Beached Boat

Keno of...

Back in 2011, I visited Dawson City and snapped a few photos of this vintage paddle wheeler. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. 

House of Cards

Because they're all amusing, you see. 

Billy Preston's Nightmare

He awoke like a cliché: with a shriek of terror, sitting "bolt upright" just as they do in dime novels, eyes bulging, skin pale and glistening with the sweat of his fevered dreams.

"The gateway to Hell!" he screamed, still half-trapped in the nightmare. "I saw it in Dawson City. I was bringing in my furs and the whole town was being pulled in! And no one back home even knew I was there! No one would remember me!"

The darkness didn't respond. He began to breathe again.

"I know what the dream means," he thought to himself. "Ten years after I die, will anyone remember me? Hell, will anyone remember me even a year later? Did anything I've done make a difference?"

He concocted a plan. He would create art. It didn't have to be good, it just had to exist, and it had to catch someone's eye. And if he was lucky, maybe something noteworthy would happen to him. Maybe he'd be the first victim of a new plague. Maybe he'd find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and accidentally become a hero. Or maybe he'd go mad at the end and become famous for the form of his insanity.

That would be the trigger, he thought. And then someone, some reporter or historian, would look into his past. And they would find the slapped-together art, and infuse it with meaning.

"Billy Preston's Nightmare (2013, image manipulation) was his first attempt to reconcile his obsession with popular culture with the slow dissolution of civil society as he saw it. In Nightmare the artist alters a photo of crumbling infrastructure by combining it with murky scarlet clouds reminiscent of the early computer game Doom (1993), a game he was known to enjoy during his "blue" period post-university studies..."

They would never know that Billy Preston's Nightmare was just another lame attempt to complete a blog post when he couldn't think of a blessed worthwhile thing to write about.

Better Background Blues

Blogger comes with a set of fairly nice design templates, but I've long wanted to personalize my blog with a unique background of my own creation. I thought perhaps this photo I shot in Dawson City would serve, but the composition is all wrong. I also haven't determined the correct size (in pixels) for a proper background image. And there's an ugly halo around the building edge, making it obvious the starry background isn't real.

On the other hand, the black window panels form a wonderful background for text or art; maybe this image is better suited to serve as a flyer or poster. If I had a need for flyers or posters with me on them, that is. Insert pensive emoticon here!

North to Alaska, Part VI

He loved Dawson City. It was the perfect realization of all his boyhood fantasies of the frontier: the 19th-century architecture, furnishings, decor and graphic design. Even the modern touches - debit machines, modern vehicles, cell phones (still inoperable) - hardly fazed him. The aura of the place enveloped him like the naive tourist he was, and he wandered in a happy daze over the wooden slats that served as sidewalks.

One hotel even featured saloon doors, and he wished he had a friend with him to shoot a photo of himself bursting through them. Or, even better, being flung through them by a rough-housing black-hatted villain.

He wandered the streets for several hours, periodically checking the phones to see if the connection had been repaired yet. After 48 hours, he knew that Sylvia would be very worried, but what could be done? He could only do his best to suppress the guilt as he enjoyed himself, hoping Sylvia wouldn't be too upset by his silence.

It seemed as though every door in Dawson City was open to the curious traveller, and Earl roamed at will, poking into every beckoning doorway. How marvellous to step into a carefully-preserved past without the distractions of guides, roped-off areas and other tourists!

The Palace Grand captured his heart. The moment he stepped inside its empty, echoing halls he fell in love with an idealized Old West, imagining the raucous laughter, the spirited dancing and ribald comedy that must have echoed off these old walls.

He could have spent days here, dancing with the ghosts, taking the stage to orate to the empty seats, hamming it up for the joy of using his long-forgotten, little-known gift of projection. Frustrated actor, frustrated politician, frustrated writer, forever cursing himself for failing to live up to his own potential, held back by shyness and the absence of confidence. On an empty stage in an empty house, he could work wonders. When no one is watching, every performance is perfect.

At last the phones returned to life, and Earl called Sylvia, explaining what had happened. He'd get some sleep, then wake up early for the trip to Whitehorse, he told her. He might take the scenic train from Whitehorse to Skagway, Alaska, as his parents had done a couple of years earlier. And then he'd return home, fully refreshed and ready to take on the working world once more.

