“You’re either crazy or you’re an angel,” said Marcello when he dropped Henk off at two pm sharp as arranged. Oh I’m definitely crazy, I said. “I think you’re an angel,” he said. He and Henk got within fifteen minutes of the Alaska border. If he’d had Henk’s papers, which I forgot to give him, and enough gas, they might have gone to Chicken. I don’t know what possessed me to lend my bike to a travelling musician but I’m glad I did. We now have a friend for life. Marcello said the fact that I trusted him with my motorbike moved him as much as the ride. (I think Henk actually became a ‘she’ for the day.)
I honestly didn’t worry for a second. I was too busy cleaning rooms with Gail, the hardest working woman in Dawson. I have a newfound respect for hotel room maids. Whatever they’re getting paid, it’s not enough. Gail and her right hand gal, Vicky, tear through forty rooms in a whirlwind of sheets and towels and chemical spray cleaners and toilet brushes. It’s hard physical labor—and these girls are not kids—and Gail owns the motel.
I was making beds and came across a double A battery under a mattress. While stripping the bed beside it, something sleek, banana-shaped, silver, and electronic peeked out from under the sheets. I contemplated for a moment whether the owner(s) would actually return to collect such a forgotten item, or would he/she/they drive as fast as he/she/they could back to Whitehorse, never to return to the Bonanza Gold Motel. Then I contemplated how I was going to remove said item from the bed with bare hands. A closer inspection (carefully) revealed that someone had gone to bed with his shaver; and yes, he did return to collect it.
I now know two Klondike adventurers who have been hit by lightning and survived to tell the tale. Pete, aka “Captain 90” of the X Riders, from Sault Ste. Marie, was riding his 1800 cc Honda VTX or XVT or some other combination of letters, hauling a baby tent-trailer up to Inuvik last week when a storm hit 80 miles south of his destination. He hunkered into the handlebars, head down, and pushed through the rain. Next thing he knew he was in the Inuvik hospital with a plasma burn on his left butt cheek, a hole in his right elbow, and his right collar bone broken in five places. They figure the bolt went in his butt cheek, through his leg, shorting out the engine, at which point he would have had quite a spill. Good thing he doesn’t remember. I asked him if the lightning took out all his bottom teeth, too, and he said, “No, that was the last accident.” He’s recovering in his tent-trailer here at the RV park, waiting for his fellow X Riders to send parts for his bike, and basking in his celebrity.
The entire town turned out for the bog races. People actually do this. They make a mud pit over several days or weeks of watering and stirring so the consistency is just right. The spectators gather en masse on the hill overlooking the bog and cheer for their favorites. Guys (and a girl or two) with regular Ford or GM trucks along with jacked-up and suped-up four wheel drive “mud-boggers” then race two at a time through the bog. Inevitably, one would get stuck and one would make it through. I have no idea how they determine the ultimate winner. All I know is there was a whole lot of unleashed testosterone out in the sun under the rock slide of Dawson City this afternoon.
I was much more interested in listening to my new favorite jazz ensemble on the dyke by the Yukon River. Luluk & the Helsdingen Trio. Luluk.com. If there were angels in Dawson today, these four were them. They are truly musical alchemists. They’ve known each other and toured the world together for 18 years and it shows. Their long meandering musical tapestries would wander into the impressionistic in wonderful synergistic chaos, then they’d slide effortlessly into incredible sweet spots where they would all four ride a wave in synch, completely open, playing from their hearts.
It was during their second set that I felt the magic drop in. The piano player painted a picture of Indonesia with its rice fields moving as one in a gentle wind like the warm breeze we had by the Yukon River. He said the fields are alive, and told of the locals picking rice with little knives on their fingers one grain at a time for Nasi Goreng. As he spoke, his wife sounded these marvelous Indonesian percussion instruments to represent the humming birds in the fields, the women cooking rice, the wind in the reeds. They went on to play their piece, using all these delightful sounds.
My heart was joyful and light. I was in Dawson City, at the end of the road, listening to a fabulous international jazz band. I had just happily worked a few hours making beds and cleaning bathrooms. My belly was satisfied after a delicious Mexican wrap from the Riverwest Bistro. And I’d given Henk away for the day without even the slightest concern over the “what if’s.”
