Travel Report: Travelling around the Yukon

© copyright Manuela Leder

© copyright Manuela Leder

The view from the Air Canada plane is breathtaking, the cabin-crew exceptionally friendly, as always. It is the end of September, the snow covered Rocky Mountains have given way to the colours of autumn. . The brilliant colour of the birch trees shines up to us in the sky- a sight that moves us deeply. As we come in to land the Canadian woman next to me on the plane

After a turbulent journey we land at Whitehorse, capital of the Yukon, happy to have arrived at last. And now we are standing somewhat tired in the waiting-lounge of the small airport and manage to scrape together enough change from our purses to make a phone call. We had hired a 4WD with a camping attachment and somebody from the hire-station was really supposed to come and fetch us, but no-one is here....... So I ring the firm up only to discover that they are not expecting us, since there have been no flights for the last week due to the terror attacks in New York. But they improvise and a short time later there's an employee at the airport with our car. Together we drive to the office to deal with a superfluity of paper-work. We are the last customers of the season. Apart from us there doesn't seem to be anyone with a real desire for an adventure in the wild at sub-zero temperatures.

We stow our things in the camper. Unfortunately not much has been cleaned very thoroughly-as only becomes apparent a lot later. As no-one had reckoned with our turning up, there is no water in the tank and the battery is flat. But we don't complain, we are just glad that they'd taken the trouble to help us at all, and the employees had all been very friendly indeed.

Two hours later we are ready and the afternoon is drawing on. Kitted out with a new plan of the city (although it's not really necessary when there are so few roads) we set out for the nearest supermarket, where we intend to stock up on provisions for the journey. We would leave the city behind us and spend a few weeks in the wild. At least that was our plan....

We buy the necessary basic provisions and a painkiller for emergencies ( Marcel's been complaining about toothache ever since landing).On top of all this we buy a huge bottle of drinking-water for a deposit of 16C$ - after all we care about the environment and don't want to keep throwing 1 litre canisters away. We stow our provisions and are about to set off. Before we go I want to wash my hands, but no water comes out. I ask Marcel's advice. First of all he comes out with a silly remark - what else did I expect - " I'd try turning the water-pump on". Stupid- of course the water is turned on. He tries it himself- and lo and behold, nothing happens! A dull throbbing can be heard but not one little drop of water comes out of the tap. We decide to go back to the hire-station. Marcel is an experienced plumber but he still doesn't want to repair anything in the car himself, so that later no-one can blame him. So we drive the few kilometres back to the camper station. In the meantime it is late afternoon. Even as we park our car in front of the building we can see the bright red sign on the door "Closed for the season", Oh!

Marcel's going to have to do it himself after all. The first task is "find the waterpump". Half an hour later(in the meantime we've got to know all the inner workings of the camper) Marcel finds it under a footboard. The problem is soon remedied; air had entered the pump when the tank was emptied for the winter.

Now at last we can set off. We decide to drive to the next best state campground.
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Night spent at Lake Laberge

Our camper stands in a really beautiful spot at the head of the cliffs which plunge down to Lake Laberge. Marcel regrets not having his fishing rod with him. There would have been a lot of fish in the lake, he informs me after taking a walk. We are nearly the only people at the campingground. Just one other couple are spending the night 50 metres away in a car with a boattrailer (In

© copyright Manuela Leder

Marcel prepares our first warm breakfast of the holiday (we love big breakfasts when we're travelling, and eaten as early as possible in the morning). The tempting smell of freshly brewed coffee permeates through to the depths of my sleeping bag, and my nose immediately pops out, quickly followed by the rest of me.- this would be too good to miss!

Marcel says he's still got toothache, although he took several tablets yesterday. I say to him "We're still near Whitehorse, wouldn't you rather go back and see a dentist before we're too far away- who knows where the next one might be! He says :" No, no, I want to get going at last; I've had this problem before and it stopped on it's own. I'm certain it comes from the difference in air pressure during flying". I let myself be convinced by this argument, as he really does get toothache each time just after landing.

Marcel does the washing up. Outside I admire the various kinds of house leek which grow ahead among the rocky slopes beside the lake. They have beautiful autumnal colours. I don't let the opportunity pass of taking some macro-photographs of them. As I'm coming back from the lake a black and white checked domestic rabbit scurries past chased by a stray Husky. Is this the Yukon's much famed "wilderness"?
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Via Carmacks to the Campbell Highway

On the way we meet up with the second animal in the Yukon's "wilderness": a run-away domestic pig on the highway, chased by a farmer in a Pickup - unfortunately I don't have my camera at hand and "ready to shoot", which is a lesson to us. We soon remedy the situation: at the next possible site we make a stop and fit up the ample space between us with photographic equipment and a ready-to-hand camera.

