Dawson City just went from “good” to “sensational,” like shifting from first to fifth without stopping at second, third, or forth. I stumbled into an improvisational jazz set performed by a four-piece ensemble from Holland who’ve been back and forth across Canada in a bus three times this summer on their “peace and friendship” tour performing for veterans to thank them for liberating Holland 60 years ago.

I sat on the grass in the sun and soaked up the fabulous vibe coming from the side of the tulip-painted bus, which folded out to a stage. The musicianship was masterful. There was a beautiful Asian female violinist and vocalist, a big black stand-up bass player with great white teeth, a handsome and happy drummer, and a white-haired piano player with his back to the crowd. A life-sized stuffed Huskie looked out from under the piano. Indonesian baskets and dolls and exotic percussion instruments surrounded the violinist. A girl on the dyke was hoola-hooping to the music, kids and dogs were running around, people meandered in and out of artist tents where some world-class art was on display. The scene oozed funk.

When they finished, the piano player introduced the band, including the stuffed Huskie, Henk, apparently stuffed with “supplies” from Amsterdam. He thanked the two veterans of Dawson City who’d made it out to listen and said they’d be back at the same time in the same place tomorrow.

Of course I got talking to the drummer. I told him my bike was named Henk too, although he’s a bike/horse, not a dog/mule. He got all excited and brought out his laptop to show me photos of his Ducati Monster 620 back at home in Sicily (turns out only the piano player is Dutch). Said he missed it terribly and wished he’d brought it along on the tour. As it was, it had cost the band $5000 to ship their custom bus across the Atlantic.

I’m not sure how many people could sit through a slideshow of motorbike photos with accompanying background music, but he found an appreciative audience in me. I’ve been told never to show people photos of Henk or my kitty, but my computer’s full of both.

Marcello the Sicilian drummer who lives in New York and plays in the Dutch jazz band wanted to see Henk, so we walked back to where I’d parked. Those Italians have an eye for beauty, don’t they? Marcello looked Henk over like he had never beheld anything quite so magnificent. Henk enjoyed the special attention and out of the blue invited him out on a spin. Yeah. Henk did.

Marcello had coincidentally just purchased a new helmet at a pawnshop in Edmonton. Perfect, I told him. Let’s go to the top of the world!

I’ve never been on Henk as a passenger before, but what's an adventure without trying something new? Also, I’m still trying to let go. How attached am I to my one remaining possession? We’re about to find out. Tomorrow, Marcello the Sicilian drummer from New York who plays in the Dutch jazz band is taking Henk for the day while I help Gail clean rooms. He’s in heaven and I have nothing to say about it except watch out for gravel.

The ride to the top of the world was fabulous. Marcello’s a more aggressive driver than I am (he’s a boy) and Henk enjoyed the workout. It was strange and wonderful being on the back and taking in the view. The smoke-smudged sun turned cotton-candy pink above the tree line and the entire valley that I saw last week in beautiful layers was obscured by a veil of smoke from Alaskan fires. It’s mystical and silent up there.

We dropped Marcello off at his hotel in town around 11, which felt like 7. I gave him my ticket to Gertie’s in case he wanted to catch the midnight cancan show, and told him to be ready for an adventure with Henk in the morning. I’m happy Henk’s getting out for a ride. He’s been itching to hit the pavement for a week. Marcello’s very competent, I found out, and maybe Henk will make it to Alaska without me. Wouldn’t that be a trip.