Live and learn and eat snow through travel

Page 5

When I told people I was going to Whitehorse, I got a blank stare.

"In January?" was often the comment I got. Yes, in January. I didn't mind the unusual responses, because, in a way, it all made sense, especially since I was going up north to attend the first annual Whitehorse Comedy Festival. And whenever I think of people going to Whitehorse in January, I burst out laughing.

But I was in for a rude awakening. The climate and atmosphere when we arrived were both quite warm. The temperature hovered just below the freezing point and everybody was excited about the festival. People were going out of their way to make it special. I came to screen my documentary on Native humor, along with several comedians, improv artists, actors and general, all-around funny people eager to prove their stuff. Everybody was expecting a grand time.

But perhaps my most memorable adventure in the Yukon was the invitation I received to go "mushing," or to the untrained southerner, dog-sledding. I had never done it, but decided to brave the elements for yet another tall tale to tell the grandchildren should my girlfriend ever stop wearing flannel to bed.

This event took place about 40 minutes outside of town at a hot springs. Several of us stood around, watching the owners unload and harness the animals. The dogs were barking, jumping around, excited to be out on the land and eager to start running. It was controlled, though loud, bedlam. It was then I said the unsayable. Amidst the crying and yelping dogs, I turned to some nearby friends and proceeded to sing the popular song "Who Let the Dogs Out! Hoo hoo hoo hoo." Suddenly, there was a silence, and then one person hung his head low muttering to himself "Somebody had to say it. You knew somebody was going to say it."

Luckily I managed to talk them out of leaving me behind.

Feeling very Jack Londonish, I eagerly pulled out my cell to call my girlfriend. As I started to tell her enthusiastically what I was about to do, the owner started laughing. She knew I was Native and here I was, in the Yukon north, talking to my girlfriend in Toronto on a cell phone, acting like a little boy about to go off on his first pony ride. She commented that the spirits of my noble ancestors weren't exactly flowing up from the ground into my heart announcing "This is the proud legacy we have left behind." Perhaps I need to get out more.

So I eagerly jumped into my sled and off we went on our merry adventure. That was just before it tipped over and I went sliding into a snow bank. I don't remember that being in the original contract with the festival. Evidently, sleds and dogs are like cars and planes. They each have their own feel. And the guy driving mine had never driven this team or sled before and wasn't familiar with its nuances. Nor was he familiar with his passenger spitting up snowballs.

But one of the most important reasons that I and most people travel is to learn. To accumulate facts and experiences which will hopefully make our lives richer. And on this trip, I did learn something very important. Something I will pass on to those grandchildren somewhere down the road. I will tell them "Listen closely. Never, ever, ever, go to a festival of any sort that is co-sponsored by the brewery. It is evil. Pure evil. I hadn't played a game of caps in years and I was surprised how quickly it came back. I barely got out of Whitehorse alive."

I'm still waiting for the hotel to send me the dirty laundry I forgot to bring home.