Yukon Quotes

Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know. There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us, And the Wild is calling, calling...let us go

Some journeys take you farther from where you come from, but closer to where you belong.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

Don't throw your life away because of one man. Don't make yourself something he will always be glad he was rid of. Make yourself something he will wish he had kept.

I am a firm believer that every few years one needs to shake one's life through a sieve, like a miner in the Yukon. The gold nuggets remain. The rest falls through like the soft earth it is.

There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back—and I will.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, grovelled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? 'Done things' just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendours, heard the text that nature renders? (You'll never hear it in the family pew.) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things– Then listen to the wild–it's calling you.

At 30-below, mushers will begin to put fleece jackets on their more sensitive dogs. Males are affixed with pile jockstraps, "peter heaters," to guard against frostbite.

On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam. And the home of the wolf will be my home.

Sitka Charley started. There had been more than one shot, yet there was but one other rifle in the party. He gave a fleeting glance at the men who lay so quietly, smiled viciously at the wisdom of the trail, and hurried on to meet the Men of the Yukon.

The following obituary appeared in the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph of Sept. 16, 1958: A GREAT POET died last week in Lancieux, France, at the age of 84. He was not a poet's poet. Fancy-Dan dilletantes will dispute the description "great." He was a people's poet. To the people he was great. They understood him, and knew that any verse carrying the by-line of Robert W. Service would be a lilting thing, clear, clean and power-packed, beating out a story with a dramatic intensity that made the nerves tingle. And he was no poor, garret-type poet, either. His stuff made money hand over fist. One piece alone, The Shooting of Dan McGrew, rolled up half a million dollars for him. He lived it up well and also gave a great deal to help others. "The only society I like," he once said, "is that which is rough and tough - and the tougher the better. That's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people." He found that kind of society in the Yukon gold rush, and he immortalized it.

Zeke stood up. He held the Tater Tot up to the sunlight streaming in through the cafeteria window. Some kids sitting at tables nearby took notice. They listened in as Zeke began to recite: "Oh, Tater Tot, oh, Tater Tot, so tiny and round, What an amazing potato taste in you I have found! Crispy on the outside, soft and mushy inside - What kind of mysterious potato do you hide? Russet, white, Yukon gold or Idaho? Are you mashed or baked or fried - I really don't know! Mystery spud so tasty and round, What an amazing lunchtime treat in you I have found." Everyone at the table applauded, and Zeke bowed. The kids around him clapped and whooped and laughed.

A promise made is a debt unpaid," The Cremation of Sam McGee.

During an ordinary Quest day, a fifty-pound dog needs the caloric equivalent of twenty double cheeseburgers, and more if the temperature drops.

the great Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition of 1909—Seattle’s forgotten world’s fair.

It's the Yukon. It's always going to be weird.

Hassan said, "I'm a Kuwaiti exchange student; my dad's an oil baron." Colin shook his head, "Too obvious. I'm a Spaniard. A refugee. My parents were murdered by Basque separatists." "I don't know if Basque is a thing or a person and neither will they, so no. Okay, I just got to America from Honduras. My name is Miguel. My parents made a fortune in bananas, and you are my bodyguard, because the banana workers' union wants me dead." Colin shot back, "That's good, but you don't speak Spanish. Okay, I was abducted by Eskimos in the Yukon Terr-no, that's crap. We're cousins from France visiting the United States for the first time. It's out high school graduation trip." "That's boring, but we're out of time. I'm the English speaker?" asked Hassan. "Yeah, fine." "Okay, they're coming," said Hassan. "What's your name?" "Pierre." "Okay. I'm Salinger, pronounced SalinZHAY." ........ "He has Tourette's?" asked Katrina. "MERDE!" (Shit) shouted Colin. "Yes," said Hassan excitedly. "same word both language, like hemorrhoid. That one we learned yesterday because Pierre had the fire in his bottom. He has Toorettes. And the hemorrhoid. But, is good boy. "Ne dis pas que j'ai des hemorroides! Je n'ai pas d'hemorroide," (Don't say I have hemorrhoids! I don't have hemorrhoids.) Colin shouted, at once trying to continue the game and get Hassan on to a different topic. Hassan looked at Colin, nodded knowingly, and then told Katrina, "He just said that your face, it is beautiful like the hemorrhoid.

So summer waited for open water, and the tardy Yukon took to stretching of days and cracking its stiff joints. Now an air-hole ate into the ice, and ate and ate; or a fissure formed, and grew, and failed to freeze again. Then the ice ripped from the shore and uprose bodily a yard. But still the river was loth to loose its grip. It was a slow travail, and man, used to nursing nature with pigmy skill, able to burst waterspouts and harness waterfalls, could avail nothing against the billions of frigid tons which refused to run down the hill to Bering Sea.

Often the man felt that he had bucked against the very essence of life—the unconquerable essence that swept the hawk down out of the sky like a feathered thunderbolt, that drove the great gray goose across the zones, that hurled the spawning salmon through two thousand miles of boiling Yukon flood.

Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying despatches if anything more urgent than those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him in this. The week's rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light.

CALVIN: Look, Hobbes, I got a magic carpet. HOBBES: What's so magic about it? CALVIN: Magic carpets FLY! You can ride them. HOBBES: Isn't this the rug from the hallway? CALVIN: Up, Rug! Up! Up! CALVIN: Hey, Look! It works! Ok, rug, warp factor five. HOBBES: Is this legal? Do you have your registration and proof of insurance?

If this is earth,' said the producer from Washington, D.C., 'I'm not interested in what heaven has to offer.

The reindeer are immortal. They are, in fact, the eight demiurges of reindeer-kind, and this accounts for their flying. Their names might sound whimsical, but they are the closest the human tongue can come to approximating the true names of the caribou lords. Rudolph, far from being the adorable, earnest fellow of the tale, is in fact Ruyd-al-Olafforid, the All-Destroying Flame of the Yukon. His mother was Kali and his father was an ice floe. His nose appears red because his body is full of coals, and his eyes flare with a terrible conflagration of the soul. The tips of his antlers are like candles in the snowy wind. He is not vengeful, but he is the light in the dark of winter, consuming and giving life at the same time. Your carrots only make the lord of flame stronger.

Rudolph, far from being the adorable, earnest fellow of the tale, is in fact Ruyd-al-Olafforid, the All-Destroying Flame of the Yukon. His mother was Kali and his father was an ice floe. His nose appears red because his body is full of coals, and his eyes flare with a terrible conflagration of his soul. The tips of his antlers are like candles in the snowy wind. He is not vengeful, but he is the light in the dark of winter, consuming and giving life at the same time. Your carrots only make the lord of flame stronger.

To wake up on a gloriously bright morning, in a tent pitched beneath spruce trees, and to look out lazily and sleepily for a moment from the open side of the tent, across the dead camp-fire of the night before, to the river, where the light of morning rests and perhaps some early-rising[240] native is gliding in his birch canoe; to go to the river and freshen one's self with the cold water, and yell exultingly to the gulls and hell-divers, in the very joy of living; or to wake at night, when you have rolled in your blankets in the frost-stricken dying grass without a tent, and to look up through the leaves above to the dark sky and the flashing stars, and hear far off the call of a night bird or the howl of a wolf: this is the poetry, the joy of a wild and roving existence, which cannot come too often

Calvin sees the landline telephone ringing. He picks up the receiver. CALVIN: Hello THE VOICE OF THE CALLER: May I speak with your father, please? CALVIN: Heck, you don't need MY permisson! Be my guest! CALVIN, turning his back on the phone. He hangs up. Then he sneers: What a weirdo. THE LANDLINE TELPHONE: Ring, Ring

The Men That Don't Fit In There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!" So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.

When it came time for Chris to leave, we drove his Yukon down to the base. Chris was excited to go to war-he’d spent years training for it, after all. He was somber and serious, but also looking forward to it. Me? I felt as if a part of myself was leaving, and there was nothing I could do about it. I longed to be with him, but knew that our separation would be deep, and perhaps permanent. I felt trapped by fate, a prisoner of whatever inevitability the future was bringing. We sat together in the back of the SUV, waiting until it was time for him to board the bus waiting to take him to the plane. Finally, it was time to go. Chris was wearing sunglasses, but I could see his eyes leaking tears under them. I thought he was nervous because he was going to war and was afraid that he would die. It wasn’t until years later that he straightened me out: “I was afraid you wouldn’t be there when I came back.

Freddo e grigio, il giorno era arrivato ed era esageratamente freddo e grigio quando l'uomo si spostò dalla pista sul Fiume Yukon per risalire l'elevato argine di terra dove una traccia poco battuta sbucava in direzione est per attraversare la folta foresta di abeti rossi. L'argine era ripido e una volta in cima l'uomo si fermò ansimando, raccontandosi che voleva controllare l'orario. Nove in punto. Niente sole, neppure un barlume, nonostante non ci fosse una nuvola in cielo. La giornata era limpida, eppure ogni cosa appariva come se fosse avvolta da un impalpabile sudario, un'ombra sottile che rabbuiava il giorno – e questo per l'assenza del sole. La cosa non preoccupava l'uomo. Lui era abituato alla mancanza di sole. Erano passati diversi giorni da che l'aveva visto l'ultima volta e sapeva che ne sarebbero trascorsi altrettanti prima che, risalendo da sud, la gioiosa sfera facesse capolino all'orizzonte per rituffarsi lontana dalla vista.

