“The Yukon Bar” by Barbara Crompton

 

I think of our time in the Yukon as sublime, but although the Yukon is part of Canada, my partner and I were foreigners.  This is the sacred land of indigenous people who have lived here for centuries. In July of 2022, though, Ian and I canoed the Yukon River, a 750-kilometer run from Whitehorse to Dawson City.  

Paddling around the bends, we were swept past towering cliffs, deep green canyons, eerie burnt-out landscapes, and breathtaking vistas. We had never been so completely immersed in such a remote location in all our lives.

That year the region had experienced a dramatic spring thaw with unprecedented water levels, flooding many of the campsites underwater or covering them with silt, making them uninhabitable. The river was also running extremely fast, something our years of lake water canoeing hadn’t prepared us for.

You wouldn’t last long in the glacial waters should you topple the boat, let alone manage to keep your gear from being swept away by the current.

By day six of our trip, we were pulling into Carmacks, an outpost for canoeists and tourists and we were giddy with the notion of being able to enjoy a hot shower and a cold beer before heading back out the next day.

There was a light and cheery vibration in the air amongst our fellow travelers. People were busy pulling up canoes, exchanging stories, packing food, and stretching their legs in the warm sun. Seeing the occasional familiar face of other travellers we’d seen on the river felt reassuring, as did the look of the hotel. 

The owners had decorated the front porch with hanging planters, all neatly lined up across the long entrance, bursting with pink geraniums.  The banisters and railings were freshly painted white, and the roadside had been raked to an even plain. Across the way was a large General Store with every manner of camping gear and hardware.

After checking in and depositing our suitcases, we headed into the bar for a much-anticipated beer. The place was dark and dated, with heavy wooded captain chairs and dirty plaid carpet.  The air was musty with the smell of spilt beer and years of poorly wiped down tables and chairs.

The bartender was a cheery French-Canadian fellow who greeted us kindly and took our orders.  We sat at the bar and reviewed the food menu.  There were a few tables with patrons but not many as it was later in the afternoon.  Some of the patrons were like us, canoeists stopping in on their way to Dawson City, while the others were locals, mostly from the Indigenous communities in the area. 

I was struck by the contrast between the tourists wearing their expensive urban gear of bright neon greens and blues against the local attire of heavy dark coats and pants. Tension hovered amidst the quiet as we moved to find a place at the bar. I don’t recall any music playing, just a quiet that felt off. Everyone kept to themselves, the locals at one table and a cluster of tourists at another. 

I looked sideways at the menu Ian was holding, pointing out options. If he sensed anything amiss, he didn’t let on.

Shortly after taking our seats, one of the locals, an indigenous man, came in. His small frame barely carried the oversized layers of clothing he was wearing, almost as if he was being consumed by its bulk. He had long dark shiny hair that reached to his mid back and I could see from his profile that he was young.   

Without looking at anyone, he walked straight to the bar, keeping his face hidden and down. I scanned the room.  My fellow patrons seemed to be leaning closer towards each other, purposely trying to avoid noticing.

The bartender asked, “How can I help you, my friend?” His manner seemed kind and I felt myself take a small sigh of relief.  There was a quiet exchange of words, and the bartender went off to the back room, a place beyond the rows of bottles that were crowded up against a mirrored wall. 

The young man was leaning with his arms over the bar, quietly waiting.  He didn’t once look up or make eye contact with anyone.  The bartender returned and passed the young man a paper bag and a carton of cigarettes.  A $100 bill come out of the young man’s pocket. The bartender pushed his change forward.

“I gave you a hundred-dollar bill,” the young man said. 

The bartender paused, said nothing but returned to the register to provide the correct change. Ian and I exchanged a look, “a side hustle” he mouthed in my direction.

I was trying to keep my eyes down and on the menu, but couldn’t help but take a sidelong glance.  The young man was handsome, striking even with chiseled features. His eyes passed over me but I had no sense he’d seen me. I wasn’t there to him, nor I suspect were any of the other people in the room.  It felt almost as if my attempt to meet his eyes felt disrespectful, as if in my glance, I had intruded. 

Turning to leave, the young man kept his eyes fixed on the exit, cutting a straight path through the few occupied tables. His elbow caught the arm of one of the tourists as he passed by with a notable bump. Neither of them acknowledged collision, he just kept walking to the exit.

This place – neither the town of Carmacks nor its only bar – was a destination point. It was a pass-through, a bubble of modern conveniences set down amongst the ancestral hunting and fishing lands of eleven distinct indigenous nations. 

The tourists we met came from cities in North American or Europe. They’d come in Kevlar canoes, shiny cars and in air-conditioned busses.  They dominated the space with their large gestures and loud voices and barely noticed the locals, who slipped silently amongst them, like ghosts haunting the few buildings that had been oddly placed on their traditional land. 

In this place where two worlds intersected, we were not entirely welcome.

***

Barbara Crompton is a retired business owner, yoga enthusiast, backcountry explorer and mother of two beautiful intrepid daughters. Her passion is travelling the wilderness of Canada with her partner Ian and gathering stories from those experiences and the people she meets.  Barbara lives in Oakville, Ontario.

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