Photo: Bridgette O'Sullivan (Diamond Tooth Gertie), Mary-Ann Annabelle (Dancer) and Jim Hodgkinson (Honky-tonk Piano) from Diamond Tooth Gerties on parade in front of the Palace Grand Theatre, 1979.
The summer of 1973, when I was seventeen, I hitch-hiked from Ottawa to Long Beach on Vancouver Island and back, by way of Dawson City, Yukon. By then, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, Canada’s celebrity Prime Minister, had both inspired youth and shaken up the Canadian military. My father, an Air Force Captain, was concerned about the role of the military during and after the October Crisis while I was interested in the network of youth hostels the Canadian government had set up from coast to coast, in support of Trudeau’s call for youth to get to know their country. I put my thumb out on the road west, and travelled for 32 days. The journey cost me $50 in all, with breakfast and a night in a hostel wall-tent for 50 cents. When hostels were not available, I used a large rain poncho to create a makeshift tent staked with aluminum tent pegs and a fresh cut stick in the hood to prop it up. For years afterwards, I could remember the faces and names of the many people who gave me rides, bought me lunch, served me eggs fried in olive oil, read my horoscope and interpreted the meaning of things I could see in cloud formations over the great, open Saskatchewan skies.
After Long Beach, I went up the interior of British Columbia towards my older brother Steve, who had been working at Mile 160 on the Dempster Highway in the Yukon. By luck, we met at Liard Hot Springs as he was headed south again to Fort Nelson. He was pursuing his own dreams of making enough money to travel to Mexico’s Baja California, which he did later that summer. As a big brother would, he encouraged me to continue to Dawson City. Three days after I arrived in town I turned around and headed back to Ottawa and the start of my final year of High School (Grade 13). Happily, I got a ride with a hippie in a van just outside of Jake’s Corner about 75 km south of Whitehorse that took me all the way to Sudbury, Ontario. The ride was 4,816 km. He picked up other hitch-hikers along the way, with all of us sharing the bed in the back.
I returned to Dawson City in 1975, keen to use the art skills I had developed in my first year of a Fine Arts program at Sir George Williams University in Montreal. Weldon Farr, a talkative man known in Dawson by his nickname Windy, loaned me an old-fashioned push cart with large wooden wheels that I fashioned into a mobile art gallery. It was one of many artefacts beside the large frame house he lived in with his Native wife Eliza and their many children. Every afternoon at 4 pm I parked the cart in front of Robert Services’ Cabin where tourists gathered to hear the famous poems recited by an acting student. By 7:30 pm I was in front of the Palace Grand Theatre waiting for the tourists to exit for the intermission. Folks from Omaha and Calgary would gather round the cart and its landscape paintings hung on a makeshift wall and pepper me with questions. “Did you paint this? What is your name? How much does it cost?” Eventually, someone would be bold enough to say, “I’ll buy that one,” and next thing I knew I would sell three, each for $25. Shortly afterwards, I would make my way to Diamond Tooth Gerties, Canada’s only legal gambling casino at the time, where I poured liquor from behind the bar for these same Omaha and Calgary couples. Gerties was a pleasure spot, and employer for dozens of Canadian youth from across the country taking a turn at dealing Blackjack, serving drinks and, for those with the skills, dancing and singing on stage.
From behind the bar I had a bird’s eye view of everything till 1 AM when, doors closed, the dealers and dancers would line up at the bar and I would serve them all a shot or two of Kahlua, vodka or whatever else they fancied. The next morning, I wouldbe at a table making a couple of paintings to replace the ones sold the day before, and then out for my rounds with the travelling gallery. The special gift of youthful energy, and the midnight sun, meant that I could keep it going all summer without crashing out.
Photo: Dancers at Diamond Tooth Gerties, Dawson City, 1978. Do you know their names?
That year started a relationship with the people and the landscape of the Yukon that carried me through three winters and six summers, ending in 1982. Trips during that period to what Yukoners call “the Outside” where simply time away from my Dawson home. I acquired so many stories I could entertain interested Outside friends for hours. Eventually, the stories no longer seemed so close to me and fell away like the brown corduroy pants I used to wear everywhere. Now these stories can be recalled as I explore the arc of my professional life from artist to academic, and perceptions (of mine and others) of the transition Dawson City was going through too. The 1970s and early 1980s was a time when new blood from the south invigorated Dawson with novel ideas, entrepreneurship and creative professionalism virtually unseen in town since 1953 when it lost out to Whitehorse as the capital of the Gold Rush territory. Some young people drifted into and sometimes took over placer gold mining operations from the sourdoughs of Dawson and members of the Yukon Order of Pioneers who had endured many winters and fluctuating gold prices. Others brought an international sophistication to the town’s growing tourism industry, buoyed by steady investment from Parks Canada and early signs of today’s booming interest in ecotourism. The two economies – active placer mining and both historical and outdoor tourism – mingled and merged even as the people involved stayed largely apart.
The mid 1970s was also the height of the “back-to-the-land” movement, when young men and women from as far away as Berlin, New York and Montreal arrived in Dawson to carve out a simple lifestyle in the bush. Traplines, fishing eddies and farmland were occupied and revived after decades of laying untended or fallow. While some of these “bush hippies” and idealists stayed and integrated with town life, many eventually moved on. According to the author Dan O’Neil, by the late 1990s the land along the Yukon River from Whitehorse past Dawson and into Alaska had “gone lonesome”, with few left to care for it. This represented, by his account, a loss of local knowledge as the creeks, ridges, mountain slopes and creatures on both sides of this great river were separated from caring human eyes and gentle uses. He called his book “A Land Gone Lonesome.”