I guess everyone likes praise for what they do, but that night I enjoyed cooking for the Olekseis more than I ever had before. Everything about the ingredients, the smells, the textures, everything delighted me. Maybe I should specialize in Russian food. I sliced the garlic and dropped it into the pan. It started to sizzle, and I turned the heat down and began slicing the onion. It was very fresh, very pungent. My eyes watered, and I got sniffly. Then I smelled a hint of burn on the garlic and hurried back to the stove and shook the pan. Just in time. The slices were brown but not too brown. I was getting good at this. I could detect the smell of burning just before it happened. That had to be some sort of superpower. As I put the rest of the dish together- dicing deep, ruby beets; slicing carrots and Yukon gold potatoes, sizzling spicy sausage in the pan; spicing and tasting, and mixing, and finally pureeing the whole thing into a savory maroon liquid- I continued to marvel at the perfect ripeness and freshness of every ingredient I'd picked out.

There are five species of Pacific salmon in North America: the chum, the coho, the sockeye, the pink, and the Chinook. Each has its own diminutive: the chum is the dog, or the keta, the coho the silver, the sockeye the red, the pink the humpy, and the Chinook is the king. The original Chinook are people of the Pacific Northwest, and their language formed the core of Chinook Jargon, a pidgin trading language that stretched from Alaska to the Columbia River, along what now forms the border of Washington and Oregon, and incorporated the words of many tribes, as well as French and English. Any Canadian will still say Chinook for king, the best and biggest of the fish that the Chinook people traded.

The spruce is sculpted by the elements, bottlebrush scrawny, topiaryed by the weather. This boreal forest stretches over eight thousand miles in an unbroken line around the circumference of the globe: 30 percent of the world’s tree cover, four million square miles, the planet’s single largest biome. A broad, evergreen brushstroke that encircles the north, running through North America, Scandinavia, Siberia, marking the band of the subarctic. Forests of moose, of lynx, of bear. Forests of thimbleberry, strawberry, nagoonberry, lowbush cranberry, highbush cranberry, watermelon berry, bunchberry, crowberry, huckleberry, blueberry, cloudberry, bearberry, salmonberry. Forests home to many of the world’s remaining hunter-gatherer societies, summers of wildfires and perpetual light, and winters of fifty below.

Words spoken in haste cannot be taken back. And while they may be forgiven, the memories will linger to warn the heart of future encounters.

now

Mountains gave her hope for life's problems...'Cause they have an uphill climb on one side and a downward slide on the other. No matter what kind of problem you have...you could always count on there being a downhill side eventually.

For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil. ECCLESIASTES 12:14

On the plains and prairies either you learn to shrug off the unpredictability of life or else its dangers become too overwhelming.

Never Let Me Down" (feat. Jay-Z, J-Ivy) [Intro:] Yeah Grandmama Told you I won't let you down Told you I won't let this rap game change me, right? [Chorus:] When it comes to being true, at least true to me One thing I found,one thing I found Oh no you'll neva let me down, Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) [Jay-Z:] Yo, yo first I snatched the street then I snatched the charts, First had they ear now I hav they're heart, Rappers came and went, I've been hear from the start, Seen them put it together Watch them take it apart, See the Rovers roll up wit ribbons I've seen them re-poed, re-sold and re-driven So when I reload, he holds #1 position When u hot I'm hot And when your feet cold, mines is sizzelin It's plain to see Nigga's can't f*** wit me Cuz ima be that nigga fo life This is not an image This is God given This is hard liven Mixed wit crystal sipping It's the most consistent Hov Give you the most hits you can fit inside a whole disc and Nigga I'm home on these charts, y'all niggaz visitin It's Hov tradition, Jeff Gordan of rap I'm back to claim pole position, holla at ya boy [Chorus] [Kanye West:] I get down for my grandfather who took my momma Made her sit that seat where white folks ain't wanna us to eat At the tender age of 6 she was arrested for the sit in With that in my blood I was born to be different Now niggas can't make it to ballots to choose leadership But we can make it to Jacob and to the dealership That's why I hear new music And I just don't be feeling it Racism still alive they just be concealing it But I know they don't want me in the damn club They even made me show I.D to get inside of Sam's club I did dirt and went to church to get my hands scrubbed Swear I've been baptised at least 3 or 4 times But in the land where nigga's praise Yukons and getting paid It gon' take a lot more than coupons to get us saved Like it take a lot more than do-rags to get your waves Noting sadder than that day my girl father past away So I promised to Mr Rany I'm gonna marry your daughter And u know I gotta thank u for they way that she was brought up And I know that u were smiling when u see that car I bought her And u sent tears from heaven when u seen my car get balled up But I can't complaint what the accident did to my Left Eye Cuz look what a accident did to Left Eye First Aaliyah and now romeo must die I know a got angels watching me from the other side

If I lived anywhere else for the sheer love of it, it would only be farther and farther north, chasing the boreal up to the Yukon or the Northwest Territories. There’s something about living beside a great stretch of forest, both as participant and as witness, that is endlessly absorbing, at once enchanting and distressing. The former because there are vistas and qualities of light in the spaces of the everyday that are otherworldly, requiring an absolute halting of all activity and an undivided attention to just that light at that time. The latter because there is an incredible amount to learn to feel as though you have some small right to be here, holding fast on the patch of ground you stand on.

