¯For Jaimie wherever you are...
The guy sitting at the end of the bar on a summer afternoon in carmacks, yukon territory didn't strike me immediatly as a boy scout leader. He seemed to be intent on pounding as many jack Daniels as he could in a 15 minute period. He was a little jumpy, and maybe I would be too if the 14 boys I was responsible for were on the loose in a crazy frontier town where who knows what goes on. I guess he heard Sarah and I talking about the Big Water down the river known as the Graveyard Rapids.
Sarah, or Seabird, and I were paddling the mighty and mostly placid Yukon River from Whitehorse to Dawson City, using a provincial roadmap as our guide. Well, when the guy heard us asking some locals about the rapids , he piped in and mentioned that he too was momentarily on his way down the river with his group of fearless and bloodthirsty boyscouts.
"DO you girls need an escort ? " He stiffened up in his chair. "Do you need to see a real map?" Locals chortled.
"We've got our own!" We held up our provincial road map and giggled. "Rapids are right around the corner. We know" I can't remember if we did or not. He offered to show us the exact place of the rapids on our map. He bought us a few drinks which we downed in seconds flat, just to keep pace with him. He was friendly enough. Looked like that guy, Andy Williams, that guy who wrote all those theme songs. A bit weird. Something a bit strange about him. He was what Seabird would call, "super-pumped", as in, "Margs, you're so super-pumped. Chill."
You never can tell the size of a man if you meet him sitting down. When he stands up, a man whom you thought was tall is a troll and the ones you thought might be our height turn out to be towers. The Scoutmaster's name was Jaime. not Jamie. Jaime. Pronounced Jamie. He got up to leave and we noticed he was a troll. Very hobbitlike. A good sign. We thought, with two of us, we could take this guy down, if need be. Actually, I was probably the one thinking that. Seabird is way more peaceful. Two women travelling alone on a remote and wild RIver is something you do want to broadcast in an area where the male- female ratio is 5:1. Between the live locals, travelling hippie-guys and the ghosts of SO MANY feral (and virile) men, a girl can get scared out of her wits in the Yukon wilds.
Between the two of us, Seabird was the especially pretty one, a placid hippie blonde, my summer Camp friend of many years back in Algonquin Park, Ontario. I was the mouth. "LEave 'er alone" I'd muscle in between big whoever and my friend. I don't know what I thought I was doing. Seabird was so placid that she rode bullshit like the Tao. I was the one who got the fires going and the, "OH YEAHH?'s WELL..." but that was part of the drama and intrigue. Seabird and I thought we travelled quite well together. We didn't have a lot in common but we both loved to paddle and had lost our hearts to canoes long before we ever noticed boys.
We finished off our beers and headed for the door. Sunlight blasted a contrast that blinded us. Locals wished us well and we were off to the river and our red fiberglass boat. The boyscouts had departed ahead of us with 7 canoes, so we knew we would see them again. THe day was as clear and bright as July can afford in the far north, generously spreading her rays of growth potential on hungry living things. The burning day star bathed us in vitamin D us as we paddled leisurely down the chocolate milk silt orchestra that played the themesong to "Frying Eggs", a scratchy hiss that announced our presence to the hidden water-beings.
The Yukon River winds ever so gently through thick brush and low trees. It's a wide, flat river. It ribbons through some beautiful sand canyons and one incredible birch forest blanketed with pink roses. Aside from the many abandoned Gold-Rush era cabins, the region Hosts and incredible population of bugs and bears, moose, deer, coons and critters. Snow capped mountains peek from the distance, giving the scenery and incredible and magical effect.
Now imagine two topless babes lounging all the way down this mighty ancient highway in a red canoe. Add 14 Boyscouts and Jaime, you've got an interesting combination. Don't try this at home. We heard the rapids long before we could see them. THey were just waves that, from a distance, didn't look like much, but they grew as the river passed us on into them. We put our lifejackets on, looked at each other and gave hoots and squeals of delight as we navigated the little boat through what quickly became six foot swells.
The water roared and frothed in a drunken dance as we kept our bow high and rode the waves. For moments we were on the high seas, negotiating our lives in a no-deal scene. It seemed like an hour-long split second and the whitewater was behind us. Not a drop did we take in. We laughed with relief and looked at the shore. The boyscouts were shivering in towels and wringing out their gear. We waved and hoped we would get far far ahead of them and not have to deal with them and their noisy, chaotic crew.
We're Canadians. We're culturally conditioned to avoid each other. We've grown up to believe that the reason we live in this vast land is so that we can get away from each other. And this is easier to do in Canada than anywhere else I've been yet.
