group photos of everyone together in places where there would be no one else to do the favour. It would be a trip to remember.

I remember arriving in Whitehorse and watching a beautiful red fox scurrying through the parking lot, thinking we are going to see four footed animals of all kinds in our journeys. We saw none save for that same fox who came to say goodbye when we left 10 days later.

I remember that first night at the infamous 98 Hotel, where the locals drink and hang out, a number taking their turn on the music stage and one noticeably drunk woman, tight dress, platform laden feet, tinkling on the piano, turning to me, pointing, “Don’t you f@&k with me red shirt”.

I remember the 98 had just two kinds of beer, draft, including our soon to be favourite Yukon Gold, purchased only in cash from a middle aged waitress who brought over a round, cleaned my glass and said “Now you can say you got your bottom wiped at the 98”.

I remember the night to be an excellent beginning to our Yukon adventure.

I remember packing the vehicle, crammed with equipment and people, thinking we will have a long eight more days on the road. I volunteered to sit in the middle and discovered the view to be one of the better and made for wonderful camera pictures through the front windshield.

I remember that first motel, the Bonanza, two levels, located on the outskirts of Dawson City because everything else was booked. The can for cigarette butts on the floor outside each door was the added feature one received for the inflated price of the room.

I remember Dawson City resembling a living museum with long abandoned buildings intermixed among local and tourist businesses on dirt streets lined with wooden sidewalks, harking back to the gold rush days to the turn of the 20th century.

I remember agreeing we must all participate in drinking the sour toe cocktail, overseen by the Captain who hailed from Orillia. He undertook his responsibilities seriously, repeating those same words to each brave soul, signing your certificate and posing for pictures with his pet shark.

“You can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but your lips have gotta touch the toe”

I remember finishing the evening at the Pit, Dawson’s oldest bar, on the recommendation of a waitress if we wanted to drink with the locals, but warned us not to take any pictures if we intended to leave unscathed.

I remember the first time my tripod came in handy as we posed for the cover of our upcoming album, should we decide to make one.

I remember standing atop a hill, overseeing Dawson City, after the rain, above clouds parading around along the paths of the river, as if inhabiting another world.

I remember stopping to savour the world’s largest cinnamon buns enroute to our next destination. The leftovers tasted great with coffee three days later.

I remember the first wet and cold days in Tombstone, camping, cooking our gourmet meals of sausages and beans, eating out of cans because it saved dishes.

I remember walking up this long hill to a site which I no longer recall, in the pouring rain, heads down against the wind, determined because we might never come back.

I remember the drive up the Dempster Highway, hard gravel, wide open spaces, vast expansive skies, thinking to myself this was unlike anything else I had ever seen all the while listening to the Pukka Orchestra sing, You’re disappearing in the distance, Of this alien terrain.

I remember taking my turn behind the wheel just to be able to say, “I drove the Dempster Highway”.

I remember the excitement of reaching the Arctic Circle.

I remember that first cold night, camping, north of the Arctic Circle, staying up late because Rachel was convinced the conditions were right to catch the Aurora Borealis. We kept looking to the sky, trying to stay warm, eventually crawling into our sleeping bags without witnessing a flicker.

I remember standing in the frigid waters of the river, with just my shorts, shivering, saying to myself, “I can’t do this”, before finally dunking below the surface with everyone else because we all committed to go “swimming” north of the Arctic Circle.

I remember lounging on the shore afterwards, sipping from my flask of Yukon gin, thinking, “We did it”.

I remember the drive south, same route because the Dempster Highway is the only road, soaking in the same spectacular scenery, snapping pictures at every turn, because we could not believe our eyes.

I remember the beauty of Kluane National Park, the stark contrast of the Carcross Desert, the mountainous road to the British Columbia border. We had traveled the full length of the Yukon Territory.

I remember fishing along a quiet river, off the main highway, on a barely passable road, away from everyone and everything.

I remember a silent ride back to the airport.

I remember thinking Peter and Zachary and Rachel and Emily were the perfect companions for this Yukon adventure.

I remember wanting to come back, needing to come back, to drive all the way to the Arctic Ocean next time.

I remember the words to perhaps the most inspired tune on our Spotify music list, playing over and over in my head:

I might as well be on Mars
I’m already that far away from you.