Wild excitements, misery, riches, debauchery, broken hearts, scurvy, frostbite, suicide, the midnight sun, the Arctic night, the Aurora Borealis, the land of gold and paradoxes--that was Dawson in '98,' he wrote breathlessly.

It's this way. When a fellow gets out on the creeks, he's so busy and has so much to be thinking about all the time that he doesn't have much chance to worry about women, especially with all the hard physical labor involved,' an old-timer told Marshall. 'It's only when a man's mind hasn't got anything to occupy it and his body's got nothing to get it tired that he can't get along without any women.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou. When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

a freak car wreck. At least, that was the official story. After what Andy and Ren had said, Jess now wondered how accurate that was. Two other Dark-Hunters had been moved in to replace those killed in action. Syra, who was better known as Yukon Jane, and Rogue, an Englishman whose proper speech belied his extremely psychotic ways. That boy definitely wasn’t right. Made him wonder who they’d move in to replace Lionel. Guess I’ll find out. A pretty blonde walked past him on the street with a come-follow-me-cowboy look that grabbed his attention away from that line of thought. He let out a slow appreciative breath at the sass in her walk. He’d always been a sucker for a woman who knew how to handle herself and, more to the point, handle a man who was aching for her. She smiled at him over her shoulder. You got work to do, boy. Yeah, but she was delectable. Work, Jess. If Andy’s right, there’s a killer on the loose, and you need to find it and stop it. He actually whimpered at the fact that he couldn’t follow after the blonde. In Reno, doable. Here … Too many Daimons. Yet another reason they needed killing. Sighing, he crossed Spring Mountain Road, heading north on Vegas Boulevard. He’d just passed the

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the extent to which Mormons wish to continue to dissociate themselves from any of the three major branches of Christianity makes it harder for them to credibly claim to be Christian at the same time. Imagine a young man raised in a not overly devout LDS home today who begins to go around describing a vision he had received in which he saw three identical looking men who identified themselves as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. They instructed him to associate with no existing church but to await further revelation. Eventually an angel guides him to dig up silver tiles that are covered with writing he cannot read but looks a little like pictographs on totem poles. Later he announces he has been enabled by God’s Spirit to translate them. They tell the story of a group of Mormons who migrated to the Yukon in the late nineteenth century and who mingled with the Inuit there until they were all killed off except for one who had buried these tiles with their story engraved on them. Later God reveals to this young man extensive instructions for the founding of a new group restoring the original Mormonism of Joseph Smith, which had begun to be corrupted by Brigham Young, lost its moorings considerably in the mid-twentieth century, was reformed and improved by LDS church president Ezra Taft Benson but still needs a full restoration. After all, Joseph Smith died before he could pass on his authority to his divinely ordained successor, so no existing Mormons have true priesthood authority. The Salt Lake City-based Mormons, the rural Utah fundamentalist Mormons, and the Community of Christ (formerly the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) are all illegitimate, and it is time to restore original Mormonism under the leadership of this upstart young man. Anyone who wants to be in God’s best graces has to be baptized into the new church this man is organizing, which is to be called the Restored Church of our Holy Lord Jesus Christ of Last-day Disciples. Existing Mormon baptisms are not good enough for membership in his church. Indeed, this new Restored Church is the one true church on the entire planet. At the same time, it wants to call itself Mormon and be treated as fully Mormon by the Quorum of the Twelve and the First Presidency in Salt Lake City, by all the renegade fundamentalist Mormons, and by the Community of Christ. What is the likelihood that anyone in these three groups would agree? Yet that is very close to how the rest of Christendom perceives, rightly or wrongly, the desires of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The musher’s motto has always been Drive the dogs you have, not the dogs someone else has.

Nature has achieved nothing quite as preposterous as an adolescent moose, his head as big as a beer keg with antlers the size of oven mitts.

Show me the way, Lord. Show me what I am to do, because I fear I have two paths before me and neither one suggests itself over the other.

The essential fascination of any exotic place is its people and culture.

We take a final look around. The sky, and the forest, and the river, and the fish. The last of the year's swallows blow away in gusts over the mountains to the south, like summer's embers.

