Yellowknife = Red Eyes

I had decided to take a trip to Yellowknife, the capital of the Northwest Territories. Located on the other side of Great Slave Lake, it was about 500km away on simple two-lane highways, over an ice-road, and through beautiful winterscapes dotted with low hills and endless expanses of woodland, all blanketed thick with fresh snowfall.

At 4:30am on the last Friday of February, my alarm stirred me from a deep sleep. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and headed to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. Carter didn’t budge from the edge of the bed, still deeply sleeping off Thursday night’s game of fetch on the river. We were out there for about 2 hours in the amazingly beautiful weather, above 0C up until about 8pm. I knew I would need to give him a good run before the five hour drive ahead.

By 5:30 I was topping the truck up with gas, checking the oil, and filling my travel mug at the local gas station. We left Hay River under the cover of dark, and started into the drive through the dark tunnel of trees. The road crews do well to give a 40 foot leeway between the treeline and the road, and because of this a drive toward dawn is not as threatening or potentially as dangerous. They say the buffalo are just as likely to stick to the road as they are the woods, and they can barely be seen until you are right on top of them. Their thick coats hold the snow as insulation, and when seen at night on the road they just resemble a patch of white, their legs invisible against the pavement. Many people have accidents involving buffalo each year, and amazingly, very few become statistics.

Carter began to get a little stir crazy halfway into the drive, and I knew that Fort Providence would provide the perfect midpoint for a break. After crossing the 1km ice road that replaces the ferry in winter, we were at the service station and restaurant in “Prov”. I got out and went in for some provisions (more coffee, some buffalo jerky, water), then I let Carter out for a couple minutes of stretching. A trailer attracted his attention, and soon I found out why. About 10 holes were cut into the trailer, and as Carter sniffed around, 10 heads popped out to see what his fuss was about. These heads were those of sled-dogs, all husky mixes and adorable, but not keen on the “outsider” being near their confines. Before I could get him away, Carter retreated to me, heeding the warnings of their piercing howls.

Back on the road, I was in awe of a few things that made up the rest of the ride. The landscape was simply breathtaking, with miles and miles of frosted woodland, hills which would serve as beginner slopes at any ski resort, and endless photo opportunities. The road itself caused a different sort of awe, something of the “not to be desired” ilk. Straightaway after straightaway, some that went for 10km, sections of potholes that could make shrapnel of most sedans, and “bumps” which were more or less launching ramps. Another awe that found me was in a “lack thereof” sense, where the buffalo I had been so warned about seemed to know I was coming and decided to remain in the woods.

Around 10:30am, I arrived in Yellowknife. I stole away to my temporary hideout near the airport, a liquor warehouse with an apartment on the mezzanine level. The owner of the hotel where I work has many irons in the fire, one of which being a major role in the liquor corporation here in the Northwest Territories. The apartment at this warehouse serves as a stopover for many employees, and for these two nights it would be my hotel room.

I let Carter out to survey the grounds of the lot, and when he was sufficiently emptied of all vital fluids I let him into the apartment, and headed to an appointment I had made at the local clinic. I needed to get a physical done in order to retain my class 4 when transferring my license up here. A few pokes and prods later, a terrifying realization of gained girth that came while on the scale, and a quick pee into a cup saw the end of my scheduled duties in Yellowknife. An hour after arriving, I had no plans for the next 48.

Lunch was on my mind, so taking the recommendation of a few people I decided on Sam’s Monkey Tree Pub. Upon arriving, I was pretty pleased with the interior, finished in the style of a lodge crossed with a pub, crossed with a club, crossed with a buffet. It looked inviting and cozy, and I thought of places like Jungle Jim’s back home if they were to up their motif a bit.

I took a table, left my coat, and headed to the buffet station. I was a static shock away from lifting the first of five lids when the waitress near shouted, “There’s nothing in there!” as though she had already told me several times. I shrugged in the manner of someone who doesn’t understand such a response and went back to my table. The place was empty save for myself and three other patrons, but she still managed to take almost 20 minutes to come to my table.

“What are you having?” she asked me, almost irritated.

“Well, nothing at the moment. I would like a Moosehead and a Sheppard’s Pie.”

“I thought you wanted the buffet, but fine”, such a tone would usually merit my leaving, but I was hungry.

“Well, I thought I should leave the buffet alone. You made it quite clear that it wasn’t for my taking.”

“Well there’s food in there now, but you said Sheppard’s Pie, so that’s what you’re getting.”

“Did you say ‘no tip’? That’s what you’re getting. Cheer up...”

I have to say, even with the excruciatingly bad service, the food was amazing. The entrée was beyond splendid, bursting with flavor and piping hot, doused in gravy and accompanied by the creamiest whipped potatoes in history. Fresh veggies and garlic bread were great additions, and a side plate of Greek salad topped it off nicely, if not a little bit out of palate for the platter. Washing it down with my favorite brew from home took the experience to an unexpected height. All service aside, I would recommend eating here but avoid the staff.

