No man's land

(Whitehorse)
I’ve read the manuals for the chainsaws, the outboard motor, the truck and I’m just looking at the owner's guide for our new Skidoo. There is no mention of a penis. Safety goggles, helmets, ear defenders, yes, but I’m 100% sure I’ve seen nothing about penises.

The new Skidoo. After trouble with our 20 year old machine last winter we bit the bullet and got a new one. I’m hoping this winter’s blogs will have less mechanical content. A relief all round

When I picked up our new machine at the Skidoo dealership, I asked for everything I need to do the first service as I can't bring it back to Whitehorse. I didn’t see any genitals in the box with the oil and filter. No one chased me out the yard as I pulled away shouting “Hey, hold up! We forgot your scrotum!” 

The night before I left Whitehorse I sat in my little Airbnb room watching TV and feeling nervous. It’s nearly 400 miles to Forty Mile. I’m not used to driving a truck, I’m not used to hauling a trailer. 

Last year

When we towed the boat up last year Neil sat in the passenger seat and shouted “BOAT! BOAT! BOAT!” in a panicky voice every time I rounded a corner to stop me wiping out pedestrians and street furniture. I am a forward thinking person. Trailers are behind me, in the past. I’m so over them I tend to forget.

Our kind and clever Alaskan pal converted our boat trailer into a flat bed

I wondered just how much damage I could do getting out of downtown Whitehorse? And then there was the long drive with frost heaves and flying gravel. And the creek I must cross get to my friend’s place to dump this first load. And the various times I’d have to park, reverse or get close to a petrol pump.

Dangerously placed planter in downtown Whitehorse

So what didn’t help was 3 times seeing an advert for Ford trucks that featured only male characters. They managed a brown face but tits was a step too far. So is some big, tough guy going to be knocking on my door tomorrow morning and offering to drive my truck? 

Or will I have to do it anyway having being told 3 times now, subliminally, that it’s not my place? Fuck Ford.

You’ll be pleased to know that despite being encumbered with boobs and a vagina, I made it anyway. Fancy that. 

The road had been newly pressed with gravel all the way to Dawson so I flew along at 90 kmph and was drinking tea with my lovely friend Sarah only 8.5 hours later.

Ferry cross the Yukon

Beyond Dawson, after the ferry, the road gets steep, dusty and lonely. 

This is the Top of the World Highway. It’s not much of highway. It’s not paved, there are no handy service stations and I passed few other vehicles. 

My little truck (see footnote 2) chugged up and up out of West Dawson in a cloud of dust and gravel then, all at once, the sides of the world dropped away. Alaska ahead, Tombstone Mountains, sharp and blue, to the north. I drove at the edge of the sky.

After 40 miles the old Clinton mining road turns off to the Forty Mile valley. It’s a dirt track that served a now-abandoned asbestos mine and winds down out of the hills towards our Alaskan pals' place. 

Old Forty Mile Bridge

They are letting me leave this first load in their yard so Neil and I can ferry it home in our boat later.

The creek that crosses their road was low this year so my fears about getting stuck in the rushing water with everything I own and a brand new Skidoo were put to rest.

Winching the Skidoo

The most difficult part of the journey was the come-along. We used one to winch the Skidoo off my trailer and onto one of hers. Come-alongs are the work of the devil. 

They are designed to crush human fingers under the guise of moving heavy objects inefficiently. They need 3 pairs of hands and a screwdriver to operate. 

A penis would be a real liability here. Thank God we didn’t have one running round. 

Bizarrely, our pals have an old gas storage tank on their property and this is where I'm storing our stuff.

We got the job got done, fingers intact, and then celebrated with rather too much whiskey which didn’t help much with my return journey the next day.

At its closest point the old Clinton Road is maybe 20 or 25 miles from our property, as the crow flies. It’s only the crow that’s heading that way, because we are not going to get any vehicle down there. I stopped to take a picture as I drove out. 

You can see our house from here! Almost.

Our creek rises in these hills and flows down through the twists of the valley, right to our home. The colours are turning now and the hills glowed amber, red, gold in the late afternoon sunlight.

It can feel like a man’s world out here in the bush. Just take two minutes of your time now and look at the websites for Stihl chainsaws, Polaris snowmachines, Yamaha outboards. All the equipment I use on a daily basis. Watch that bullshit Ford truck ad if you're in North America.

Ad for our outboard. Guess I should be sitting with my tits out while Neil drives? Bit chilly on the Yukon.

This is wilderness as far as you can see. It is not a man’s world, it is not a woman’s world, it belongs to no-one. Down there somewhere, along the valley where this tiny creek meets the Yukon River is a patch that belongs to Neil and I. Our world.

Forty Mile River. There is a young bull moose on the bank, if you can spot him

I’m back in Whitehorse as I type this, starting on the next load of supplies. Neil arrives tonight. I cannot wait to see him. And it will be fantastic to have some male genitals around but not because I need him to service the fucking snowmachine.

The welcoming committee. Miss Moose on the creek near Forty Mile

A footnote- There was just one incident of note on my travels. I ran over a man’s toes with the empty trailer at Carmacks gas station. He was cool about it. And no-one can be expected to remember they’re pulling a trailer all of the time, surely?

Footnote 2 for Brits/Europeans - My truck is considered a “little” truck here in Canada. A “large” truck would probably not fit within the borders of Luxembourg.