We floated in the calm current, lying against each end, swirling 360's down the chocolatemilky river. We had been on the Yukon for a week already. It was a week ago, now, that we finally got away from Seabird's annoying boyfriend. The three of us had driven up to Dawson City together in seabird's VW bus. I mentioned that Sea is a placid woman. Well, her boyfriend was more like a zombie. Whenever I would get excited about anything, he would say, "YOur're ruining the energy in the Van" What could I say ? Should I feel guilty for showing enthusiasm as we drive through the incredible and incredibly uninhabited Cassiar range, viewing mountain sheep, moose, eagles, bears ? Should I feel like containing my joy of life? Should I feel like mellowing out ? After arriving in Dawson City, unable to mellow out , still ruining the energy in the van, I had taken off for Alaska to hike in Denali for a few weeks.
Fleeing the pervasive energy in the van, I hitched to the Top of the World to pick mushrooms with Ron Dawson; 42 yr old ex-con from Fort MacMurray, Alberta, risking my purity by sleeping in a tent that said, "virgins deflowered Here" with an arrow pointing to the door. All to get away from Shagball, to avoid ruining the energy in the Van, man. while hanging out in Dawson, at the risk of my reputation, I even slept in other people's vans Also because it's hard to sleep in the back of a VW Westfalia when people are doing it under the pop-top. I really wanted to hang out with Seabird minus Shagball.
We had planned this trip to the Yukon that winter. I was suffering from major rejection and was more than psyched to head out on the open road with my adventurous friend, Seabird. "Just you and me, eh? NO MEN" "Ya, Margs, NO MEN. Right on."
I made it out to Vancouver in the first week of May and Seabird came to pick me up at my sister's apartment.
"Hi, Margs." Even though I hadn't seen her in a year, she had a way of making it seem like it was no exciting event to meet up with me again, or that time apart had not existed and we had just seen each other yesterday. Thus, I hung between relaxed and pissed, and the scales tipped to pissed when I realized that this long-hair standing at the door was coming along on OUR trip. Bummer bummer bummer give him a chance bummer bummer.
"This is Sandy" He smiled. No IDEA that the last thing I had planned on was travelling with a boy-leech. Killer of all opportunities. How did I know he was so boring right from the beginning ? He concentrated all his attention on the traffic jam as we were trying to escape the clutches of the city. I realized that he was not happy I was there. He had envisioned one kind of trip and I another. I wanted a wild a crazy girls time off in the land of free drinks and push-up brassiers. I wanted to go wild on the town, on the mountains, freak out all over the place. Shagball wanted a chilled out hippie love affair deal in a cloudy world of mellow. Obviously, the perfect worlds we had set aside for ourselves in our heads were in confict. We didn't even have to say anything.
Floating down the river, finally free of his foggy presence, I dove again into the mysterious mind of my friend.
"What ever made you go for him?" I asked, for the second or third time. Seabird is an incredibly gorgeous woman.
" I don't know, Margs. I thought he was cute. "
"He's so Boring. He is a log. This is not the man for you, Sairs. YOu need someone more like.... like BILL"
" Yeah, I do need someone more like him. Wild and crazed and adventurous. LIke BILL" Seabird was going to sink into unconsciousness if she stayed with Shagball. I used to tease Sea that if she chilled out anymore, she'd end up in a coma. I stopped doing that when I realized that it never helps to go on and on about someones negative points. Simple things they don't teach in school. But someone like BILL... Why did I say that ? I would DIE if she ever got together with him. THat would mean my chances were over... YeAh...we All need a guy like himmmmm ..
The sluggish river carried us in our red fiberglass papoose as we talked and gossipped about ourselves. Dusk was coming on, but there were no visible areas to camp. Twilight is the worst time for bugs, and without a clearing, its not even worth la peine to set up camp amongst millions of mini Apach Fighter jets. It would be light all night, anyway. We loved cooking dinner in the canoe and had perfected it as an art.
"Pass me the stove, Sea. I'm settin' up for a floating dinner."
"Okay Margs, sounds good" She was so agreeable.
"What shall we have tonight : Soup, burritos, mac n'cheese ? I have a craving for them fried olives..." I rummaged through the food pack.
" Why not spinach alfedo with anchovies and fried olives?" To this day, this is one of my favorite dishes. Seabird came from a wealthy family with fine taste in food and wine. Her Dad is a plastic surgeon to the stars and her Mom is a perennial prom-queen. They spared no expense in the early days to feed their daughters the best of Euro - food. The three beautiful sisters developed fine tastes at early ages and became biologically gastro-sophistocated far beyond their years.
We set up the stove on top of the wannagin in the center of the boat, boiled the water, cooked the pasta and fried the olives. We watched the sun sink into the horizon, knowing it would sit there almost all night. The land of the all-night twilight. Much like a clear - full moon night, but with an orange glow. Night in the Yukon makes you feel as if the world has stopped, that time is not really passing, and that something huge and disastrous has happened to the rest of the world and you hve no idea of ever knowing what it was since everyone south of the 60th is dead. Its that ominous orange sky. Maybe everyone got Jim Jonesed, or the Butte reservoir blew everything up or the Muslims blew up Hollywood or Hollywood blew up America, on accident. One of the priviliges of being in the Far North is that it gives you the space to imagine awful things happening in a world that seems so far away... with no remorse.