A particularly hilarious transition in the music caused me to spontaneously burst out laughing. I don’t remember how it went or why it tickled me, but it was in that moment that I had a revelation: my fear was gone. With fear gone, I realized, I was free.
I honestly didn’t worry for a second. I was too busy cleaning rooms with Gail, the hardest working woman in Dawson. I have a newfound respect for hotel room maids. Whatever they’re getting paid, it’s not enough. Gail and her right hand gal, Vicky, tear through forty rooms in a whirlwind of sheets and towels and chemical spray cleaners and toilet brushes. It’s hard physical labor—and these girls are not kids—and Gail owns the motel.
I was making beds and came across a double A battery under a mattress. While stripping the bed beside it, something sleek, banana-shaped, silver, and electronic peeked out from under the sheets. I contemplated for a moment whether the owner(s) would actually return to collect such a forgotten item, or would he/she/they drive as fast as he/she/they could back to Whitehorse, never to return to the Bonanza Gold Motel. Then I contemplated how I was going to remove said item from the bed with bare hands. A closer inspection (carefully) revealed that someone had gone to bed with his shaver; and yes, he did return to collect it.
I now know two Klondike adventurers who have been hit by lightning and survived to tell the tale. Pete, aka “Captain 90” of the X Riders, from Sault Ste. Marie, was riding his 1800 cc Honda VTX or XVT or some other combination of letters, hauling a baby tent-trailer up to Inuvik last week when a storm hit 80 miles south of his destination. He hunkered into the handlebars, head down, and pushed through the rain. Next thing he knew he was in the Inuvik hospital with a plasma burn on his left butt cheek, a hole in his right elbow, and his right collar bone broken in five places. They figure the bolt went in his butt cheek, through his leg, shorting out the engine, at which point he would have had quite a spill. Good thing he doesn’t remember. I asked him if the lightning took out all his bottom teeth, too, and he said, “No, that was the last accident.” He’s recovering in his tent-trailer here at the RV park, waiting for his fellow X Riders to send parts for his bike, and basking in his celebrity.
The entire town turned out for the bog races. People actually do this. They make a mud pit over several days or weeks of watering and stirring so the consistency is just right. The spectators gather en masse on the hill overlooking the bog and cheer for their favorites. Guys (and a girl or two) with regular Ford or GM trucks along with jacked-up and suped-up four wheel drive “mud-boggers” then race two at a time through the bog. Inevitably, one would get stuck and one would make it through. I have no idea how they determine the ultimate winner. All I know is there was a whole lot of unleashed testosterone out in the sun under the rock slide of Dawson City this afternoon.
I was much more interested in listening to my new favorite jazz ensemble on the dyke by the Yukon River. Luluk & the Helsdingen Trio. Luluk.com. If there were angels in Dawson today, these four were them. They are truly musical alchemists. They’ve known each other and toured the world together for 18 years and it shows. Their long meandering musical tapestries would wander into the impressionistic in wonderful synergistic chaos, then they’d slide effortlessly into incredible sweet spots where they would all four ride a wave in synch, completely open, playing from their hearts.
It was during their second set that I felt the magic drop in. The piano player painted a picture of Indonesia with its rice fields moving as one in a gentle wind like the warm breeze we had by the Yukon River. He said the fields are alive, and told of the locals picking rice with little knives on their fingers one grain at a time for Nasi Goreng. As he spoke, his wife sounded these marvelous Indonesian percussion instruments to represent the humming birds in the fields, the women cooking rice, the wind in the reeds. They went on to play their piece, using all these delightful sounds.
My heart was joyful and light. I was in Dawson City, at the end of the road, listening to a fabulous international jazz band. I had just happily worked a few hours making beds and cleaning bathrooms. My belly was satisfied after a delicious Mexican wrap from the Riverwest Bistro. And I’d given Henk away for the day without even the slightest concern over the “what if’s.”
A particularly hilarious transition in the music caused me to spontaneously burst out laughing. I don’t remember how it went or why it tickled me, but it was in that moment that I had a revelation: my fear was gone. With fear gone, I realized, I was free.
posted by Moira Nordholt | 4:25 PM
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