I witnessed and participated in a few years of the Yukon bush boom long before I had a professional interest in the issue underlying O’Neil’s observation. At my workplace in the International Development Research Centre (IDRC) I helped develop an approach to biodiversity conservation that argued against the separation of parks and people. A better response to the challenge of conservation, we said, would be to support the sustainable use of biodiversity by local people. We found that utility can act as an incentive for conservation, not only of the resource but also of the local knowledge associated with it. Local knowledge of the medicinal uses of plants in wild places, the best crop varieties for particular soils, the movement of animals and the seasonal patterns of water and wind are part of what keeps places healthy and overuse in check. My friend Grant Dowdell, a bush pioneer now retired in Dawson, wryly commented to me that today there are still lots of young men with long beards in town, but few who know what lies beyond the town’s edge. This is indeed a gap likely to erode the vigilance needed to protect and promote sustainable use of the land.
Photo: Tim Gerberding and James Boulton, in the backcountry above the Forty Mile, 1978.
While new arrivals and established White families thrived during the 1970s and early 1980s, the Dawson that I knew was a difficult time for the “Han Indians”. By then all First Nation families had moved into North Dawson from the downriver village and Indian Reserve of Moosehide. Life in Moosehide was isolated, and marked by the same kinds of abuses faced by indigenous peoples elsewhere in Canada -- the Methodist minister who ran the school in Moosehide was forced to leave after reports of sexual abuse. By the late 1950s, the indigenous language was under severe pressure, according to Julie Cruikshank, an anthropologist of Yukon oral traditions I met in Whitehorse. Many adults of the indigenous community were swept up in the boisterous and sometimes raucous drinking culture of Dawson, and housing was in disarray. The Native adults I knew, including the highly respected elders Joe and Annie Henry, talked about the “better days” in Moosehide. Fortunately, by the time I completed my 1983 Master’s Thesis on a commercial salmon fishery set up by the Indian Band, a new life was beginning to emerge among the Tr’ondëk Hwëch'in First Nation. Eventually, a land claim settlement and a shift in thinking connected them to the economic life of Dawson and the Indigenous revival movement that swept across Canada in the 1990s. Today, they are thriving.
Photo: House interior, Moosehide, 1977.
The perceptions I share here of the broader transitions of town, bush and Indigenous life in Dawson are tentative, informed by my memories and by recent conversations with friends that lived through them. The deeper story of social changes in Dawson is for others to tell. My focus in this chapter is on what I lived, the people I knew, and the stories that helped shape me. Perhaps these stories can in turn inform that bigger canvas, painted at another time by other people.
Danny, the artist
Something I like about my name is that is has three forms: Dan, Danny and Daniel. The last form, which I have always used for publishing, is also found in the foundational texts of three major religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. This reminds me of the unity in religions often pitted against each other. While I normally introduce myself as Daniel, the name form chosen by others has varied by time and place. My mother called me Dan but my aunts, all of Irish extraction, called me Danny. So too did my friends in Dawson City.
At the end of my second year of art studies in Montreal (1976) I returned to Dawson for the summer and rented a shack off Third Avenue across from the El Dorado Hotel. It was tucked between Ruby’s Place (a former bordello) and The Westminster Hotel (a drinking place of local fame). The shack was set back from the street’s wooden boardwalk so I built my own to convey tourists to my first gallery with walls and a roof. Rough slabs of trees from the local mill provided cheap, ready-made material for the boardwalk, and they lined the inside of the frame structure to make it look like a log cabin. I called it Cheechako Cache, a reference to the Gold Rush term for newcomers.
Photo: Cheechako Cache, 1976.
That summer I met Margaret Vera Dorval, known famously as Bombay Peggy. She had lived in Hong Kong before World War II, been in the Australian women’s army corps and in the 1950s ran a bordello in the Yukon mining towns of Keno and Elsa. She also owned a Dawson hotel in the 1960s where she rented rooms to clients one hour at a time. She had an interest in art too. As I recall, my Cheechako Cache was one of her buildings, although I may have got that wrong. According to local historian Mifi Purvis, her hotel competed with Ruby’s Place for federal money that started to pour into Dawson in the 1970s for the purchase and renovation of historic buildings. When Ruby won out, perhaps because her bordello had been busier, Peg’s building was sold privately and eventually became today’s Bombay Peggy’s Inn and Pub. My friend Eleanor Millard, a social worker in Dawson from 1965 to 1969, knew Peg as one of her senior clients. Eleanor visited Peg in Vancouver’s Chinatown toward the end of her life, and learned that she had arranged to have her ashes spread on the graveyard hill behind Dawson.
When late summer came, I had to decide whether to return to Montreal to complete my Fine Arts degree or stay on in Dawson. The story of the decision I told afterwards, which still makes sense to me, was that if I wanted to be an artist, then I needed to make art, not study it. By staying in Dawson, I could dedicate myself to painting, with a magical landscape around me for inspiration and plenty of people in town I liked and that seemed to like me. I rented a one-room cabin used by the owners of the Flora Dora Hotel as a summer office, and set myself up for the winter. I lived for the next two years in Dawson, painting and working the summer at Gerties, hiking and skiing whenever I could, and making music during the long winter nights.
Lambert Curzon’s house was a hotspot for listening to the latest rock music, and for friends to gather to make music of our own. I played bongos, and occasionally the harmonica and penny whistle, to renditions of the Eagles songs skillfully played by (name), the only real musician in the room. We even played a few winter gigs at the Band Hall, raking in $100 each. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album was all the rage, as were Carly Simon and Maria Muldaur. My musical education was stretched in an entirely different direction, however, by Grant Dowdell, a touchstone for Dawson and man of talent, grit and purpose.