© copyright Manuela Leder

We find the scenery overwhelming. Boggy tundra in autumnal shades of red, interlaced with small lakes alternates with the rich yellow of the white-barked birches and the deep green of the pines. And everything woven through with veils of mist creating an air of mystery. Now and again we meet up with a truck, but otherwise there's as little as

no traffic. Just like a dream (now we really want to leave the outskirts of the town and have some peace).

We drive northwards on the Klondike Highway in the direction of Carmacks where we cross the Yukon( at this point still narrow enough to see the other side....)and come to the view-point at "Five Finger Rapids". The view is magnificent - especially now in autumn. When the weather is good you can climb down an endless number of steps and walk to the impressive cliffs. In view of Marcel's bad mood, brought on by his toothache, we decide not to try it and drive on a few kilometres as far as the camping-ground up at the crossing at Tatchun- and Frenchman Lake. There we rest a while and discuss whether we should spend the night here or if we should travel a bit further. We decide to drive on, not least of all because the camping-ground, which I admit was idyllic, was right on the highway. Besides it is only noon and we are still full get-up-and-go.

Immediately past this camping-ground we turn off to the right onto an un-named bumpy track, which appears to join up the Klondike Highway with the Cambell Highway (on all our maps this road is designated a cul-de-sac, but we have a strong suspicion that it is a through-road). A signpost informs us that this stretch can only be driven on in good weather and with a 4WD. This seems to be good advice, for the 2.5 ton weight on our load area demands a lot of power.

© copyright Manuela Leder

So off we go on our first "gravel road" of the trip!

A short time later our white Pickup looks like it's been covered in bread crumbs.

There are several official camping facilities on our way along the two lakes. Wherever we stop some creature or other, usually squirrels or some

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kind of fowl scuttle away into the undergrowth. You could live off mushrooms here in autumn; in one spot alone I counted about 40 shaggy inkcaps. It was a pity they'd already turned black, otherwise I wouldn't have missed the chance of cooking them over the camp fire together with a tomato and some herbs and then mopping

them up with toast mmmm.........that would have been an exquisite meal. We come across a lot more clumps of mushrooms, sometimes even in the middle of the road. I wonder why the local people let them go to waste.

En route there are 3 official state camping-grounds, but they are new and lacking in charm. On the other hand though they must be every fisherman's dream, for the sites lie right on the shores of the Tatchun- and Frenchman lakes; both of which have been specially stocked up for fishing. Once more Marcel regrets not having brought his fishing tackle with him....

The bumpy track is very hard to drive on and we take 2 hours to go 50 kms. But the effort is worth it, we are on the way to Faro - it is a very beautiful route - and we're in luck, for as we find out later this stretch of road really does run all the way through to the Campbell Highway.

Marcel's toothache has got worse in the meantime so we set up camp early in the afternoon on the flat shore of the Little Salmon Lake. No, he still hasn't got the feeling we should go to a dentist. He'd rather swallow a pain-killer although he's complaining of stomach pains brought on by the salicylic acid in the medicine and besides that he's getting noticeably more unbearable....

Our only neighbours are some hunters who have left a recently slaughtered moose lying on a trailer, its chest gaping wide open (a sight not to everyone's taste). They are roughly 100 metres away right on the shore like us. In the course of the afternoon the pair of them go off again in a big canoe. Marcel sets off to reconnoitre the area. I spend nearly the whole afternoon sitting in

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the sun reading a good book. Now and again, by way of refreshment I roll up my pants and walk barefoot in the water. The lake floor is covered in flat black slate gravel and the water is madly cold but makes me feel good. Marcel tells me about his walk otherwise he doesn't say much, just lays down in the sun and doses off.

