Dawson City, Yukon Territory, is a crazy little town. Latitude dictates most, if not all of it's features, as it lies nestled beside the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike rivers. It is an old mining town, of course - the original gold rush city of Canada - and at one time the population reached over 40,000, when it was the largest city north of San Fransisco and west of Winnipeg. It was then called Dawson City, but of course now, the name is a bit of a misnomer, having only been retained to differentiate itself from the more southerly Dawson Creek, British Columbia. Full of ecclectic characters, peope who want to get away from most things civilized, and the deranged, Dawson serves as a sort of wild, northern oasis for the general population. As such, despite it's dressed up, historical store fronts, booming tourist economy, and vibrant artistic community, it is, for the most part, a drinking hole.

The focal point for our journey up here was the Dawson City International Outhouse Race, a fun event for the city which basically signalled the end of summer. In the race, four "runners" would push a stylized outhouse on two wheels along a designated course, while one occupant would at all times be sitting . . . on the pot. As always, the contestants would decide on a theme, and outfit and decorate their outhouse, as well as themselves, and all would be judged on appearance as well. This year, there was an added element of a team cheer, as well as the race not being a straight-out footrace. This time, there would be ten stations at which to gether various items, and after the race anything missed would result in a minute less. The course was aproximately 2 km long, usually a gruelling contest; but with the scavenger item thing added, I assured myself that fitness wouldn't be a big issue.

After registering our team, and posting notices for the two more team members we would need, we all set to building our outhouse. Well, that lasted for about 5 minutes - then Sui sat down, YJ left me to my own devices, and I was left alone, an outhouse Michalangelo prepared to make a masterpiece. I used cardboard and duct tape, wire, and a plastic sheet for the roof. I spray-painted on the articulations of a viking craft, and built a mighty sail from wood and a sheet. And finally, in a moment of grace and idealism, a caribou skull with flesh and horns still attached was secured to the roof. Every skulking peasant would be fear-stricken, and filled with loathing at our presence. If it can be permitted to shoulder pat onesself in the description of true brilliance in artistic design, the Asgard was, in a word, AWESOME.

Beginning of construction:

Completed masterpiece:

But after all was said and done, we still needed a full crew, and they needed to be appropriately sturdy of flesh and steely of mind. Well, within two days, two gifts of humanity fell into our laps, and Wally (after the race, forever to be called One-Armed Wally) and Caveman Bill were integrated seamlessly into the team.

The tall and rangy Wally was a typical Dawsonite, preparing to enter his second winter. Actually, it could be said that spending a winter in and about Dawson wasn't typical, as the population plummetted from around 2000 to below 300; but the hard drinking, carrousing and friendly nature certainly was. When we met at Cherebear's house a few evenings before the big race, he got right into the spirit of it, trying out Viking oufits like a fashionista. And then, always having been on our list as a potential member of the team, Cherebear finally ran into the Caveman while shopping in town . . .

Now, I know what you're thinking: he has this nickname caveman because he's a thuggish looking, down and dirty type character. Well, somewhat the opposite was true. Bill was of average height, smallish build, and had dark, somewhat curly hair, as well as a large (but well kept) bushy beard. He oftne wore a hat, while keeping a neat appearance and tucking in his shirt. In short, he looked like a prospector from 1920.

So, he certainly didn't seem deserving of the nickname caveman . . . except for one, glaring fact: his abode was, in fact, a cave. He had lived there for quite a few years, and although small, he had made quite a cosy place of it (actually, there were three caves, but only one was winterised - yes, he spent winters in a cave). It was such a remarkable and novel concept for me, that I begged to see it myself, and Bill was glad to show me his home. After a short jaunt across the river by ferry to the other side of the river, we (Sui the German came along as well) parked the car on the side of a road and took a long, hard hike down a narrow path. Some pics:

Very, very cosy, I must say, and it was quite dry, on account of the stove and well-constructed entrance. Would I live there? No, on account I feel I would need a cave with a higher ceiling (more head room, less bleeding from the scalp) and a smaller entrance with a bigger room (greater retention of heat, more space, etc). I also learned while chatting with Caveman Bill that he was somewhat famous, as various news outlets had done pieces on the modern cave dweller and the uniqueness of it all. Hell, his nickname alone was a guarantee that the team of Vikings had an air of authenticity.

Finally, the day of the Big Race arrived.

Arriving into town piled into the back of a large pick-up, we straightened out our costumes, unloaded the outhouse vehicle, and rolled into the contestant area . . . singing our chant, of course.

(sung to a tune which I know not how to describe)
Oooooooooohhh,
Vikings oh Vikings,
We're far from home;
Some people don't like us
They leave us alone.

We drink when we're thirsty,
We drink when we're dry;
If people don't like us then
(Bugger) off and die!