Photo: Lambert Curzon, 1976.
Grant was my first mentor as an adult, teaching me to listen deeply to the art of Bach’s Easter Oratorio and Fugue in D Minor played on the organ. He also introduced me to the book “Walden, or Life in the Woods.” Grant was one of the first of the 70s wave of young people that changed the character of the town and set a new standard for living off the land. He arrived in 1970, and later, with his wife Karen Quinn, started a vegetable farm that fed the people of Dawson for more than 40 years until his retirement from farming in 2017. He lived the life only dabbled in for one summer by Henry David Thoreau.
When Grant arrived in Dawson from Toronto, he rented a cabin in the middle of town, saving money and learning the skills he would need to buy land and machinery to farm. During his first winter, he walked the few miles downstream from Dawson to the village of Moosehide to visit an American couple living there for the winter. Bob and Rosemary Russo were from Brooklyn, New York, and had been given permission by the Chief, Percy Henry, to occupy and care for one of the cabins. There were the only people living in Moosehide at that time, a rare privilege for White people. Grant, Karen, Bob and Rosemary became close friends, and inspired each other to plan for a life on the land. The following year Bob and Rosemary moved to Rosebud Creek on the Stewart River, far from any road or town. My encounter later with Bob at Rosebud Creek became a story I told whenever people asked me about Grizzly bears in the Yukon.
When I met Grant during the winter of 1976 he was the janitor at the Dawson school. He had met Karen Quinn, a blonde school teacher from central British Columbia with a bright smile and passion for farming. They married that winter in their tiny cabin. I was the witness, along with a Justice of the Peace. I also picked up Grant’s janitorial duties for a few months in the late spring as they made the transition to living at the farm. This came after several years of hard labour clearing the land of trees to establish fields and space for a home and outbuildings. What made that work all the more arduous was that the farm was located on an island in the Yukon River, eight miles upstream from town. While certainly there were easier places to build, this location offered remarkably rich and deep, silt-based soils good for farming vegetable crops, which became Grant and Karen’s specialty. It was the most remarkable farm I have seen in over thirty years of professional life visiting farms around the world. He built a two-story, eight-sided log house (1,400 sq ft) and, with Karen, raised a family of three children there. I visited them often on the island, in summer and in winter. They served me coffee creamed with fresh goat’s milk I would pull from the animal’s teats first thing in the morning. I listened to Grant play classical music on guitar while Karen played piano. I was around when their first son was born and named Jonathan by Karen, after our mutual friend John Lodder. I had already left for Mexico when their second son Daniel was born, but Grant named him after me. I felt deeply touched by the friendship, but sadly never got to know Daniel other than as a baby, or his younger sister. My wife Debra and I met Jonathan as an adult when we visited Dawson in 2008, just after he had built his first major log home across the river from Dawson. He and his family now spend the summer months there and the winter tending a trapline on the Chandindu River (a.k.a. Twelve Mile River). His brother Daniel is a carpenter and instrument maker, and his sister Laura an artist living in Montreal. We also met Karen Digby at that time, Grant’s current partner in life and the farm. Karen gave us a tour of her English Garden behind the house and we talked about goats (her specialty) and the book I had shared with them on my work with “uncultivated biodiversity” (a.k.a. edible weeds) in Bangladesh and India. She has a keen interest in farming lifestyles, and had met Grant a few years after he and Karen Quinn divorced. She was doing technical research on legumes and soil nitrogen levles, and needed a test plot. Grant obliged. She went on to help deliver produce in Dawson, and help plan and implement various aspects of the farm operation. As with anything worthwhile, many hands made the magic of Grant's farm possible.
Photo: Grant, Daniel, Karen and Jonathan at their farm, 1979.
What I learned in the late 1970s from Grant’s life that was most dear to me is an appreciation for the beauty of a simple life. Long before I’d heard the phrase “voluntary simplicity”, I was living it, as were Grant and other young men and women who came to Dawson and then moved onto the land. My motto at the time was “earn as little money as possible, and let everything else adjust.” While a half joke, it expressed my view that the high consumption money inevitably fuels is not important to a happy and high-quality life. This was evident in the choices Grant and his family were making at the time, and that his son Jonathan is making today. It is also why, decades later, it was easy for me to understand the philosophy of Bangladesh’s “New Agriculture Movement” - the Nayakrishi - and its focus on cultivating “the joy of life” as an antidote to economic and technological processes destroying people and the earth.
Somehow the riches of my life at that point did not include a girlfriend, although I did manage to convince a number of women to sit for me as models. The drawings in black conté on paper often included patterns from the curtains in my tiny cabin. These, and an ambitious oil painting of Karen, bare breasted like Gauguin’s natives of Tahiti and cradling Jonathan in her arms, made their way in the spring of 1977 into the Whitehorse Public Art Gallery for my first one-person show. It was a hit, and even prompted the most famous of Yukon artists, Ted Harrison, to purchase one of the drawings and to tell reporters that Danny Buckles was the most interesting up-and-coming artist on the Yukon scene. Looking back, that work was the most vital and original I ever did as a painter. Many were framed in a novel way, with battered old frames from Gold Rush days, weathered windows and doors, ornate mirrors and even a mahogany pool cue rack that carried Karen’s portrait as though she were a religious icon. The bottom holder for the cue sticks was decorated with small candles.
Photo: Danny Buckles and Ted Harrison, at the Whitehorse Public Gallery, 1977.