Then in the evening we have our first big steaks done on the grill, together with a small salad and baked potatoes with sour cream. We wash the dishes in the lake in "gold-digger" fashion - that is, we swirl gravel around in them...... Marcel recalls some funny incidents from his time in the army and we spend the rest of the evening in a pleasant way and as light-heartedly as is possible when someone's got toothache - we paddle in the crystal clear lake and skim stones over the water.
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Night spent on the shores of the Little Salmon lake

© copyright Manuela Leder

On waking up early in the morning I can see Marcel is already outside. He has been up for hours, has hardly slept a wink. And that's just how he looks, pale. He's got a really badly swollen neck. You can't talk in a normally loud voice otherwise he gets a headache. And on top of all this he's got earache too. Apart from all his other problems he feels as if he's hearing

We have to tank up in this somewhat larger place of around 500 inhabitants. We choose for this purpose the only gas-station in a radius of 300 kms....... I make my getaway with the excuse I've just got to buy a CD at the gas-station store, as we've got no radio reception. Marcel should stay put in the car (I've never seen the poor thing suffer so much), I would pay for the diesel at the same time.

At the check-out counter I ask if there is a dentist in town. The pump-operator beams at me: "But of course we've got a dentist - he comes twice a year, the next time would be December." I grin at him and say, "Yes, well I don't think we'd better wait that long".......... He nods in sympathy and hands over the telephone book to me, and of course I can use his phone to find out where the next dentist might be. They're always ready to help these people in the Yukon (which doesn't alter the fact that the next dental clinic is in Whitehorse, just as we'd thought - so it's back to Whitehorse again!

Back in the car I mercilessly face Marcel with the choice of either spending the next 3 days driving on to Dawson with toothache, and then of not being certain that the dentist who is supposed to be there (but who isn't in the telephone book) can treat his problem or of driving 2 days back to Whitehorse where I can make an appointment at a dental clinic. He makes the only right decision, from the gas-station we turn off in the direction of Whitehorse.
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Three days (and a few hundred dollars...) later...

In the meantime we're back in Carmacks where we spend the night under the Yukon bridge right on the shore of the river. You can see Marcel is much better and on the way back he'd bought himself a new fly-fishing rod and a fishing licence as a reward for his bravery.

© copyright Manuela Leder

Of course Marcel has to try out the new fishing rod at once. So he positions himself on the shore, without any bait on the line and casts it rhythmically backwards and forwards. He's hardly begun when a native of the area approaches up on the bridge. He calls down " Hey- you not fish there". I ignore him when he calls once again because I think (my mind still being used to European behaviour) here comes the first person with something to beef about. Then the man shouts down for the third time: "You not fish there!" Whereupon I shout back up, "Why not?" The native bellows down "There no fish". Aha....(how embarrassing) I try to explain to the man. "He's not really fishing, he hasn't got any bait on the line. The rod is new he's just practising…"

The native in an unbelieving voice: "You not fish there?" (His voice almost cracks....). Me again "No he's not really fishing at all, you understand?". The man is slowly getting more insistent: "You not fish there!" I call up ,"Where should we fish then. Where's there a good place?" The man beams over his whole face and proceeds to tell us at the top of his voice from the bridge about where he lives and how there are two lakes, lakes Gloria 1 and 2, where there is marvellous fishing. I thank him profusely (in the hopes he will go away at last) and assure him we will go fishing there the very next day. Satisfied he trots on over the bridge. Another native comes from work from the other side. They both greet each other, chat a bit and laugh, while the first one points over to us. (They are probably laughing at us, the stupid tourists who go fishing without bait in a river where there are no fish..........).

There isn't any supper, it's much too damp to make a fire and Marcel's not allowed to eat anything anyway.

At least we haven't missed anything weatherwise as it poured with rain the whole day. If the weather had been better we would have been tempted to take a stroll on the "boardwalk" along the Yukon.
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Night spent under the Yukon bridge in Carmacks

On the way we will have to tank up, dump and maybe buy some milk, eggs and bread (or what people here class as bread......), besides we've got neither a cutting-board that's of any use nor a kitchen-cloth in the camper. We decide to deal with everything en route in Pelly Crossing (350 inhabitants) - if possible.

We had no sooner arrived in Pelly Crossing than we saw the gas-station, which here, the same as everywhere else seems to be the only public place and the centre of the community. Outside the entrance something undefinable like rubbish is burning with a blaze in an old oil-drum. A hand-painted sign hangs on the gas pump. With a lot of imagination it could be deciphered as saying" free dumping with fill-up". OK first of all we fill our fuel tank then we buy the missing items and some groceries in the general store attached to the pump-station (a huge but un-adorned log cabin). Amongst other things we buy a giant mushroom with a cap as big as a saucer and a jumbo-sized garlic, which has only 4 cloves (but each taking up more room than my hand). For supper we'll fill the mushroom with half a chopped garlic clove and butter and grill it together with steak.