He rose early as he had intended, early enough to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. He filled up the car with gas and headed south. He was on his way home, his senses full to bursting with the beauty of a truly northern summer. It had been a perfect journey. He eased behind the wheel, plugged in his phone and enjoyed some music for the road.

But then, halfway between Dawson City and Whitehorse, a strange sound tickled at the edge of his awareness: a faint but consistent tick-tick-tick-tick.

Strange, he thought. What could that be...?

He turned down the radio. A terrible thought struck him instantly: oil. It seemed impossible that the car could run out of oil, for he'd had the vehicle serviced mere days before leaving on his trip. It was fully loaded with oil.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

Rounding the top of a hill, he flicked the gearshift into neutral and let gravity pull him down the other side. The ticking stopped.

You fool, he thought. Any minute now the oil light is going to come on. It was the very scenario he'd worried about, the only thing his imagination had thrown at him.

But it was impossible. He'd been careful. He'd had all the fluids topped up -

An oilcan icon flickered to life on his dashboard. It was happening. He couldn't believe it...but it was happening.

He checked his map. Carmacks was only a few kilometers distant. He could buy oil there, save himself, save the car. Would he make it?

The ticking increased in volume and tempo. He shifted into neutral whenever he could, gambling that allowing the engine to rest would give him the range he needed to reach sanctuary. His heart pounded. How much would it cost to repair the car here, in the far north? The cost of this "cheap vacation" may have just doubled, tripled.

He forced himself to be calm. Carmacks was just a few twists and turns of the road away. It might be just around this next bend...tick-tick-tick-tick.

And it was. He drifted into the nearest gas station, immensely relieved. He bought a bottle of oil and fed it remorsefully to his thirsty car; it drank deep. Earl took the wheel again, started the engine, and listened.

Nothing. No warning tick, no oil light. He'd made it. He felt anvils fall from his shoulders as he took to the road again, practically whistling with delight. It had been a near thing, a veritable close shave. But he'd been lucky and quick-witted enough to solve the problem.

An hour later, the ticking started again. His eyes grew wide in horror. He was midway between Carmacks and Whitehorse; useless to turn back, useless. What had gone wrong?

It hit him instantly. You idiot, he thought. You stupid shut-in bookworm. Did you really think it would only take a single bottle of oil to lubricate an engine run dry? Why didn't you ask someone at the station how much you should add?

He begged the fates to forgive him one more time. He apologized to his car over and over, pleading with it to go just one more kilometre, just one more, then one more, then another...

The ticking turned to clanking, then clanging, then thumping. Smoke belched from beneath the hood. He rounded another forested curve, and looked up in despair at a long, steep incline. If he could just reach the top...

He couldn't. Halfway up, the engine seized. Every light on the dashboard glowed remorsefully at him.

He stepped out to wait for rescue, flashers blinking. Only moments later a Yukon government truck stopped to assist, loaning him a set of warning reflectors. The driver pledged he'd send help, so Earl settled back and waited.

The hours crawled by, and no one came. He waved aside several other offers of help, not wanting to abandon the car when another rescuer was presumably on the way.

But the afternoon waned into evening, and finally he realized that his first rescuer had somehow failed. A young woman about his own age pulled over.

"You've been here a while," she said. "I saw you out here hours ago."

"Someone was supposed to come..." he said lamely.

"Well, you'd better get in. There are bears out here; the rangers called an alert."

He climbed into her truck. She told him he was fifty kilometres from Whitehorse. So close, he thought. On the outskirts of town, cellular coverage returned. He called Sylvia with the bad news while his rescuer phoned hotels. Another call to AMA secured a tow truck.

The banal routine of the stranded traveller followed. He thanked his rescuer, booked a room, was picked up by the towing company, retrieved the car, towed it back. He retrieved a few essentials from the car - the cameras, some clothes, his father's laptop.

He knew he'd destroyed his car. He was infuriated by his carelessness, his own slack, stupid belief that he didn't need to plan or prepare, that everything would turn out fine with little work on his part.

It was only a car. It was just a silly oversight. The car was ten years old, Sylvia told him. We'd been talking about replacing it anyway. We needed something bigger. It was okay.

