I’ve arrived in the Yukon’s capital city, Whitehorse to attend a conference. Like all such events, the hosting organization puts on a special evening event that celebrates local custom and place. I’m told little about the event except “we’re going to the dogs”, but not yet. That will happen on Tuesday night. First, I need to get out of the airport.
Whitehorse is a small city as capitals go. Wedged into the northwest corner of Canada, it’s awkward to get there for a Canadian since it is served by only one major domestic carrier, Air Canada. You need to connect from either Vancouver or Calgary. I say for a Canadian because I noticed that there are direct flights to and from foreign destinations like Frankfurt, Germany, bringing hundreds of Germans of all ages and size of hiking boot.
As I watch the carousel disgorge the usual pieces of luggage, several metal tool boxes, a dozen back-packs, and a few long, narrow, well-locked hard cases, I sadly realize that my suitcase had missed the connecting flight. So after some paperwork, phone calls, a bit of verbal abuse, and a lousy night’s sleep, I am happily reunited with my belongings, and can settle in and get my head around business. Importantly, I now can devote my free time to walking around.
The downtown is not so much beautiful as it is spacious and well kept as there’s been some effort to preserve or recreate a romantic Klondike look to the buildings. Our hotel is three stories high, which is average for a building on permafrost. Though comfortable enough, the hotel feels flimsy. My footsteps make a hollow sound down the thinly carpeted hallway. I feel like I’m walking on the aluminum roof of a trailer.
The highest structure in town is a large satellite dish mounted on the top of a boxy tower, its sides appointed with a spray of smaller dishes like blossoms on a stem. Against the folksy style of downtown, it strikes me as an aesthetic compromise. Function stomps over form given the imperative of linking frontier life to the outside world. I make note, however, that there’s something I’ve enjoyed right away about this place. Whitehorse smells good. The air is fresh.
At the foot of Main Street, the black waters of the Yukon River run north to the Bering Sea, its opposite bank flanked by a fir-lined escarpment, spiky against the sky. The river is clearly dangerous. Inches beneath the cold water, lay a ribbon of small pebbles, sometimes sparkling like gold in the afternoon sun, teasing those walking along the pedestrian river path. But the stones abruptly disappear into the deep, black, rushing whirlpools. The mountains surrounding Whitehorse are low and partly balding, unevenly covered by trees, leaving patches of dark rock exposed like the skin of a mangy dog.
Weather beaten pylons stick up from the water’s edge, the brittle moorings of long piers, long washed away.
Life moves more slowly here and traffic stops even for a pedestrian who pauses to stare across the street. It’s an outdoor recreational life. I see canoes mounted on cars, vans dragging ATVs on a trailer. Seasonal workers keep the tourist facilities staffed up and restaurants are full. Many small restaurants frustratingly don’t take credit cards. I pass a street musician packing up for lunch, unaware, or not caring that between noon and two can be the best income hours of the day. I overhear a cyclist speaking to a friend, “I can park my bike anywhere and no one ever steals it.”
Judging from the display window of Mac’s Fireweed Books, hunting is popular here. Pedestrians stop to consider titles like: Bear Hunting in Alaska; In the company of Moose; Manual for Successful Hunters; Sheep Hunting in Alaska; Field Dressing for Big Game; and The Moose Cookbook. Still, there are a few books for readers without guns. For example, rocks and minerals are big, and books about the gold rush abound. For sensitive folk, there’s the poetry of Yukon’s famous adopted son, Robert Service.
Tuesday night arrives and we pile into three cars. We turn off the paved road about a half hour out of town and arrive to a ‘Yukon welcome”. One hundred and thirty seven sled dogs are howling in unison, their concert master, Frank Turner welcomes us to his sled-dog ranch. We’re here for a lesson in corporate team building.
Frank is a short, sturdy-built man with a face full of long, greying bristles. Thirty years ago, a young educated man from Toronto holding professional qualifications in social work arrived to work with native groups on organizational projects. He stayed for the lifestyle and built Muktuk ranch after discovering a passion for sled dogs and mushing. The latter activity, I learn, is not far removed, conceptually, from the day-to-day challenges of the business world.
Frank’s presentation to our business group focuses on this angle. The message is simple and makes sense. As managers we’re the musher. The musher needs to know his team personally, who’s able to take the lead in certain situations, which dog has more of a competitive nature than another, which dogs get along best working side by side.
The musher mixes up the order of the team based on this knowledge of the individual strengths and weaknesses. He holds certain dogs back to bring them forward later to lead an anticipated uphill climb. Frank explains: “You know, when I started dogsled racing, they gave me a whip. That was the style then. Nowadays, it’s all about understanding the team members, and gently playing the dogs’ strengths like chess pieces. That’s why there are so many women mushers now. There’s exceptions, of course, but as a whole, women are pretty sensitive to the dogs.”
The message is believable and Frank has the evidence of battles fought and won by this philosophy. He was the first Canadian to win the 1000 mile, international Yukon Quest dog sled race held yearly out of Whitehorse to Fairbanks, Alaska. His team won it in 1995 with record time that held up for twelve years. At 1000 miles long, the Yukon Quest is the same length of race as the significantly more famous Ididerod Race but the purse is smaller and the Canadian terrain is tougher.
Frank and his dogs have got through to me. I see the subtitle of an article in a tourism brochure: “The Yukon’s spirit will push you into places you have never thought possible”. Although the article is about adventure sports, for me it speaks to my own lessons learned as a manager. I never got to see a Grizzly bear in the Yukon, but I’m happy to say that part of me has gone to the dogs as planned. (by C. Moisse at maturetraveler.blogspot.com)
p.s. Air Canada agreed to compensate me for some clothing purchases I had to make since my luggage was delayed.
My Travel Recommendations:
As we walk, I fall prey to St. Andrews most popular, but least understood tourist trap. I start imagining myself living here. I window shop the real estate offices. I mentally try on the lifestyle when my eyes land on a four-bedroom, three bathrooms 1859 renovated property offered at $259,000. In my pre-retirement strategizing years, I wonder about running a B&B. My husband quickly gives me an antacid lozenge and the feeling passes.