“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.

Read more short pieces by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry’s upcoming one-day workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats here. 

 

“Take a Step Back” by Barbara Crompton

 

Image from Canberra Times

“And,” Hazel wrote,” my three brothers are all closet misogynists in liberal clothing.”

Her email hit me like a fist in the face; I froze on the word misogynist.   

We had been in a short email exchange about some news regarding her sister, and buried in the correspondence, she had – almost blithely - tucked in this parting shot about her brothers. Not that I knew two of her brothers all that well, it had been years since I had participated in anything remotely familial with her family. But I’d known one of her brothers very well. He was my ex-husband.

“Jamie is not a misogynist,” I wrote back. “I think I need to take a step back from this conversation.”

Jamie and I had one of those marriages that had just petered out after thirty years as a couple. There had never been a single incident of misogyny – ever. If anything, Jamie had been overly affirming of everyone, including women. Even with our two girls, he couldn’t raise his voice without becoming wracked with guilt.

I closed the lid to my laptop and stared out the window. I felt the flutter of anxiety deep in my chest, like moths bumping up against a porch light. My mind raced in a non-stop loop of scenarios, one no more satisfying than the other. Hazel and I had been in a causal relationship since my divorce, and by casual, I mean Christmas cards, Facebook birthday posts and the odd email update.

Her use of the word misogyny felt as though she had crossed a line. But I had doubts.

Maybe she didn’t mean that word …maybe I should have asked why she said that! Maybe my final line was too snippy. Was there a nicer way I should have ended the email?

But … the word misogyny is a pejorative that describes someone who “despises” women. Other definitions include “hatred of women,” (typically shown by men but not exclusively) or having an “aversion” to women.

I wondered at the casualness as to how some people use the word misogyny, as if it were a close cousin to the word chauvinist. I’d heard it used to describe an opinionated co-worker, an ornery husband or difficult salesclerk. At the very worst, these people were guilty of being disagreeable, not women haters.  

“Your experience, not mine,” Hazel emailed back, not backing down from her accusation of misogyny.

Hazel had been estranged from her siblings for a while now and her grievances had been piling up. The falling out in the family had been triggered by the burial of her mother or rather the re-positioning of her mother, whose ashes had been on Hazel’s property.

The other siblings decided mom needed to be interned, yet again, alongside their father in a non-denominational cemetery. Everyone was in favour of the plan except Hazel who saw this as her hill to die on, and no, I’m not making this stuff up.

Accusations and age-old grievances erupted, and Hazel found herself alone. No one in families are spared in these sorts of falling-outs, except those few who prefer to let sleeping dogs lie and share holidays behind wooden smiles and careful conversations.

Sitting across from me on the couch, holding his thermos of morning coffee, my partner considered my posture.

“Where have you landed in regard to the whole Hazel email?” he asked.

“Unsettled.”

“You’re not used to crazy,” he said.

I considered the comment. It was true. My upbringing was the furthest thing from crazy, my partner’s experience was very different. His mother had all the right instincts but little of the maturity needed to understand herself or her growing children. His father was irresponsible and prone to drink.

The household was more chaotic than calm. My partner’s early years were marked with running feral and unrestrained through his boyhood town, collecting friends for their nighttime prowls. He was fortunate to have a sharp and curious mind along with a healthy dose of self-reliance to weather a more hostile environment. They were “that family.”

“True, I’m not used to crazy,” I said. But I’ve processed this. I’m just unsettled.”

“Then you’re not processed. My take is you’re not seeing the situation clearly.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, now annoyed.

“She was looking to co-opt you into her grievance,” he explained. “I’ve lived this”.

I felt like smacking my forehead. Of course.

I hadn’t been paying attention. My correspondence with Hazel was never an easy back and forth. Her emails inevitably slipped into a slow bleed of discontent that I tried to either ignore or steer in another direction. My stock answer was always “that must have been hard,” a vague response that says, “I’m listening” with a pretense of empathy.

Hazel was looking for a partner to bear witness to the perceived horribleness of her family and I was to be the co-conspirator to her narrative, the confidant to her indignation. Her complaint was deep and twisted. She was telling me that it was all their fault, and her malice was seeping through.

“And my three brothers are all closet misogynists,” she had said.

No, I thought, they weren’t. And it was time for me to step back from my relationship with Hazel.

***

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. 

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.  

See more essays, short stories, poems, reviews, and so forth by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).

Note: You can now get new postings on Quick Brown Fox delivered straight to your Inbox as I publish them. Subscribe to the new Quick Brown Fox page on Substack here: https://brian999.substack.com/