Once outside again we stow our latest acquisitions, including a small packet of "moose jerky" (peppered, dried moose meat) Marcel now proceeds to park the car like someone who's had a lot of practice at it, so that we can empty our "blackwater tank". He parks perfectly to the side of the shaft (an open metal pipe covered with an old tin can), takes the waste-water hose from it's mounting, fixes it on and wants to direct it into the drain, but the hose is too short. Marcel corrects the position of the car by driving it directly in front of the hole instead of sideways to it. But in spite of that, although the car is parked perfectly the hose is still too short. We just don't believe it! The spiral hose is hanging down vertically from it's connecting supports and is still a good 50cms. too short. And apart from all that the drain is smaller in diameter than our waste-water hose which is not very practical......... Marcel mutters something like "It just HAS to work" pulls gently on the pipe and z-z-zpling the hose coils rip apart like a spring spraying the contents out on all sides- ugh.

Luckily for him he's at least wearing leather working gloves. I don't know whether I should laugh maliciously or get upset. I decide on the latter (after all I don't want to have to do IT myself in future). Now the hose is even SHORTER - shit, in the truest sense of the word. After emptying the tank rather inelegantly and clearing up the horrible mess (yuk), we take a closer look at the hose. The way things look the same thing must have happened to our predecessors. Who knows maybe to the people before them as well. Oh well, the main thing is the tank is empty. We'll just fill up with water then off we go. It's just hm, the water's been turned off, the season's over. No, he was terribly sorry but they'd already emptied the tap and they couldn't offer us any water, we should go and ask at the laundry. No sooner said than done. But they couldn't offer us any water at the laundry either because they had turned everything off outside as well and the hoses from inside the building wouldn't reach as far as the car. We go without water for the time being. It develops into a real problem later in the journey. (When I think I'd only recently read an article in the dentist's waiting room about winter camping in the Yukon - forget it folks!)
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Night spent at Steward Crossing

Since we couldn't fill up with water in the last few days (even the old-fashioned hand-pump at the camping-ground didn't work) Marcel has to wander down to the brook in the morning so that we'll at least have a bucket of water to do the washing up. We're in no danger as far as our drinking-water is concerned thanks to our giant bottle.

Today we set off in the direction of Dawson City and if we have enough time we'll explore a good way up the Dempster Highway.
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Along the Dempster Highway

© copyright Manuela Leder

It's a fabulous region which can't be described in words, only by photographs. It's a fascinating area for despite it's barrenness it still manages to look luxuriant thanks to the autumn colours, although we've come a good two weeks too late to see it in full array. On the way back, we'd just arrived below the Norfolk Pass, we

front with us at any cost, even if he had to spend the whole night out here. He'd set his sights on Inuvik (that impressed me VERY much) and that at this time of the year! We exchanged a few words and he sat down on his backpack and went on doing something with his pencil on a pad ( I don't know if he was sketching or writing his journal). In any case it reminded me of the true story of Chris McCandless, which I promptly told to Marcel. Later in the afternoon back at the intersection Dempster Highway / Klondike Highway there's another hitch-hiker looking for a lift. "Hey sorry", I say

© copyright Manuela Leder

© copyright Manuela Leder

A short time later we take up quarters in a little birch wood. Our table is besieged by gray jays hoping that some tortilla chips with a bit of dip might stray onto the ground - tough luck! When nothing fell on the ground the otherwise amusing birds became extremely demanding and didn't even stop at the hot grill (and our steaks). They've the cheek of the devil but are very appealing despite everything. We'd already photographed a few of them at the Little Salmon Lake.

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Of "Sourdoughs" and "Sour Toes"

30 years ago a resourceful bar-owner from Dawson City found a human toe in his cabin. No-one knows whose toe it was. It was preserved and pickled in vinegar. Everyone who enters this bar gets this toe served in a drink of his choice. They call this the "sour toe cocktail". You have to down this drink in one go and the toe must touch your lips (you shouldn't swallow it by mistake or you'll have to donate its successor yourself.......!) Afterwards your name is entered on the world-wide list of the Members of the Sour Toe. Up to now there are about 13,000 names of "courageous" people (from the ages of 6 months to 91 years) on the list. After hearing about this hair-raising custom I'll probably never eat a pickled gherkin without thinking about it.- I've seen photos of the toe- simply revolting! I can get on perfectly well without being on the list.......