From Alan Thein Duening: Picture North America from space. Look at the upper left and start an imaginary line on the rugged coast of southern Alaska. Climb the ridges that encircle Prince William Sound. Cross the snowy teeth of the Chugach Mountains and descend through kettle-pond country to the feet of the towering Alaska Range. Rise again to the bitter heights and turning southeast along the crest, clip the corner of the Yukon Territory. Enter British Columbia and veer east through its folding north. Turn your line south when you reach the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains. Follow the divide down the thousand-mile spine of British Columbia, across Montana, along the buttressed ridges of the Idaho border and into Wyoming as far as Jackson Hole. There, leave the divide and turn westward toward the coast. Following the swells and benches that limit the Columbia Basin, dip southward into Utah and Nevada, then northward again around the high desert of central Oregon. When you approach the Cascade Mountains, veer southwest through the tangled topography of northern California to the crest of the Coast Range. Just north of San Francisco Bay, descend to the shores of the Pacific. The line you have drawn is an unfamiliar one. You won’t find it on maps. But it shows a geographical unit more real, in ecological sense, than any of the lines governments draw. You have drawn a biological region, a bioregion. Specifically, you have outlines the watersheds of rivers flowing into the Pacific Ocean through North America’s temperate rain forest zone with a fifteen-hundred-mile belt of rain forests along the coast. The unity of this diverse bioregion is the movement of its water; every ounce of moisture that the ocean throws into the sky and the sky hurls down on the land inside this region’s borders tumbles toward the rain forest coast. If it does not evaporate or get trapped in underground aquifers along the way, water will reach that dripping shoreline through one of several hundred swift, cold rivers. Most likely, it will travel through the Columbia or the Fraser rivers, home to the Earth’s greatest population of migrating salmon. This place, defined by water running to woodlands, has no perfect name. You can call it Rain Forest Province, the North Pacific Slope, or Cascadia… Natural units of place such as this have always mattered more to people than has humanity in general or the planet in its entirety. Indeed, history is unequivocal; people will sacrifice for villages, homelands, or nations, even giving their lives. But humans seem unwilling to sacrifice for their planet, despite the fact that it is now suffering proportionately greater losses from social decay and environmental destruction than most countries at war.

We live with the tilt of the earth.

bear Indian names such as Yukon, Ontario, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan in the north, and Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and Arizona in the south. Often these names reflect the tribal names of the people who lived in an area. Such names might be a tribe’s own name for itself, or it might be the name given them by a neighboring group. We have states named for the Dakota, the Kansa, the Massachuset, the Illini, and the Utes. Some are names that describe the land or the water. Iowa is a Siouan word for “beautiful land,” Wyoming derives from the Algonquian for a large prairie, Michigan is Ojibwa for “great water,” and Minnesota is Siouan for “waters that reflect the sky.” The original meanings are often rather straightforward, but translators and local boosters have usually worked to derive the most poetic name possible. Nebraska means “flat” or “broad river” in the Omaha language; this makes it similar in meaning but not pronunciation to the Algonquian term for “long river” that eventually became Connecticut. Ohio means “good river” in Iroquoian languages, and Oregon means “beautiful water” in Algonquian. Kentucky has one of the more mysterious meanings: “dark and bloody ground.

himself

The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, where it changed from white to gold and rested like a huge ball about to roll on its golden shadows down the

Yukon and Bentley take off toward the newcomers, barking. Tyler’s sharp whistle reins them in. “Oh, would you look at that,” Dad murmurs as we watch Tyler collect their leashes and give them each a friendly pat. “Dogs know the good ones, Marie. Dogs always know.

We’re kind of like those kids who want to stay kids. We just want to shirk responsibility and stay out there with our dogs. You just want to keep going to the next checkpoint and not have to deal with civilization and reality and all that other stuff. It’s neat out there, because it’s one of the few places where you can really be yourself, in front of the dogs, and there’s nobody looking at you and judging you. It’s a perfect world really.” (said by Bill Pinkham, Yukon Quest racer)

All of that is gone now, but when did it happen? Over years and overnight.

New England Clam Chowder YIELD: 4 TO 6 SERVINGS (ABOUT 8 CUPS) I DON’T REMEMBER ever eating clams when I was in France. Oysters and mussels, yes, but not clams. Fried clams and New England clam chowder were popular menu items at Howard Johnson’s, and I soon learned to love them. Although HoJo’s clam chowder recipe was made in 3,000-gallon amounts and canned, it was quite good. I reproduce that taste at home when a bit of Howard Johnson’s nostalgia creeps in. 5 quahog clams or 10 to 12 large cherrystone clams 4 cups water 4 ounces pancetta or lean, cured pork, cut into 1-inch pieces (about ¾ cup) 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 large onion (about 8 ounces), peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces (1½ cups) 2 teaspoons chopped garlic 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 2 sprigs fresh thyme 1 pound Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into ½-inch dice (2¼ cups) 1 cup light cream 1 cup milk ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Wash the clams well under cold water, and put them in a saucepan with 2 cups of the water. Bring to a boil (this will take about 5 minutes), and boil gently for 10 minutes. Drain off and reserve the cooking liquid, remove the clams from their shells, and cut the clams into ½-inch pieces (1½ cups). Put the clam pieces in a bowl, then carefully pour the cooking liquid into another bowl, leaving behind any sediment or dirt. (You should have about 3½ cups of stock.) Set aside the stock and the clams. Put the pancetta or pork pieces in a large saucepan, and cover with the remaining 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, and boil for 30 seconds. Drain the pancetta, and wash it in a sieve under cold water. Rinse the saucepan, and return the pancetta to the pan with the oil. Place over medium heat, and cook gently, stirring occasionally, for 7 to 8 minutes. Add the onion and garlic, and continue cooking, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the flour, mix it in well, and cook for 10 seconds. Add the reserved stock and the thyme, and bring to a boil. Then add the potatoes and clams, bring to a boil, cover, reduce the heat to very low, and cook gently for 2 hours. At serving time, add the cream, milk, and pepper, bring to a boil, and serve. (Note: No salt should be needed because of the clam juice and pancetta, but taste and season to your liking.)