Mary Tcurchinski, a kind and matronly figure, was my supplier of bricabrac and all things old and interesting. She lived on the corner across from the leaning Guns and Ammunition shop building, the most photographed of Dawson buildings. Her yard and house were a treasure trove of old things most considered useless, including a chemist’s massive mortar and pestle from early in the century I purchased and later used to grind pigments for paint. I also used these “found objects” to make art combining paintings and drawings with functional frames such as doors and windows.
Greg Skuce, a man of quiet self-cofidence, modelled for a portrait of a man clothed in a winter jacket and wool hat pulling on heavy mitts for a jaunt outside. I set the painting in a heavy wooden door, with two narrow strips of blue stained glass along each side of the painted panel to allow light through. The back side of the painting showed the view of what Greg was looking at through the door – a yard covered in snow, stacked wood and an axe stuck in a chopping stump. Hinges and an old door knob completed the picture frame. This one was inspired by a Rembrant self-portrait, but painted in dark blues and greens rather than the reds and brown earth colours of 15th Century Holland.
Photo: Scene from the Whitehorse Public Gallery show "What about the Moon?", 1977.
Two- and three-dimensional paintings and painted sculptures were centrepieces for my show, entitled “What About the Moon?” Winter nights in the Yukon were an awesome presence for me, and inspired several paintings in a Van Gogh style. Another was a series of six pencil sketches of the moon gradually rising, each one set in one of six small window panes. The work and the framing concept, in addition to being a successful art show, later set me up to win a Canada Council award for the Arts. The proposal was called “Investigating art and craft as ifluenced by the Yukon culture and landscape,” a harbinger perhaps for the bland language I later used in my academic writing. My occupation was listed as “Painter and Yoga Teacher,” although fortunately I was never asked to provide credentials for the latter. My P.O. Box #366, Dawson City, Yukon must have impressed the jury, along with references in the proposal to the American artists Joseph Cornell and Robert Rauschenburg, both of whom blurred the distinctions between painting and sculpture. I also wrote in the proposal that, “I have many friends who are trappers, miners, farmers, bird watchers, craftspeople, businessmen and ‘modern hippies’ in search of alternative lifestyles. I will be greatly assisted by these people.”
Danny, the outdoorsman
One of the sources of inspiration I didn’t mention in the grant proposal was Casey, my brother younger-by-a-year and companion on hikes and ski trips to remote people and places that became subjects for my art. He arrived in town a year or so after I did, and took up residence for the winter at Pottery Patty’s while she was Outside. Pottery Patty (a.k.a. Anne Macaire), was a tiny, full-bodied woman with long, dark hair and a bright, pretty face, with a claim to an abandoned log cabin off the road to the Dome above Dawson City. The cabin, chinked with moss and a grass sod roof, was half buried in the slope, with an overhanding porch and tiny door. The hobbit house, Casey called it. While he was under six feet tall, Casey would bump his head on the interior ceiling whenever he leaned to look out the low window. Outdoors was an oval porcelain soaking tub that today would be a popular amenity in a luxury bathroom. As there was no running water, it was for summer use only when water could be delivered by truck.
During the winter of 1977 it seemed Casey lived off trapped rabbits and graham crackers. The food must have suited him because he was strong and agile. Whenever he went into town he would carry a heavy staff to support his weight and use as a rudder as he slid down a very steep path into town. Trees helped slow his descent, with one favourite tree helping him turn sharply right towards his job as a stock boy in Caley's General Store and later a bartender in Hank Dubois’ Downtown Hotel, or sharply left towards the Klondike River and other parts of town. One day he woke up to find a wolverine in the vestibule of the cabin gnawing on a rabbit he had left hanging there. The outer door to the vestibule had swung shut, trapping the wolverine inside with its meal. Casey was in the cabin, with no other exit. Eventually, he used a broom handle to pry the outer door open and let the beast escape. If you haven’t seen a live wolverine, you need only imagine the terror produced by Hugh Jackman’s portrayal of the character Wolverine in the X-Men film series. Mountain Man would not have been a misplaced moniker for my younger brother, although he was sociable and liked enough that Gary Parker and Rose Lamb named one of their sons Casey. He, like I, felt good to be connected that way.
Photo: Casey Buckles, resting during a hike into the Tombstone Mountains, 1977.
Painting: Casey skiing on the Yukon River near the Forty Mile.
Casey helped me learn to live with discomfort. That winter we skied 100 miles down the Yukon River to visit John Lodder at his trapline. It was tough. After two nights on the trail in -20 temperatures, we arrived unannounced at John’s cabin and were greeted with a grunt of surprise. “Damn”, he said, “Now I have to wash the dishes!” His hospitality was warm, however, and after chopping a roast from the hind quarter of a moose he put it in a pot to boil. John hadn’t had visitors for many weeks, time he spent checking his traps, reading and illustrating stories raging against the military-industrial complex. Issue #1 of the Yukon Komix, which I still have thanks to Casey, is a scathing story about human addiction to oil and gas, and the crony capitalism behind the McKenzie Valley pipeline proposal of the time. Prescient, raw and thoughtful, the comic is a remarkable and fantastically illustrated example of 1970s counter-culture. Grant told me recently that “John is the most original person I’ve ever met,” and I would agree.
Photo: John Lodder in his studio, Dawson City, 2008.