(Bugger) off and die,
(Bugger) off and die,
If people don't like us then
(Bugger) off and die!

Instantly, we were the darlings (conquerors and pillagers, really) of Dawson. There was a decent crowd sent to buzzing, as the outhouse itself made quite an impression, as well as we in our outfits. People oohed and aahed as we strutted around, Wally gaining the most attention, being a good-looking guy with the skimpiest oufit (along with his very cool broken antler cudgel). I was clad in moccasin sandals, a woolen skirt, potato sack top, and beaver pelt. As for armaments, I made do with the prerequisite horned helmet and mjolnir (hammer of Thor). The caveman was adorned in various pelts and a helmet, and Sui had his long golden locks braided. A slight breeze ruffled the striped sail, as we posed for the costume and design judging. No pics of us among the other contestants, unfortunately, but we had a group photo beforehand:

Then, we ran. Yj jostled around inside our outhouse (did I mention that she was our prisoner?) as we ran as quickly as possible from location to location, collecting a scavenged item or filling out a question that could only be answered by looking inside a venue. After the fourth hotel/bar/restaurant, I have no memory, as my entire body concentrated on propelling one foot in front of the other. I tried to display a brave, red, determined visage as I barely managed a steady thumping rythm forward, cursing my heavy skirt and footwear. I tried not to fulfill a horrible image that popped into my head during the race - stumbling, falling face first in the hard unpaved road, slowly getting up, face and arms bloodied and marked with gravel bits, walking forward in a daze as my teammates ran on, unaware of my pathetic plight. This thought kept me going, the fear of failure. I pushed until the very end.

There were 7 contestants in all, and although we were by far the hardiest looking bunch, we turned out to be . . . well, not the swiftest, exactly. Although Wally* and Bill were lithe and looked like they could run all day, Sui and I were of stouter, heavier Viking stock, suited for heavy lifting and close fighting. As well, heavy clothing and weaponry, coupled with too much grog from the night before, all added up to a third place finish, in fact.

The girls from Diamond Tooth Gertie's won the footrace outright, with the advantage being they were all performing dancers in good shape - but even so, we later found out that they had cheated (as well as the second place team, no less!). Insider information was gathered during the sobering (see: drunken) award ceremony that the second placers had a friend gather one of the required scavenger tickets for them and handed it over right after the race, ensuring no time was subtracted. That minute would have put us solidly in second place, at the very least, as they finished just ahead of us. The girls, having local insiders working for them, gained answers to all of the required questions, saving oodles of time at the stops. Although they were definitely a bit fleeter of foot, if they had been docked even a minute for the cheating, we would have been real close. A look at the actual rules states that any cheating of any kind, or contravention of the fun spirit of the event, would amount to an immediate disqualification.

We knew in our hearts who the real winners were.

We should have been victorious; instead, we drowned our anger and sorrow in the supreme knowledge that we had been bested only through nefarious means. Looking back on it now, I suppose that as Vikings we should have respected such cunning and trickery, inspired  by Loki. Instead, we sulked and drank our free beer at Diamond Tooth Gertie's, and did shots at the bar.

Not wanting to hang around a bunch of gloating cheaters, we went to the Midnight Sun bar, replete in our outfits. I drowned my sorrows with Yukon Gold beer, one of the darkest and best ambers I have ever had. YJ was taken in by the local natives who were sitting beside us, and we found out it was actually the town elder who scolded her for wearing a dress that was too skimpy. Still, they embraced her as a fellow native of sorts, identifying with her oriental features in a strange sort of way. I bought a couple of hats from some drunkard at the bar, and another nice fellow handed out free salted salmon. A conversation took place beside me, as Wally was visited by a northern cougar:

"Hey beautiful."
"Heeeey, how you doin'?"
pause
"Wanna fuck?"
pause, thinking
"Suuure, yeah!"
"Here's my number, call me anytime. I work on the roads, so some weeks I'm in town, some weeks I'm not. This week, I'm in town."

Later that eve, One-Armed Wally scored with some other lass who was obsessed with a riding crop. Sui's bed was soiled. Caveman Bill got high and disappeared into the night. I got hammered and YJ took care of me. Cherebear and Bigbird laughed their asses off.

It was a fitting end to a great, northern adventure.

* After viewing the excellent picture by picture accounting of the race taken by Big Bird, we found picture after picture of Wally not puching the outhouse. In fact, every one showed him almost lightly resting his hand on the metal puchbar, as he joyously raised the other hand with his cudgel or without, smiling and cheering and yelling. Through the haze of my intense effort, I hadn't noticed this (we were at the rear), but after the third picture, Sui coined the nickname One-Armed Wally, and we all laughed our heads off. The name stuck like glue, and to this day, I am certain Cherebear and Bigbird refer to him as such. Sui is firm in the belief that were it not for One-Arm Wally, we would have won.