If we didn't want to meet up with the Boyscouts again, then hanging out in the canoe was the wrong plan. This is another interesting point about Canadians: So, we want to keep out of each others way, but, at the same time, we're incredibly lonely. As canadians, we are quite shy. See, we want to relate, we just don't know how. This is why we love Americans. They're so outgoing. We're shy and insecure. This is why we say "eh" so much. Its a search for reassurance, a way to avoid asserting anything, as in "these dougnuts are fresh, eh?". EH makes everything into a question. It likens us to adolescents who let their voice rise at the end of every sentence, turning everything into an inquiry. In the history of a nation, canadians are in a perpetual state of adolescence.
We heard shouts and turned around. The Boy Scouts were making a bush camp just behind us. I could hear them clearing the thick brush, using their metal and plastic paddles as scythes. Clearing the land as if they were planning to spend a year. I imagined them with their bug-nets, or slathered in Deet, doing things the hard way. Grow them boys up good.
Just ahead, a clearing came into view - some kind of old cabin site with a decaying dock. The whole area looked like it was full of termites and all kinds of carrion-eating critters, pus loving creatures who gain sustenance from death and decay. The kind of stuff that makes you itchy just thinking of it... Aside from that, we could hear the mosquito swarm ten meters from shore. The hum was a vibration that chanted "bloodlust". I imagined the male mosquitos beating little bug-drums while their females buzzed for blood. I imagined detailed witchcraft and ritual surrounding the mosquito's quest for blood. They fly in a trance, blinded by hysteria, guided by heat, searching, hunting. The drums get louder. The vibrations heighten higher, higher, the feeding frenzy IS ON ! We decided to drift further until bug time passed...
A Buddhist monk once told me that you should just let the bugs bite you, and while they do, you should imagine you are a mother feeding milk to her child. You should give your blood lovingly to the creatures that seek it. Now that, to me, is perverted.
For an extra relaxing trip, nothing beats placid River travel. If you can find a big ol' flowing ribbon that will gently slither with you through meadows, forests and canyons, you can just kick back and watch it all go by. Lake travel has its own romance. You have to get where you are going totally on your own. The river sends you on its own program, politely spinning your boat, giving you the full effect of all scenery while you eat your supper - al freso, weather permitting. With the sun barely dipping below the horizon and about a three-quarter moon shining silver into the gold sky, there is more than enough light to set up camp. We find a small clearing for the tent and pull the boat on shore for the night. Our little red fiberglass adventure-craft is one heavy cow. A placid-river-boat, to be sure.
We curl into our potato sacks and dream on the dawn We awake to the sounds of boy-scout tumult; paddles hitting gunwhales and shouting. We peek out of the tent and they are crowded around the shore of our campsite. Surrounded.
"Hi Girls!" The Scoutmaster trying to sound civilized.
"We saw you topless yesterday!" Guffaws and snorts.
"Corey, SHUT-UP!"
"alright boys, time to move on" Yeah, alright now, boys, we've had just about enough, now. Probably the highlight of their trip. Little perverts! There is nothing more invasive in the wilderness than teenage boys. Everywhere in the country, men run around topless, exposing their nipples and breasts, flaunting their independence and lack of fear, asserting their ridiculously double standard, singualar legal right to be half-naked in public.
The taboo against female breasts only fuels perversion and adds to the breast obsessions of all males in this society. A Girl gets out in the woods, thinks she's in private, or at least, among friends and boom, it never fails. Out pop the Boy scouts or the Junior Rangers or whatever perverted and sick organized group of boys who caME OUT here into what some people call the middle of nowhere, magnetically drawn to bare breasts, and conditioned from head to weenie to make a big deal about it. THe first few times I was spotted with my tits in the wind, I was embarrassed and shy, too intimidated to take my shirt off for the next few summers.
Its just like the old, light-a-cigarette-and-the-bus-comes- trick. Take off your shirt and the boyscouts appear. Never fails. Well, now I just accept it, factor it in as a given and hope I don't get arrested. Unless they have cell-phones, I'm safe. And, chances are, they're not completely turned off by the whole affair. It's those church groups you have to watch out for. They get all horny and then they blame it on you. It's their specialty. Luckily, they never stray too far from the tour bus. Being awakened by the boyscouts of America makes you feel like theres nowhere in the world you can go to get away. Anytime you try, you invariably run into some Germans or some Boyscouts. I'm still waiting for the German Boyscouts. Now, that would be the ultimate.
Somehow, our little trip down the mighty Yukon was feeling the strains of geekification. At our lazy pace, we'd never get away from them. Maybe we didn't want to. Because we could have. Due to a lack of campsites on the river, Seabird and I soon found ourselves sharing sites with the boyscouts. " Where would you like this tent, ma'am?" "Ketchup with your mac 'n cheese, ma'am?" " Where would you like us to put your paddles?" We sat back while the scouts treated us like Queens. We'd laugh and talk with Jaime while the henchmen did the work.
The second installment will appear in response to an e-mail request...
© 1997 margotblack@usa.net
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