Casey and I arrived at his cabin a few years before a life-changing event in John’s life that pulled him out of the bush life. He told me that during the week leading up to Christmas he had been alternating between writing and illustrating a Yukon Komix and reading from the Bible by the light of a tiny window in his undersized cabin. He used decades-old gasoline in his kerosene lamp from an abandoned drum he had found on the 40 Mile River, so the globe blackened easily. A tall, gangly man normally quite content with his own thoughts, he knew he had two options for a Christmas party. One was to travel upriver to visit with Tim Gerberding and James Boulton, who had cabins and traplines of their own at Coal Creek on the east side of the Yukon River. John knew that he would be welcome there and could count on a few drinks and tokes of homegrown weed. The other option was to go downriver to Eagle (Alaska) where he knew a Christian community would welcome him with open arms. Eagle was a tiny town, mainly populated at the time by devote Christians and a few back-to-the-land devotees. After struggling intensely with the choice for a number of days, he stood at the rivers' edge and looked upriver and downriver. Something, he told me, said to go downriver, marking the beginning of a new life as a committed Christian. John and I later fell out for a time over what I thought were evangelical excesses, and his new perspective that art was a frivolous pastime, but he was always kind and generous with me. He returned to drawing and painting, making colourful landscapes with a remarkable directness and joyful feeling. When Casey and I left his cabin for our return trip to Dawson, he rustled up a breakfast of rolled oats fried in lard and peanut butter, which we washed down with boiled coffee. We didn’t need to stop for lunch that day.
Casey and I made a great outdoors team, buoyed by the deep trust of brothers very close in age. Our fisticuffs as teenagers were long past, partly because he could now whoop me. A hike into the Tombstone Mountains in the early summer of 1977, before the Dawson tourist season and work at Gerties began, was a highlight for us. We hitched a ride up the Dempster Highway to a place overlooking Tombstone Valley, now one of Canada’s most spectacular parks. The North Klondike River drains the valley towards the east and then south to the main trunk of the Klondike River and tributaries such as Bonanza Creek where in 1896 gold had been discovered in abundance and launched a human stampede that shook the economies of San Francisco and London. The fall colours of the valley are spectacular, with black spruce, alders and willows combining with mosses and muskeg, creating a palette like no other. On the horizon, Mount Monolith stands like an inverted canine tooth, forming a jagged ridge against the sky. It is why I sometimes refer to the Yukon as “God’s Country,” and a sign of what the poet Robert Service was saying when he wrote “The Spell of the Yukon.”
Photo: The Tombstone Range, Yukon, 1977.
When Casey and I started out on our hike in 1977, there were no human-made trails into the valley. An English couple, Rick and Louise, had been to a point on the highway the previous winter where they ran their dogs up and down the snow-covered hillside as training for the famous Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. This trail-blazing didn’t help us much once the snow melted, as the valley towards our destination was a thick briar of alder and willows tall enough to block our view and passage. We quickly learned, however, to think like a moose, following what Casey dubbed the magic meandering moose track. It was a track created by centuries of animals moving up the valley, carving a very narrow trail six or more inches deep in the boggy, wet moss. We followed these trails, only to have them peter out suddenly and for no humanly relatable reason. Eventually, thinking like a moose would help us pick up the trail again, an act of transhumanism we got quite good at as we approached Summit Lake and the base of Mount Monolith. Along the way, we marvelled at the colour of the “blueberry pies” (scat) deposited here and there by Grizzly bears. While we had no rifle and bear spray was not common in those days, we did put dents in our pots making noise as we slowly made our way along.
Photo: Casey and Danny Buckles at Summit Lake, Tombstone Mountains, Yukon, 1977.
Photo: The Monolith, Tombstone Mountains, 1977.
Several days deep into the mountains we saw a furl of smoke rising from ahead, and could smell fish cooking. Casey remembers it as Grayling, perhaps from the upper reaches of the Tombstone River or Talus Lake, but I recall it as hard-smoked salmon strips. A woman was alone at the camfire. Sitting somewhat nervously on a small bolder, Bryson told us that her companions, Tim Gerberding and James Boulton, were off for the day to climb up part of Mount Monolith. She gave us some of her salmon strips to supplement our own meagre rations which were running out at that point. We needed the fat energy desperately, and managed to turn the good fortune of meeting her into several more days of hiking down the Tombstone River before returning to the Dempster. A wooden cross on one of the hills, still there by all accounts, reminded us of the dangers of being so poorly prepared and out so far.
Photo: View over the Tombstone River valley, 1977.
Bryson had travelled to the campsite where we found her on a route much more difficult than our own. Together, she, Tim and James had started up the Twelve Mile Creek on the Yukon River and then up the Little Twelve Mile and over to the Tombstone River where we encountered her. For part of their trip, they followed an abandoned water pipeline built during the early years of industrial gold mining in Dawson, when huge dredges were used to churn up creek beds looking for gold. Large amounts of water were needed to sift the gravel and separate out the heavy metal. The pipeline, built in part with redwood from British Columbia, brought water from the upper reaches of the Twelve Mile to the Yukon Ditch and then Bonanza Creek. The tailings from these early open pit mines still littered the landscape all along the Bonanza section of the Klondike tributary. Tim, James and Brysonn had scrambled along that pipeline for kilometres to get to where Casey and I came across their camp, and then exited the way we had come in, along the North Klondike River to the Dempster Highway. In effect, they had traversed what would later become the Tombstone Territorial Park established under the Yukon First Nations Final Agreement.
Many years later, Tim Gerberding played a central role in establishing Tombstone Territorial Park, working as one of two negotiators for the Council of Yukon Indians. When I knew him, however, he was a trapper, fisherman and dog musher living at Coal Creek, not far from John Lodders’ trapline. Tim arrived in Dawson from Colorado in the mid 1970s, when draft dodging and getting back-to-the-land was a political stance for young Americans. Both Casey and I hiked with him a number of times, and with his bush and business partner James Boulton. I also visited in summer and in winter the cabin he built with a French-Canadian woman, Andreé Gaulin, with whom he had two boys. Their first son was named Spruce, after the trees surrounding their cabin. Only years later did I learn he was the “implementation guru” for the Tr’onkëk Hwëchin First Nation, helping to transform the First Nation into the thriving organization and people they are today. He and Andreé became key informants for my first research project, which was a Master level thesis on the Han commercial salmon fishery. While it failed after only a few years, the Han Fishery was the first major economic development project launched in the modern era by the Dawson Indian community.
