Epic Yukon River Journey: Days Ten - Thirteen

Dawson City
What exactly was significant about Friday, June 16? I suppose there were many significant things taking place in the world that day. But in my part of the world the sun shone all day long again. One day of sunshine on the Yukon is of some note. But that day was the ninth day of ten that no rain had fallen. (At this point some people may declare me a total liar and refuse to read any further.) But to me the event was simply incredible. Not only did the sun shine, it shone so brightly and with such great intensity that I had to apply pharmacy sunscreen! On my first trip down the Yukon, I saw the sun only rarely the first ten days. Even glimpses of blue sky were rare. On the first ten days that time, rain fell on eight of them.

On this June 16th, I paddled through Minto Flats, a section of river that is two or three miles wide and choked with an abundance of islands. I neither saw the villages of Minto or Coffee Creek because I was in a channel that obscured both villages. But the channels I took that day had their rewards, as I saw a number of moose along the way. One adult was walking along the shore of an island, its long legs up to the knees in the water. Farther along a cow moose lay on an island keeping a close watch on two spindly-legged, reddish calves which appeared to be just weeks old. Who knows, maybe they were preemies, because the other calves I had seen along lake shores were much darker and larger.

I got an early start the next day. Because I had established a routine and had a place for everything, and everything had its place, it was taking me only about one hour from the time I woke up to the time I was on the river. I started about ten miles above Kirkman Creek at 7:00 a.m. and paddled all the way to Dawson City. But I need to confess, I got there at 11:30 p.m. I guess my masochism is not just limited to bathing.

The riverbank at Dawson is quite high but sloped enough that I was able to land the kayak and climb up to see exactly where I was in Dawson. I discovered that I was overlooking a small park right across the street from St. Paul's Church. There were even three picnic tables there. I carried all of my gear up to one of the tables and then brought up my kayak. By the time I had set up the tent and put everything in it, including myself, it was 1:30 a.m. of the next day.

Before drifting off to sleep, I wondered if people were allowed to camp where I had set up my tent. But after paddling 16 1/2 hours that day, I was just too tired to care. The only thing that I recalled was that upon checking the maps I saw that I had paddled 580 miles from Lake Atlin to Dawson in 11 days.

The Yukon Hotel in Dawson City, across from my "illegal" campsite. © Ray Zvirbulis

Sunday morning I was up and dressed at 8:30 and ready to tour the town; no slacker am I. Picking up my towel, soap, washcloth and clean clothes I started for the Laundromat. As I left the tent, taking my small NRS drybag containing my camera, journals, passport, credit card, drivers license and money (things I never left behind), I passed by a small sign. Looking up I discovered I was camped illegally. The sign indicated, "No Camping." I decided to keep going and if stopped by the authorities I would either declare that I was illiterate or begin speaking in Latvian, my native language.

Robert Service's cabin, in Dawson City. © Ray Zvirbulis

Anyway, showers were $1.00 for three minutes. It took $2.00 to get clean. On the way back I took the scenic route. I walked a few blocks up the hill and visited Robert Service's cabin (one can't go inside). He was a poet who wrote many poems about the Klondike area, one of them being "The Cremation of Sam McGee" which goes in part:

...The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake Labarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Not far from Service's cabin is Jack London's cabin. I visited that also and took some photos of both places.

On my way back to the tent, I bought an ice cream cone (the sun was very hot) and ate it while sitting at "my" picnic table. A police car cruised by and took no notice of me, my tent or my kayak. As I sat there, enjoying the day and the ice cream, a woman with a very old looking dog, walked up and we began to talk. Her first name was Sylvain and her husband's name was Chris. They owned a large commercial salmon fishing camp a few miles upstream from the US-Canadian border. Sylvain said I could spend the night in their cabin if I wanted to since the fish camp was still closed for the season. As we talked, I mentioned Harvey Pitka, the Yupik Eskimo who had put me up at his home in Russian Mission, Alaska where I had ended my first trip. Sylvain said she knew Harvey because he came to Dawson occasionally. Small world.

Monday morning I was awakened at 3:00 am by the sounds of someone or something milling around my tent and kayak. I was fully awake in an instant and sat bolt upright but panicked when everything was dark when I opened my eyes. I thought I had gone blind during the night! But relief came instantly when I recalled that to be able to sleep I had to create "night" by tying a bandana over my eyes. As I ripped off the bandana, the sounds of something nosing around my tent continued. I unzipped the tent door and leapt outside in my long Johns ready to do battle; mortal combat as it were.

Standing just outside my tent, head cocked slightly to one side was a fairly young husky. It began to prance and dance ready to engage me in some early morning play. I yelled at the dog to be gone and pretended to pick up a rock and threw the imaginary missile at the dog. The dog perked up and looked in the direction where it thought the object had gone and wagged its tail. If the dog had simply left, I would have gone back into the tent and continued to sleep. But, no! It jumped and leapt, pranced and danced and caused me to be very concerned about my tent and kayak.

I picked up a real rock and heaved it at the crazy dog (didn't it know it was 3:00 am?) hoping to hit it on a soft part of its body. I missed by a mile. The dog chased the rock, sniffed it and pranced back toward me, convinced it had found a playmate. I heaved several more rocks in quick succession, all of them wide of the intended target. The dog was really getting into this game thing, running this way and that, grinning from ear to ear, tongue lolling and drooling as the weird, leotard clad man threw rocks in its direction for its enjoyment and pleasure.

Well, that went on far longer than I wanted it to. I finally picked up a fairly good-sized rock. I knew the moment that I hefted it, that it was the one. There I was, standing like David, clad in leotards, with one smooth rock in hand (but no sling). My Goliath was a deliriously happy dog. I heaved the rock, and to my dismay, it connected with the dog's snout.

It yelped, dropped to the ground, leapt up, charged toward me (for solace and comfort), realized I was the source of its pain and bolted up the dike and disappeared. When I got back to the tent, there on the ground next to it, was a green tennis ball with dog slobber all over it. I lay down but had a hard time falling asleep because I kept hearing the thud of the rock and the poor dog's yelp of distress.

Later that same morning, at 8:30, I went to Klondike Kate's for a huge pancake breakfast washed down by a few cups of good coffee. It was extra strong decaf to keep me awake in the kayak. When I finished eating, I went to the grocery store for more supplies and to spend the rest of my 16 Canadian dollars.

Ray Zvirbulis
Show Low, Arizona