Dogsledding the Great White North

« Return to Yukon

We hop on Air North’s small twin-prop Hawker Siddeley for the hour long flight to Dawson City, 500 miles of snow, mountains and frozen river away. When I first heard about the Sour Toe Cocktail, available only in the Downtown Hotel in Dawson City, I assumed it was joke. I mean, seriously, a drink with a human toe in it, you’ve got to be kidding? Then I Googled it, and was shocked to discover it was true, and the perfect thing for me to do in a late November pre-season Yukon winter. The opportunity to get this on film could not be missed, plus, I have a little bit of a foot fetish anyway. The former Paris of the North has a population of only 2000 today, a quiet old frontier town along the banks of a frozen lake. Tourists come here in the summer to learn about the Yukon’s gold rush heritage, and enjoy the pristine scenery and national parks found throughout the territory. In 1973, a character by the name of Captain Bill bought an old wooden cabin and found an old pickled toe, assumed to have once belonged to and old frostbitten miner. Over drinks at the local pub, pondering the legendary (but fictional) ice worm mentioned in Gold Rush epic poems, he cottoned onto the idea of the Sour Toe Cocktail, originally drunk in a glass of champagne. Well, the Toe was a hit, and so the Sour Toe Club was founded, with various rules drawn up to become a member. You could have it in any drink, save milk or pop (including Red Bull, yes, I asked), and the Toe has to touch the lips in order to qualify. Now there have been various toes over the years. Drunk cowboys have accidentally swallowed some, others have been lost or stolen, which is possible since the defining principle here is that not too many people are sober when joining the club. And we’re talking about some 65,000 people - yes, there are at least that many lunatics in the world. Various toes have subsequently been donated, and the latest, a big toe, apparently belonged to someone who lost it in a lawnmower accident. The local health board took Captain Bill to court and lost, since what people choose to add to their drinks once it is poured is matter of their own concern. It costs the price of a drink plus $5 to join the club, and afterwards you can drink it as many times as you like. You are also presented with a certificate and card for your wallet, which is bound to impress (or more likely scare) the hell out of anyone who sees it. The toe itself is safely locked away and stored in glass container with salt. It smells of liquor. Captain Bill had hightailed it to Mexico so Captain Al, a teetotaler, was filling in. The toe nail was pretty disgusting but for some reason I found it a lot harder to think about the deep fried crickets and silkworms from Thailand a few weeks back, and certainly a lot easier to stomach. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to believe that this brown fetid thing is, in fact, what it is, while a cricket will always look like a bug. Anyway, I tilt my head back, suck up the whiskey, and the toe hits my lips. Not to be outdone, I put it between my lips like a cigar just for effect. I had now joined the Sour Toe Club. You may vomit now.

The weather kicks in and the plane can’t land in Dawson City (which should perhaps consider changing its name to Dawson Hamlet), so we’re stranded at the Downtown, playing pool in the smoky bar, eating chicken wings, doing anything but going outside. Once it dips into the -30C’s, even the locals start to bitch. We put a couple beers outside the hotel room window to chill and an hour later they were frozen solid. Old wooden buildings are sinking into the ground, and if I listen hard I can hear the drunk screams of no-luck miners, the wails of whores and the creak of the saloon door in the wind. I read about the guy who struck it rich and had four dancers from Frisco play poker for the right to be his wife. I read about the cremation of Sam McGee, whose spirit welcomed the flames because his soul had frozen over. Perfectly understandable, the vast frozen Yukon winter can do that to a person.

Finally we could leave, a day late, and the ATV ice-fishing trip canceled. After a bumpy flight (which had Zach sweating because the last thing I said to camera was:” This could be the one that crashes”) we pull back into Whitehorse, eat overpriced pasta (things are noticeably more expensive out here), take in a movie because the clouds had settled in again and chances of seeing the northern lights were slim. They only come out in ideal conditions, and clouds ain’t one of them. The streets are flat and wide and frozen over, and it’s hard to breathe without inhaling ice crystals into your lungs. Clearly, I am made for warmer climes. But since the flight is only two hours away from Vancouver, the Yukon is one of those “who the hell knew, right here in your own bloody backyard” kind of places I’ll be thinking of often. In summer, for the unspoilt wilderness, and in winter, for the chance to meet up with Frank, crack some beers, join the dogs, and enjoy life at the very extremes.

The 202 Motor Inn
Whitehorse,

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