Photo: Tim Gerberding and Andreé Gaulin at their Coal Creek cabin with their two boys, Spruce and Louis, 1985.
I saw Tim as a bush intellectual, and one of the most articulate people I have ever known. I remember him saying, “Just because something is legal doesn’t make it ethical”, a distinction that stuck with me. Many years later in Bangladesh I heard a similar idea attributed to Fakir Lalon Shah, a prominent mystic and philosopher in British India that influenced my work there. He said that there was no need for a policeman if you carried one inside. In my view, the two statements converge around the idea of life being guided first and foremost by a moral obligation to follow certain rules for both the individual and collective good. Generosity was one rule in evidence from Tim, John Lodder, Grant and other bush people I visited on the river.
Tim also helped me understand the practice of self-sufficiency. To make muffins in the morning he would grind flour with a hand mill and mix it with the sourdough starter remaining from the previous day. Doing this every day gave him powerful arms, a benefit he would kindly pass off to any guests expecting breakfast. He hunted, fished and cut wood from standing dead trees affected by fire or the changing water table along creek beds. He and Andreé built a cabin that was a functional work of art, with a food cache on tall poles primed against bears. I mimicked his skills by devising my own method for gathering the wood supply I needed to stay warm in the cabin on the edge of town I rented the winter of 1978 from John Lodder. On my trips to Grant’s island farm on the Yukon River, I had noticed massive piles of driftwood along the shoreline. I borrowed a chain saw from Grant, cut logs into 6 metre lengths and stacked them to make a raft. Once it was several layers deep I nudged it into the Yukon River and rode like a bearded king down to the waterfront at Dawson. Grant helped me coax it into the right spot so I didn’t overshoot the town and end up on the shore of the abandoned village of Moosehide. The sand on the logs was hell on the chain saw, but it made excellent firewood to stuff in the barrel stove.
Photo: Danny Buckles, king of the raft, fall 1976.
John’s log cabin in town was eight-sided, with one room and a root cellar beneath a trap door in the middle of the floor. That winter, I filled the root cellar with carrots, potatoes, and parsnips from Grant’s farm, along with bags of rice, beans and other grains. I also tried hunting moose with Casey, but we were unsuccessful. I did get an opportunity to go up the Dempster that fall with two school teachers keen to hunt for caribou. The Porcupine Caribou have the longest land migration route of any land mammal on earth, more than 2,400 km on their way to calving grounds at the Beaufort Sea. We were stopped on the side of the road, looking across a nearby stretch of frozen river, when a small herd suddenly emerged from the bush. A couple of females were followed by a male with a prominent rack of horns and then eight or nine other animals moving with grace through the snow lip along the shoreline and out into the open. Our rifles made so much racket we attracted hunters from up and down the highway, but by the time they arrived the herd had fled. The male lay panting and then died on the blood stained snow, while a wounded female that had fallen leaped up and ran into the woods as we approached. We waited for it to stop running, and then tried to track it, but soon lost any sign of blood or footprints. I was haunted by the thought of the animal dying out of sight and separated from the rest of the herd, but could do nothing but return to our kill and share the meat among us. I traded some of the caribou for moose and bear meat, to broaden my diet. I knew that to be active during the winter to come I would need the energy from animal fat. The bush ethical framework I learned from Tim, John Lodder and others helped me see that if I were prepared to eat an animal, then I should also be prepared to take its life. While I have been a strict vegetarian for most of my life, I have always appreciated the importance of knowing where my food comes from, and contributing what I can to provisioning it.
The bush skills I acquired that year added to what was already a high level of comfort with the outdoors built up during my childhood. My father took his three sons into the woods of Ontario many times, and annually to a family cottage on a remote part of Lake Temagami, a celebrated near-north wilderness destination. When the owners of an eco-tourism start-up in Dawson (Greg Capel, Allan Dennis and Caroline, a beautifully delicate British woman), needed someone to guide a group of four New York lawyers down the Stewart River and then along the Yukon River to Dawson, they asked me. It didn’t seem to matter that I had never been on the Stewart, although I had traversed 730 kilometres on the Yukon River from Whitehorse to Dawson. A few days after we set out, we came to Bob and Rosemary Russo’s cabin at Rosebud Creek about 40 miles upriver from the mouth of the Stewart. These Brooklyn natives, now with many winters living in the bush, welcomed us inside and invited us to pitch our tents for the night.
I asked Bob about the grizzly bear pelt staked to an interior wall. He told me that he had seen the bear near their boat launch at Rosebud Creek rolling away one of his 45-gallon drums of fuel. After Bob shot, the bear took off wounded into the thick willows. He was tracking it in the bush, a very foolish thing to do, when suddenly the bear leapt up in front of him. Bob only had time to lift his gun half way up and get a shot off. The bear fell on him and in its death agony bit Bob in the arm. Then it died on top of him. Rosemary recounted that from the cabin she could hear Bob’s screams during the encounter. After extricating himself, Bob fired off a few more shots to be sure the bear was dead and then went with Rosemary to Dawson, many hours away by boat, to have his wound attended. No one ever knew what the bear planned to do with the fuel.