What people specifically should not take them?” like this: “People who are mentally unstable, under enormous pressure, or operating equipment that the lives of hundreds of people depend on. Or the fragile ones among us—those to whom you wouldn’t give a weekend airline ticket to Paris, those who wouldn’t expect to guide you out of the Yukon. Some people have been so damaged by life that boundary dissolution is not helpful to them. These people are trying to maintain boundaries, their functionality. They should be honored and supported, and not encouraged to take drugs. If because of genetic or cultural or psychological factors it’s not for you, then it’s not for you.

they were slowly learning English, not to the superseding of the native tongue but to the supplementing of it, bilingualism being the proper present goal of the Yukon Indians.

We let our dreams take over. We stopped saying someday and started saying next year, next month, next week.

The scientists who tell us that dogs are simple creatures have never owned sled dog teams. They have never tried to organize twelve minds and forty-eight canine legs into a unit that moves forward with conviction. The physical differences in dogs are sometimes the least of the musher’s worries when matching up a team. He must consider the dogs’ personality quirks and varying degrees of dedication. When a well-trained team glides quietly down the trail, spectators may think the sport looks easy, but I guarantee that the driver of that team has put in his time.

As we pulled up to the kennel yard, I felt the sense of mystery that I always felt when I saw sled dogs run. It amazed me that they worked this happily and this hard for food, shelter, and human affection. Each day was an adventure for them, each practice a new challenge. What secret, held deep inside them, made them want to do this work? They were admirable creatures, beautiful to look at, breathtaking to watch. How lucky I felt that they were willing to pull me through the Alaskan woods and take me places I otherwise could never go. They were magnificent and they chose to love George and me. What human could ask for more?

Kyle had not paired King with another dog, and he stood alone as a single lead. Single leads in a race like the Yukon Quest were rare because it was an instant handicap to start with one less dog. Unless that dog was King.

In 2015, scientists from the Center for Space Medicine and Extreme Environments in Berlin followed athletes competing in the Yukon Arctic Ultra. They wanted to know: How does the human body cope in such a brutal context? When the researchers analyzed the hormones in the bloodstreams of the athletes, one hormone, irisin, was wildly elevated. Irisin is best known for its role in metabolism—it helps the body burn fat as fuel. But irisin also has powerful effects on the brain. Irisin stimulates the brain’s reward system, and the hormone may be a natural antidepressant. Lower levels are associated with an increased risk of depression, and elevated levels can boost motivation and enhance learning. Injecting the protein directly into the brains of mice—not something scientists are ready to try with humans—reduces behaviors associated with depression, including learned helplessness and immobility in the face of threats. Higher blood levels of irisin are also associated with superior cognitive functioning, and may even prevent neurodegenerative diseases such as Alzheimer’s. The Yukon Arctic Ultra athletes entered the event with extraordinarily high blood levels of this hormone, far beyond levels seen in most humans. Over the course of the event, their irisin levels climbed higher. Even as their bodies fell victim to hypothermia and exhaustion, the athletes were bathing their brains in a chemical that preserves brain health and prevents depression. Why were their blood levels of irisin so elevated? The answer lies in both the nature of the event and what the athletes had to do to get there. Irisin has been dubbed the “exercise hormone,” and it is the best-known example of a myokine, a protein that is manufactured in your muscles and released into your bloodstream during physical activity. (Myo means muscle, and kine means “set into motion by.”) One of the greatest recent scientific breakthroughs in human biology is the realization that skeletal muscles act as an endocrine organ. Your muscles, like your adrenal and pituitary glands, secrete proteins that affect every system of your body. One of these proteins is irisin. Following a single treadmill workout, blood levels of irisin increase by 35 percent. The Yukon Arctic Ultra required up to fifteen hours a day of exercise. Muscle shivering—a form of muscle contraction—also triggers the release of irisin into the bloodstream. For the Yukon Arctic Ultra competitors, the combination of extreme environment and extreme exertion led to exceptionally high levels of this myokine.

At the dinner table... CALVIN, looking like an x-ray version of himself: Bombarded by high energy photons, Calvin is transformed into a living x-ray. CALVIN: Although this condition will facilitate future medical diagnoses, it does make Calvin's presence at the dinner table a disgusting ordeal. CALVIN: Everyone can see Calvin's food being ground into mushy pulp and swallowed! At this moment, Calvin chews up a large spoonful of creamed corn! CALVIN'S DAD, leaning in at the dinner table: For gosh sakes, close your mouth when you chew!! You think we want to SEE that? CALVIN, physically back to normal, except that his mouth is open amazingly wide, with full view of his current mouthful: MKGHH! SMACK! BLAGHKH!

promise me, Jacob, that

Nowhere is our national schizophrenia more in evidence than in the ongoing debates over drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Many Americans want to preserve the wilderness characteristics of this landscape, but they also drive the very cars--GMC Yukons and Toyota Tundras being the most ironically named--that make new sources of Arctic oil appear to be necessary.

