Off the Yukon highway from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Mike and Ken wild camp in bear country in Canada’s Yukon Province. At the end of a very long day, some eighty five miles in the bag. Marvel at Mike’s efforts at flambe cooking, and Ken’s need for a Steadicam, or at least a tripod…
I was thirsty. We’d been told Kluane Wilderness Village was closed. Another First Nation venture that had failed. Maybe not their fault. Empty motel units, doors ajar, grass, small shrubs taking root. On the other side of the road a small garage, set back from the highway. Shabby cars and an old tow truck parked askew outside.
Thought I could see a drinks dispenser by the garage. Told Mike I’d like to make a brief stop. We were quickly running out of daylight to find somewhere to camp, but I really needed some fluids. Couldn’t quite make out his reply, but he followed me, albeit reluctantly it seemed.
A couple of old men were tinkering with cars in a poorly lit workshop. At first I was ignored, then one said, quite abruptly, "We’re closed". I asked if there was a shop nearby, already suspecting I knew the answer. "Twenty miles. Burwash Landing" he replied. More neutral tone this time.
As we rode away Mike explained these were probably First Nation people – indigenous Canadians – elaborating a little on their history, their place in society. I was intrigued. Some remarkable similarities – in terms of integration – with indigenous Australians – the Aborigines, the Torres Strait Islanders. Very striking.
"Deux crepes chocolat sil vous plait" I’d said in quite appalling school boy French. Later adding, as Mike and I departed, "Les crepes. Tres bien!". However surprised he might have been with my grasp of foreign languages, that’d probably been overshadowed by our plain amazement at finding a genuine French crêperie in the midst of Canada’s Yukon Province. Makes Alaska look crowded.
We’d mistakenly assumed the friendly couple running it were French Canadians. But no, there were from France. Quite what had inspired them to wake up one day and announce "We want… a crêperie" – in the remote Yukon, at least twenty miles or so from the nearest house – had alluded us. My conversational French not quite up to this. And jolly nice crepes they were.
[With especial thanks to "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" for inspiring this post’s title – the piece where the Knights that say "Ni" demand a shrubbery..]
You have been warned.. At White River, thirty miles south of Beaver Creek in Canada’s Yukon Province.
We’d asked for just coffee but got complimentary cakes as well. Left from dinner last night, explained Amanda. She was originally from the north of England, but had grown up in Ireland and had a soft Irish accent. I was curious as to how she’d ended up running a campground in Canada’s Yukon Province. She’d found the place whilst on holiday, she explained. Had fallen in love with it.
I thought her quite charming, welcoming. An absolute delight to chat with. It was a shame to leave and return to the road, but necessary none the less. In truth, I’d been intrigued about stopping there. One hardened ride, a chiseled chap called Craig, had encouraged us to stop by. Others were absolute in their conviction that the owners hated cyclists. I’d very much doubted this.
So we’d popped in. "Your reputation proceeds you!" I’d said jovially. If Mike had winced at this, I’d not noticed as he was behind me. Discovering, a bit later, that if you do go around insisting that the provision of free drinking water is your human right, chances are, you won’t get such a warm welcome. Which seemed to go quite a long way to explaining the very differing views on stopping there.
White River from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Mike and Ken reach the White River, one of many Yukon river tributaries, about thirty miles inside Canada’s Yukon Province. Stopping a short distance later at White River RV – recreational vehicle – park for coffee and cake with owner Amanda.
Bedtime in Beaver Creek. Mike had already retired to his tent. Found myself taking refuge from the gentle rain in the unlocked entrance hall of the 1202 Motor Lodge, in whose grounds we were camped. Reading the local telephone directory. More than a pamphlet but hardly a weighty tome.
We’d been told that in the summer this small border town swells to at least two hundred people. Just one tourist attraction. She works in Buckshot Betty’s restaurant. Serves a great dinner. And breakfast.
There’d been a little method in my apparent madness flicking through the phone book. Looking for a number for someone we were hopeful of staying with in a couple of days time. Took about three minutes.
[Please forgive the alleged humour… it’s that or lots of beaver jokes.. Truth is, neither Mike or I had the proverbial’s to ask if such critters were on the menu..]
Buckshot Betty’s. If you wanted to eat out in Beaver Creek, it was the only show in a very small town. And we did. It’d been a long day. Neither of the two ATMs were working. Both empty, not expected to be refilled for a week or so. But, explained our server, they could take Mastercard or US Dollars at a push. We could eat.
She’d a curious accent. Seemed familiar, but I was too tired to ask. Instead a fellow diner let slip she was from Melbourne. Over here on a working visa. Quite why she’d chosen such a remote Yukon outpost no one seemed to know. Never quite seemed to be an opportune moment to enquire.
We’d planned to push on from Beaver Creek towards White River but Mike’s flat tyre had meant there’d be a good chance we’d be running short on daylight. Instead settling on a night in the very small border settlement before pressing on the next morning. Finding little difficulty convincing ourselves that a decent meal would be just reward for crossing twenty five miles of no man’s land into Canada.
Beaver Creek from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Beaver Creek. Mike and Ken’s first stop in Canada’s Yukon Province. Ken captures pretty much all of Beaver Creek on film. And marvel at him getting a few of the place names confused…
Not deflated from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Barely into Canada, Mike has his first puncture on the road. And seem remarkably cheerful about the experience…