Bush stories gone wrong were inevitable in a context where young people were arriving in Dawson from all over the world, most with less savvy than Bob. A German man whose name I now forget told me about a problem he was having with noise inside the cabin he had built for the winter. It was constructed in a hurry with green logs, spurred on by a fast approaching winter. He chinked the imperfect joints of logs with moss but didn’t bother to strip the bark off the trunks before putting up the walls and roof. Come the middle of winter, bark beetles were enjoying the heated space enough to keep themselves busy gnawing away at the wood cellulose. The man could hardly sleep. He also lost his truck to a fire. With no electricity to warm the oil pan in the deep cold, he built a small fire underneath, which got away when residual oil caught fire. No truck and a noisy cabin at 40 C below did not seem to dampen his spirits, however. I remember him as a man with good humour in the face of difficulties who was having the time of his life. Germans were becoming the biggest source of tourists in Dawson, after the Americans, thanks in part to the mythological status in Cold War Germany of Jack London, Indians and the wilds of Canada. Escaping to a place where survival through the coming nuclear holocaust seemed possible offered something unique, and attracted both the skilled and the hapless.
Danny, the townie
Young people arriving in Dawson during the 1970s learned what they could about the bush life. Many, however, focused on town life, bringing creativity and a counter-culture entrepreneurial spirit that ultimately refreshed and transformed the town’s economic and cultural life. While visual art was part of that process, music became the biggest contributor to an emerging Dawson culture beyond the stereotypes and gold rush ethos. John Steins was my window into the intimate nature of music making, different from the wildness of my drumming at Lambert’s house and the other worldly fugues and choral music I heard at Grant’s farmhouse. John and I spent many hours at his cabin drinking coffee (he drank it with condensed milk, and sometimes cold) and talking about the latest news and politics brought to us across the airwaves every morning by CBC’s Peter Gzowski. The twelve-string guitar riffs I heard him play over and over again later made their way into an amazing album called Midnight Light with Scott Sheerin, produced by the folk music icon David Essig. John worked with Scott and other locals in 1979 to organize and play in the first Dawson City Music Festival, described on the official website as “an intimate, two-day affair among friends, comprising a jam session on a West Dawson farm and a dance at Diamond Tooth Gerties.” Dubbed by Vancouver’s Georgia Straight as “Canada’s tiny, perfect Festival,” today’s musical event has displaced the Klondike “Discovery Days” as the time and place to be in Dawson. It is known around the world, employs a year-round Producer, and is booked up to a year ahead.
Creativity wedded to entrepreneurship helped transform Dawson’s tourism experience, long before the “big city” of Whitehorse eventually abandoned tired, colonial tropes like the Sourdough Festival and rebranded as Yukon Rendezvous. John and I were among the new entrepreneurs in town. For the Klondike “Discovery Days” long weekend, I sold smoked salmon sandwiches on rye bread for $2 out of a freshly painted covered wagon (without the cover) rented from the El Dorado Hotel. Meanwhile, down the street I was being under-cut by half by Tim Gerberding and his friends selling salmon salad sandwiches on white bread out of the back of his station wagon. Needless to say, I had to reduce my prices dramatically to attract clients more interested in creating a stomach base for drinking than enjoying fine cuisine, and still most of the bread went moldy. Such is capitalism.
Photo: Danny Buckles, selling smoked salmon sandwiches, Discovery Days, Dawson City, Yukon, 1975.
Debauchery was also part and parcel of town life. People could drink on the street without breaking any municipal by-laws. Off-sales of beer started at 9 am, followed by jugs available starting at 11 am at the Westminster Hotel, a.k.a The Pit. I got drunk there occasionally, but never falling down drunk. A clan of bush hippies known as The Slugs set a different standard, sleeping on the wooden boardwalks or wherever they found themselves when the lights went out. Scabies, a contagious skin infestation caused by a species of mite, swept through their extended family of men, women and children one summer. Town folk were scandalized. “Slug Fests” organized by their “Irish” leader brought little to the economic life of the town and may very well have ruined a few lives.
John Steins and I hung with a different crowd, and went into business together in 1977 when I closed the Cheechako Cache and we reopened as the Gaslight Gallery in a Dawson City Museum and Historical Society’s building (the Hardware Store) near the Palace Grand Theatre. For two beautiful summers, the gallery was a home at different times for several visual artists, a silver smith, trappers with furs to sell and First Nations women who made a variety of crafts. The inclusive space prompted a friendship with Ray Titus, a Native man who worked as an electrician in town. He invited me and my brother Casey to his home for dinner on a few occasions, with his wife and two boys. The friendship grew, and Ray commissioned me to make a small landscape painting for an anniversary of his dad’s death. He then added it the grave marker of his dad up the hill in the town cemetery. I protected the painting as best I could with layers of shellac, but was chagrined to realize a year or so later that the watercolour had faded away completely, leaving only an ink outline of mountain ridges and shoreline rocks as a reminder of the land.
Photo: The pinnacle gallery of my entrepreneurial life, 1977.
Painting: A truck in the bush.
John’s own art – including the “Midnight Sun” linocut that would later grace and name his record album – was prominently displayed in the Gaslight Gallery. It also featured my tourist art, different in style and tone from the pieces created for the “What About the Moon?” show at the Whitehorse Public Gallery. I sold a six-pack of reproductions from a series of rather crudely drawn pen and ink illustrations of Robert Services’ poems, including the “Shooting of Dan McGrew” and “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” This added to what were already tourist staples for me — pen and ink drawings with watercolour highlights of scenes from the Gold Rush, such as climbing the Chilkoot Pass and rafting down the Yukon River. I had made the trip from Skagway to Lake Bennett once myself, early on during my time in Dawson, and felt qualified to use turn-of-the century photographs of the steep pass in my own retelling of the journey. I sold several hundred of these small paintings, which paid the rent and put enough cash in my pocket to quit work at Gerties and spend more time getting to know the rivers, creeks, towns and people of the Yukon. Still, I regret not hanging on to more of my art. Without realizing it at the time, my career as a professional artist was short lived, as were my entrepreneurial experiments.