This Cinderella ecology isn’t so new in Britain. The last windfall of sites for rare natives and exotic invaders happened after bombs dropped on London and elsewhere in World War II. The profusion of unexpected species that populated the craters was so great that it was rumored they had been dropped with the bombs as biological weapons of war.7 The Moroccan poppy and the American willow herb were both first spotted in Britain in the remains of bombed-out buildings in the City of London and subsequently spread across Britain. Those were good times for thorn apple from North America and rosebay willow herb from the Yukon, which was nicknamed “bombweed” by Cockney Londoners. Some were newcomers, but many were old arrivals. The daisy-like gallant soldier, its common name a corruption of its Latin name Galinsoga parviflora, came to Kew Gardens from Peru in the 1790s but proliferated unexpectedly in the bomb craters.

These size gains boosted the vehicle-to-passenger weight ratio (assuming a 70-kilogram adult driver) from 7.7 for the Model T to just over 38 for the Lexus LX and to nearly as much for the Yukon GMC.66 For comparison, the ratio is about 18 for my Honda Civic—and, looking at a few transportation alternatives, it is just over 6 for a Boeing 787, no more than 5 for a modern intercity bus, and a mere 0.1 for a light 7-kilogram bicycle.

The Yukon isn’t an easy place to live—with long, dark winters that never seem to end—but it is a place that people choose. A place that seduces. I don’t need my sister to be seduced, but I want her to see the magic.

With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, the Wild that would crush and rend, I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to defy and defend; Shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out—yet the Wild must win in the end.

A star or a soul is a part of the whole, ⁠And weft in the wondrous plan.

the boreal forest is the largest terrestrial ecosystem, comprising almost a third of the planet’s total forest area (more than 6 million square miles—larger than all fifty U.S. states). Fully a third of Canada is covered by boreal forest, including half of Alberta. Continuing west, over the Rocky Mountains, through British Columbia, the Yukon, Alaska, and across the Bering Strait into Russia (where it is known as the taiga), the boreal forest stretches all the way to Scandinavia and then, undeterred by the Atlantic Ocean, makes landfall on Iceland before picking up again in Newfoundland and continuing westward to complete the circle, a green wreath crowning the globe.

Nowadays, we’re suffering from hardening of the economic arteries. The country is old. Our outlook is old. People have quit trying. You could comb through this whole damn city today and not get a half a dozen men with the guts to take what the Yukon dished out in those days. I don’t mind getting old and dying. I hate to see the whole damned country dying along with me. There ain’t any youth to take our place. Just a bunch of whining little snivelers who want the government to support’em.

Soon word began to filter south that the whole enterprise was a fool’s errand, that all the gold-rich territory had been claimed, that the only people getting wealthy in the Klondike were the early stakeholders and entrepreneurs who had established businesses catering to the gold rush hordes. One of these was Frederick Trump, Donald Trump’s grandfather, an immigrant who had dodged the draft in Germany, fled to the United States, and made a small fortune opening hotels in the Yukon riverbank towns of Bennett and Whitehorse.

The two of us begin assembling pulled pork sandwiches from the ingredients in the containers, layering the jalapeño-lime slaw on top of piles of chipotle pork and capping it off with a fluffy white bun. The sandwiches are smoky and spicy, with a slight tang from the slaw, and we wash them down with hefty swigs of our full-bodied porter. Between bites, Jeremy hands me a fork and the container of Yukon gold and purple potato salad, which we pass back and forth until there is nothing left but a few scallions in a pool of mustard-laced vinaigrette.

The trail would be as clear to him with his keen scent as though it had been carefully marked.

Yukon Men is a popular Discovery Channel reality series about the citizens of the small town of Tanana in central Alaska. It portrays wolves as highly dangerous predators that besiege the town and threaten the safety of all of the residents. One of the show’s characters, Charlie, says, “Wolves

He didn’t simply dislike the dirty work—he loathed it. But Yukon wasn’t the only one with an assignment. There was one job Gold needed to finish on his own. He drained the last drop of whisky and grabbed his 9 millimeter handgun. His work was almost done.