First thing tomorrow we want to inspect the gold mines around Dawson and afterwards take a look at the town. If time's on our side we might make it to Alaska via the customs before the first snow.

Oh, and by the way I wouldn't depend too much on what's written about gas-stations etc. on maps of the Yukon. Any number of times we were confronted with closed gas-stations. It's better to tank up at every opportunity even if only a drop goes in!
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Night spent at Rock Creek

We aren't long on the highway, not as far as Dawson, when we turn off in the direction of the gold mines Bonanza Creek and Hunker Creek. The road looks in pretty good condition for a gravel road. In any case the weather looks really promising today as we set off to explore the gold fields in the area, very cool but clear and cloudless and it looks as if it could turn out sunny. There are many ancient log homes along the roads, old abandoned gold-diggers' huts from the time of the gold rush (turn of the century). Old wagon wheels lay around in front of them -" decorative scrap" so to speak. It's not like here at home, no-one takes the trouble to clear the old things away. It's all just part of life.

A long circular tour takes us all round the gold mines of Dawson. Anyone who attempts the route is rewarded with fantastic views.

A wild rabbit scurries past us from out of the bushes, sits down on the road only a few metres away and gazes at us with a mixture of curiosity and shyness. The rabbit attracts more of his kind; behind us on the hill a pack of huskies are howling for all they're worth. Two stray dogs (an Alaskan malamute and some other kind of black devil) patter nervously about us at a distance of about 20 metres. The two of them try creeping up to us from behind but when we give them a stern look they patter off again in the direction of the howling huskies, only to sneak back through the bushes again from the other side.
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Back in Dawson City

© copyright Manuela Leder

In the meantime the sun has really become warm like summer and our cold bones get a good warming through. Dawson itself is a well looked after town which cultivates its historical background. We saw the sights of the town while we were looking for a dumping facility. It was wonderful and much smaller than we'd imagined. And throughout

We really do find the only dump-station still open in the winter and are permitted to dump (although it's a private establishment) for a symbolic dollar. At the moment the station is occupied by a camper from the same hire-firm as ours. Marcel and I can't help grinning as we listen to the curses of the Swiss couple who are getting angry about a discharge-hose that's much too short - heh heh enjoyment at other's misfortunes is the best kind of enjoyment! By the way, they're the last tourists we are to meet up with on our travels.

At the gas-station in Dawson we meet up with the hitch-hiker from yesterday at the crossing on the Dempster Highway, we exchange a short "Hallo, so you made it here too - what a coincidence!"

On the way to the Yukon ferry (which is state run and free - it's really a "free" ferry!) we see a Pickup loaded (overloaded.....) with mattresses lose one of its cargo (it gets blown away by the airstream as if it were a sheet of paper) and doesn't even notice it ( at least it was still lying there when we came back after tanking up a half an hour later......) We are the only ones at the moment who want to go on the ferry so they bring us over at once, off-season does have some advantages. I've heard people moaning about how they had to wait 3 hours in summer for some service, rather long when you consider that the crossing takes 4 minutes at the most......
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On the Top of the World Highway

Once you're on this highway you should keep going to the end as there are no gas-stations or camping-sites ( apart from 3-4 view-points with parking areas and toilets) or any other kind of facilities. We don't mind that at all.

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You can't get anywhere in a hurry up here, at first it's not so bad apart from the steep gradient. Up on the crest about 40kmh is possible depending on the vehicle and the weather. On the way we come into the area of the Forty Miles Herd, a herd of caribous that's supposed to live here. We can hear caribous but we can't see any, the view-point has got overgrown in the course of the years and doesn't offer much of a view any more. We want to go on further

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anyway, we'll get to see enough caribous on this journey. We drive for hours on this simply fantastic Top-of-the-World highway and now we understand where the name comes from! Once you've reached the highest point you drive for hours along the edge of various mountain craters like in a moonscape. The whole time you feel as if you're just under the clouds, high above the

world and all of this in the barren, autumn tundra! Up here you can still breathe. Like a dream - a MUST for travellers to the Yukon! ( I 'm at a loss for words; my photographs will have to speak for themselves).

After about 4 hours driving the American customs appears behind a bend in the road at the end of the world (at least that's what it feels like to us)............bye-bye Yukon!

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Text und Bilder veröffentlicht mit freundlicher Genehmigung von Manuela Leder © copyright 2001 Manuela Leder, Natur- und Reisefotografin, Alle Rechte vorbehalten

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