John had his own bush adventure in 1974 when he made the trip from Whitehorse to Circle Alaska on a raft built with friends. The following year he moved to Dawson from Toronto to take up a job as a dealer in Diamond Tooth Gerties. After several years at the Blackjack Table and the Roulette Wheel, he decided to quit a week before the end of the season and try his luck. John knew the game inside out, and thought he could come out ahead. Over the course of a week, however, the odds are firmly in favour of the house, costing John a pretty penny. He placed a better bet on securing a food supply for the winter, however, when he asked Grant to raise a pig for him and his partner Paula. He gave it a name (Louise), which I thought at the time was a mistake, and sure enough killing and butchering time was more difficult than he thought. He missed the shot to the head, so Grant had to quickly step in and finish the job. He and Paula pitched in to butcher, however, and relished the meat.
Photo: John Steins at the Roulette Wheel at Diamond Tooth Gerties, Dawson City, Yukon, 1978.
John’s forte was not in the bush life but rather in music, printmaking, and politics. His father had been an artist and teacher. According to John’s website, early on he developed an enduring aesthetic for “simplicity, unity and harmony,” which he brought to his wood engravings and other prints. He beat me handily in an open competition for a commission from the Dawson Tourism Office of a special edition poster celebrating 80 years since the discovery of gold at Bonanza creek. I went for a traditional image of the gold pan used by prospectors, jazzed up, I thought, with diamonds instead of gold nuggets. It was meant to be a jubilee theme, even though diamonds are for 60 and 75 year anniversaries. John’s design was, well, simple, unified and harmonious. It was also more creative, using a profile of the classic sternwheeler S.S. Keno that stood on Dawson’s Front Street to create an image of a giant birthday cake.
John also gained artistic notoriety years later for a political series of linocuts called Axis of Weasels. These were a protest against George Bush’s 2003 invasion of Iraq and the “Axis of Evil,” and a challenge to the playing cards developed by the U.S. Defence Intelligence Agency to help troops identify the most-wanted members of Saddam Hussein’s government. John’s deck of cards included the American propagandists of the unethical and disastrous war, such as Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz and the President himself. The prints sold briskly by mail to the USA, but also got John banned from eBay, at least until his fans managed to overturn the ruling. His prowess as an artist and musician, sharp political views, and cheerful personality helped him to become Dawson’s Mayor in the 2000s.
Walking to the post office a few times a week to check for mail was a good pastime in the dark days of a Dawson winter. In early December, the sun would barely streak the sky at ten AM, and be gone by three in the afternoon. Long spells of - 30 C could be punctuated by a drop to - 45 C for a few days, only to rise again to - 30 C. Those warmer temperatures prompted me and other townspeople to come out of our homes, half-dressed, to enjoy the clement weather.
I enjoyed the winter night skies immensely, even when the spectacular Northern Lights were not dancing. The darkness was difficult for many, however, and is the driver behind the northern experience of cabin fever. Along with excessive alcohol consumption, it is a factor explaining why Russia and Lithuania have the highest per capita male suicide rates in the world. While I don’t know the circumstances, the second year I spent in Dawson a young White man killed himself. He was part of a family with a long history of placer mining, and worked his own claim. Front end loaders were a big part of the operation, and he was a capable mechanic. I recall seeing him in town occasionally with grease from working on the machines smeared away from his pale face but still visible around the edges. He took his own life at his brothers’ farm. Youth suicide among members of the First Nation community was also a fact in Dawson. The dark and the cold were compounded by poverty and disorientation from alcohol, drugs and the dissonance of a shifting culture.
The sorrow and pain left behind for the living is difficult to fathom, and probably hard to forgive as well. My father struggled to understand when his best friend, a budding pilot in the Canadian Air Force after World War II, shot himself because he had flunked out of an elite flying program. He left behind a son and wife who were devastated for many years. She never remarried, and her son remained a fragile person even as a young man. When I think of these tragedies I understand the warning Stephen Jenkinson, a death councillor and author of the book “Die Wise,” gave during a lecture I attended. He said, “Anyone here contemplating suicide should think long and hard about whoever might find their dead body.” The tragedies bring to mind the hard truth of intergenerational trauma affecting individuals, families and communities such as Canada’s First Nations.
One day in December, 1977, half-way through my second winter in Dawson, I received in the mail a parcel from my parents with a colourful brochure describing an art school in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Their letter suggested I finish my studies there, and they offered to fly me to Ottawa for Christmas, enroute to Mexico. While I still had plenty of winter provisions, and was happy enough painting and playing music, this sounded like a good idea. Besides, by that time there wasn’t a hope in hell I would find a woman free from other obligations and keen to share my vittles. So, I gave away my frozen caribou meat, bags of parsnips and bushel of short-grain brown rice and set off, excited by the prospect of being around other artists under the Mexican sun. An exodus like this was not unusual for people in Dawson, many of whom had seasonal jobs anyway. I thought it was temporary, but I didn’t return to Dawson from Mexico for a year and a half. When I did, in the spring of Dawson’s Great Flood of ’79, I was still committed to an artist’s life and fully trained with a completed Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of Guanajuato in Mexico. Seeds of change had been planted, however, by contact with the field of anthropology and Mexico’s revolutionary mural painters. These influences would eventually guide me from art to anthropology, along the path of activism.
Photo: Casey walking in the Tombstone Mountains, 1977.