Adam Welz noted in his Guardian blog NatureUp that much of Yukon Men is grossly misleading.15 He could find no evidence to support the claim that there have been twenty fatal wolf attacks in Alaska in the past ten years. He is also baffled why Discovery would produce and broadcast a “factual” show that portrays wolves as “man-eating monsters straight out of Victorian fairytales, a serious threat to life and limb,

You want some breakfast?” “Home fries?” There are potatoes in a bag on the counter, the Yukon gold kind. “Check.” He smiles again. “Poached eggs?” I open the fridge, stare inside it. A carton of eggs wait happily on the shelf, ready to be cracked. “Double check.” “Orange juice?” I pull out the plastic container. “Apple cranberry.” He mock frowns, pulls himself off the couch, strides over. “Oh, I don’t know. Apple cranberry is so . . .” “So what?” “It’s not really manly.” “What? There are manly juices? Orange is more manly than apple cranberry?” He grabs the edge of the counter and leans back, stretching out his calves. I plop the juice container on the counter. He looks at me. His eyes are confused. “Really, Nick. That is silly. You’re already having poached eggs.” “So?” “So how are poached eggs manly?” He tilts his head. “They aren’t manly? Quiche isn’t manly, I know. But that’s egg in pie form. Poached eggs should be fine. Although fried eggs are probably the manliest. Maybe we should fry them.

Prior to the opening up of the economy in 1980, the government relied on the artificially protected profits of SOEs to pad its budget. When economic reforms were introduced, SOE profits plummeted and government’s revenues fell precipitously to around 10 percent of GDP until the major fiscal reform in 1994 which introduced new valued-added and consumption taxes. The restructured fiscal system has steadily increased government revenue, which is currently around 22 percent of GDP, but it has also created an imbalance between the central and local governments. While the local governments were left responsible for funding more than 70 percent of government expenditures, they only collect about half of the tax revenue.24

The Green Hornet was one of radio’s bestknown and most distinctive juvenile adventure shows. With its companion shows, The Lone Ranger and Challenge of the Yukon, it was fed to the network by its originating station, WXYZ, and was distinguished by its use of classical music for themes and bridges between dramatic acts. It was not by chance that Britt Reid, the hero, had all the earmarks of a modern-day Lone Ranger. Faithful listeners would remember that the Ranger’s family name had been Reid: that the lone Texas Ranger who survived the ambush of the treacherous Butch Cavendish gang, long ago in the West, was in reality John Reid, who would don his mask and ride the plains astride his great white horse, Silver, and accompanied by his faithful Indian friend, Tonto, punishing rustlers and restoring the reputations, freedom, ranches, and livelihoods of the God-fearing, the oppressed and the wrongly accused.

Let me get this straight. You’re telling me I’m supposed to stand in front of a charging bear and spray it with a can of pepper?” Call fought back a grin. “It isn’t my idea of a good time, but it works. At least it usually does.” “You’re not speaking from personal experience?” “I’ve only had to use it once, but it did the trick. When that little stream of spray hit that grizzly in the face, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.” Good Lord, the man had faced down a grizzly bear with a can of aerosol spray! She stared at that hard, rugged jaw, thought of Max Mason, and didn’t doubt it for a second. She grinned as she set the pepper spray down on what passed for a kitchen counter--a board with a strip of linoleum glued to the top. “That was very thoughtful. You know what they say in the Yukon--a can of pepper spray beats a bouquet of flowers any old day.

Charity thought of the Yukon, the dream of adventure that had carried her so far from her home, and the turn of fate that had led to the place she stood now, in the arms of the man she loved. And she smiled.

I am a firm believer that every few years one needs to shake one’s life through a sieve, like a miner in the Yukon. The gold nuggets remain. The rest falls through like the soft earth it is.

stalwart

when he returned he told

The dog was named Yukon King, the hero of the series in a real sense. Sgt. Preston had a horse, Rex, which he often rode in the summer months, but it was Yukon King who usually saved the day. He mauled bushwhackers and crooks, gnawed guns out of hands, hauled down one villain while Preston polished off the other. Dewey Cole “barked and whined and made other appropriate dog sounds as King,” said Osgood in Wyxie Wonderland. And at the end, Sgt. Preston was always generous in his praise: “Well, King, thanks to you, this case is closed.

As our steamboat touched at Port Townsend, Muir received a long telegram from a San Francisco newspaper, offering him a large sum if he would go over the mountains and down the Yukon to the Klondyke, and write them letters about conditions there. He brought the telegram to me, laughing heartily at the absurdity of anybody making him such a proposition. "Do they think I'm daft," he asked, "like a' the lave o' thae puir bodies? When I go into that wild it will not be in a crowd like this or on such a sordid mission. Ah! my old friend, they'll be spoiling our grand Alaska." He offered to secure for me the reporter's job tendered to him. I refused, urging my lack of training for such work and my more important and responsible position. "Why, that same paper has a host of reporters on the way to the Klondyke now," I said. "There is ——" (naming a noted poet and author of the Coast). "He must be half-way down to Dawson by this time." "—— doesn't count," replied Muir, "for the patent reason that everybody knows he can't tell the truth. The poor fellow is not to blame for it. He was just made that way. Everybody will read with delight his wonderful tales of the trail, but nobody will believe him. We all know him too well." Muir

There are always those first few days, I find, until I shed the city, before I feel at ease again. Before muscles feel good, before cracked burned skin stops hurting and feels like it’s at home. Before my eyes open as wide as they ought.