Her kindness and support only made him feel worse, and he hated himself for it. She deserved so much better than this self-pitying anger. His hotel room closed in on him as he waited for news from the towing company. He paced. He slammed doors. He ground his teeth and tried to suppress his boiling, self-directed rage.

He lost control of his thoughts. The events of the last few years collapsed over him at once. Every failure suddenly screamed at him. Every circumstance he couldn't fix became overwhelming. His head spun as long-buried anguish finally came screaming into the foreground: his terror at losing everything, his parents, brother, friends, wife. There was nothing rational about it, and the intellectual corner of his mind understood that it was pure hubris to lay claim over events he couldn't control.

And yet he felt responsible. He thought of everyone he'd ever disappointed, he imagined failures yet to come, and he punished himself for being human.

And so he screamed. He clenched his fists and screwed up his face and howled like an animal.

And then his eyes popped open and he stopped, shocked by the unearthly sounds. It was like an infected blister popping all at once. He lay back, drained, blinking, his breathing steady, relaxed. Suddenly he felt better than he had in years. Embarrassed by his loss of control, yes. Ashamed of his carelessness, yes. But suddenly at peace.

He phoned Sylvia again and told her what happened.

"I'm glad it happened," she said. "You needed that. You can't keep things bottled up for years at a time."

He agreed. Rational again, he reacted calmly when the shop called and told him the car's engine had been destroyed. He went about the mundane business of picking up the pieces. He went to Wal-Mart, bought a big suitcase, salvaged what he could from the vehicle, signed the registration over and left his faithful car in a lonely Whitehorse junkyard. He looked back only once, and he didn't take a photo.

He took the Greyhound to Grande Prairie, an 18 hour trip. The driver pulled over so the passengers could gawk at grizzlies:

His ever-patient parents picked him up in Grande Prairie and brought him home to Edmonton. He realized how lucky he was. Yes, he'd destroyed his car. Yes, he and Sylvia would be paying for a new one for half a decade. But he'd suffered no truly irrevocable calamities. He had Sylvia. He had his parents, his younger brother. He had his friends, and a career he loved. And for a little while, he'd had the solitude he needed to replenish his spirit.

Who had the right to ask for more?

North to Alaska, Part V

 Heading southeast from Tok, he arrived at a crossroads. He could continue to Port Alcan, and return to the Yukon the same way he'd left, or he could turn left and take the Top of the World Highway to Dawson City.

Given his demons, it wasn't really much of a choice at all. Dawson City meant Jack London and Robert Service, the Klondike, the Old West, a thousand beloved tropes. He imagined swinging saloon doors and freshly-painted boardwalks, riverboats and grizzled miners, Mounties and old-fashioned general stores. It was a chance to travel back in time to an era he'd romanticized since childhood. He couldn't come this far and miss what might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

He turned left, and sealed his fate.

At first, he was surprised by the road's quality. Though winding in all dimensions, the asphalt was smooth and fresh, salmon-pink in sections, a colour he'd never before associated with roads. The road was well-named; it seemed to climb inexorably to the heavens, the valleys and chasms below growing ever distant. The lack of guardrails inspired intense caution; he kept his eyes on the road, though the beauty of the perpetual sunset was compelling. He would stop for pictures, he promised himself, when he crossed the border.

But after an hour or so of smooth driving, the road abruptly disintegrated, flat asphalt giving way to rough, broken gravel. The lane narrowed dangerously, the curves tightened, vision was impaired by the towering trees and sharp-angled corners.

He was high enough that even in July there still remained patches of snow, stubbornly clinging to life; even the constant sun couldn't force them to relinquish their icy grip on these lonely peaks.

Tiny communities of single-digit populations hugged the highway, offering little but gasoline and small talk, and sometimes not even that. He marvelled at the ability of these hardy souls to endure such isolation. The roads here were so rough and crumbling that he was forced to a crawl, inching forward at 20 or 30 kilometres per hour, half-expecting a head-on collision at every blind corner. It was like walking along the window ledges on the 100th floor of a metropolitan skyscraper; there was absolutely no room for error.

Fortunately, he surprised no unwary drivers around those dangerous curves. But he did startle a moose, which galloped off in high dudgeon, leaping back into the forest before he could do more than snap one blurry photo.

Finally, around 9 pm, he reached the border...only to find that it had closed for the night. He was stunned and annoyed at first, hardly believing that a border crossing could simply shut down. And he couldn't just sleep, not with the sun blazing down the whole time. He couldn't even phone Sylvia; he'd left cell phone coverage behind hours ago. He'd be stuck here for hours, with nothing to do.

And then it hit home. This was what he'd wanted all along: some peace and quiet, some solitude, an escape from phone calls and emails and news coverage. For half a day, he thought, he'd have nothing to do but watch and think and enjoy the silence at the top of the world.

He joined a small group of similarly stranded travellers, and they shared some good-natured grumbling. Some Alaskans emigrating to Kentucky brought him over a delicious heaping of ravioli, served up on a paper plate with a plastic spoon. For a while they discussed politics and popular culture, and then each moved on to his or her own corners, leaving him alone to gaze at the sky. For hours he simply stood and stared, watching birds flit back and forth, the clouds roll serenely overhead, the sun slowly graze the mountains, barely kissing them, holding back the night.

He explored a little, stumbling across a tiny creek. The only sound was the sound of water trickling over the polished stones, and suddenly he was delighted that he'd missed the crossing. This is why we're here, he thought; to enjoy the marvels of nature, to wonder at the grand machinations of nature and science, to contemplate ourselves and the beauty of our surroundings.

For a long time he was lost in thought. He wondered how, in the face of all this serenity, he allowed himself to stress himself nearly to death over politics he couldn't hope to change alone. But after a while he realized that what he did was important; his very presence here was possible only because he enjoyed sufficient prosperity to make the journey. Many, many thousands in his home province weren't so fortunate. The most vulnerable struggled to buy groceries.

Did he deserve this indulgence, he wondered? Perhaps not. But he needed it, and when the border opened up again some time later, he drove on, renewed. The sensation would be fleeting.

The road steadily improved as he made his way to Dawson City, and then he spotted it, wonder of wonders:

A two-dimensional false street - just like they sometimes used in the movies! The doors led nowhere, the balcony couldn't be climbed; it was merely a fancy road sign. He wished he owned an original Star Trek costume so that he could pose in front of the faux tableaux, pretending he was an extra in "Spectre of the Gun."

That image alone would be worth a return trip, he thought; perhaps after losing 80 pounds or so...

For a wonder, he arrived just in time to catch the ferry across the Yukon River. As soon as he stopped on the riverbank, waiting for the ferry to make landing, he turned on his cell phone to call Sylvia. He knew that she must be worried, for it had been over sixteen hours since he'd last called, back in Tok. But the phone glumly pronounced "No Service," which made no sense to him; Dawson City was pretty far north, yes, but it was one of Yukon's largest population centres. Surely they had cell phone service...? Well, no matter; he'd phone as soon as he found a hotel room. There would be land lines.

The Yukon was perhaps the most beautiful river he'd ever seen, carving its way through the mountains with tremendous power. It was a pleasure just to watch the waves roll by, heading for the Bering Strait, ancient roadway to the continent's indigenous peoples. What must it have been like, he wondered, to explore this place in the old times before modern civilization, via raft or canoe? Hard but marvellous, he decided.

The architecture was everything he'd hoped for, with a movie-western feel inside and out in practically every building. He found lodging at the Westmark Inn and asked about cellular reception, only to discover that something had severed the main connection to Whitehorse. Not only was there no celluar service, there was no communication at all: no telephone connections, no television, no debit card or credit card machines. Unless you had a satellite phone, you were out of luck.

He worried about Sylvia; she would almost certainly think that he'd crashed the car or been eaten by a bear. But what could he do? He certainly couldn't drive to Whitehorse, not after skipping a night's sleep. He could only hope that she wouldn't fret too much, and he would have to put aside his guilt and try to enjoy the town. He was too tired to explore much, so he confined himself to a quick excursion of his hotel's street, snapping an initial round of photos, promising to capture the more interesting sights the next day:

Too many hours without sleep curtailed his meanderings. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll spend most of the morning here, then drive to Whitehorse. I'll be there a couple of days - time enough to explore the Yukon capital and ride the famous train to Skagway, Alaska. And then I'll start the long drive home. Soon he'd be back in Edmonton with a fine collection of photos and fond memories.

It was the day before disaster.