The rest of the day was spent in three stages. Stage one was a trip to Tim Hortons for my first dose in 3 months, and a trip around the city taking in the sights and sounds of a bustling core in the North. I sat in various coffee shops just watching people go about their day, reading my book and taking some notes. I headed to the Pilot’s Monument which overlooks a good portion of Yellowknife, where I conveniently got my truck stuck in the parking lot, walking 10 minutes to buy sand and carrying it back to fill the divots to create traction. After launching out of the spot, I took a last drive around the town before hitting stage two.
This second portion of my day will be referred to as “relaxing like never before”. I had become so tired from the early awakening, the drive, and some of the plodding along through the day that I could almost go for a nap. Naps are rare for me, surprisingly enough considering I hover between 4-6 hours of sleep per evening. I lay back on the bed with Carter at my feet and took in some mindless television. I drifted in and out of slumber, and knowing I would be headed out for drinks that night, I took Carter across to Fred Henne Park for a run. This did not interrupt my relaxation, as I merely sat on a bench while he played with another dog. This dog’s owner looked like I felt, and we sat with coffee and cigarettes, letting the dogs tire out. I then returned to the apartment, dropped a tired dog on the floor, and headed into stage three around 7pm.

To begin the last leg of the evening, I took in the Canada/Slovakia Olympic hockey contest at the MacKenzie Lounge in the Yellowknife Inn. A nice bar indeed, but not a sports pub, which was perfect. I enjoy quiet bars when I am alone, where I can sit by myself and not have to strain to hear myself think. The bar had divided itself in two, or rather, everyone else and me. I watched the game at one end while some obviously affluent groups watched a jazz trio and ordered bottle upon bottle of expensive wine.

With the game over, I went outside for a cigarette and three women from one table came out shortly after. I had had a few ryes and felt two smokes would likely be in order, and just as I lit my second, they lit into conversation in French. While I am not the most adept at speaking our nation’s other official language, I am fairly good at picking up on it and understanding portions of conversation. They had commented on my checkered jacket and how shabby it looked, and the fact that if I shaved and had fashion-sense I would be somewhat desirable. Another comment on my being “in the wrong bar” was about as much bashing as I cared to take, so I stubbed my cigarette and made to order another rye. On my way in, I turned to them and offered the following parting statement:

“Je m’excuse, mais je comprend Francais... merci, jerks.”

They came back inside, red-faced on a rather warm night, and passed my table. One looked apologetic, while the others wore the face of drunken embarrassment which would subside with one more drink. I could have cared less, but I sometimes get a rise out of making some people feel as uncomfortable as they should.

Having had my final rye, I asked the waitress what bars would be good places to check out. She offered about 5 spots, even going so far as to draw me a little map which was more than appreciated. I decided to check them all out having nothing better to do. Her first two suggestions were busts, so I was on to see some local color at a few other bars.

The Golden Range scared the shit out of me. I was the only white guy in what was clearly a bar geared towards Aboriginals. The staff, the clients, and the band were all of Native lineage. I thought that turning tail at the realization I was in the wrong place would be more damning than enjoying a drink first. I ordered a double rye, took a seat near the band, and starting plotting my escape.

My fear was mainly based in the fact that these places have a reputation for being rough, and I vow that no racism was involved. I was rather surprised to find quite the opposite of all these warnings was true. A rather attractive woman asked me to dance (I declined), a few guys saw me sitting alone and brought some shots over (I obliged), and when I got up to leave they bought me another drink (again, I obliged).

With that establishment researched, I went on to the Raven and promptly left. It was a dance club, the sort of place I would avoid anywhere in the world. Outside, hordes of men and women were in varied states of intoxication, fighting with each other and airing a lot of dirty laundry. I decided that this really was not the spot for me and continued on.

The third spot was a place called the Black Knight, which, in fact, enjoyed for about 15 minutes at the end of my night. On my way there I noticed another pub called “Harley’s” that was left off my hand-drawn map, tucked into a basement on the main drag. I walked down the stairs and entered the bar, ordered a double rye and sat alone at a table. For the second time in one night I was asked if I cared for a dance (a record), and being consistent I said a genuine “no thanks”, stating I was not much of a dancer. At the time, I was unaware that my participation in the dance was unnecessary; things came to light rather quickly.

As the rather attractive and scantily clad girl made her way across the bar, I had visions of several more whiskies, the abandonment of my cares, the courage to dance, and an evening of bliss. At this point, these fantasies suggested I may have already had enough to drink, but my gaze followed her as she walked away. As she sidled up to another table I had the notion she was just trawling for drinks and dismissed any idea as to how I wished the rest of the evening would have gone.

I looked around, and upon finding the girl’s form again I noticed I could see more of it... A LOT more. She had gone from a sultry seductress to a naked, sprawling mass on a neighboring table. I almost dropped my drink, tapping the guy next to me and said, “Are you fucking seeing this?” He pointed to several things that had eluded my notice upon entering Harley’s: a pole on the stage, a private area near the back, several neon signs suggesting nude figures, and five giant men watching everything and everyone. I was in a strip club.

Now, I am far from a prude, and I have on several occasions gone to strip clubs. However, I never go to them alone, and it is usually out of affectation (“Hey, we’re in Montreal, let’s go see some strippers!!”). Even in those situations I tire of it fairly quickly, and in the situation I presently found myself, I drained my rye and left for the Black Knight.

I got to the Black Knight in time for last call, and after a quick shot got a cab back to the warehouse. I called Carter down to the door and spent some time outside with him before calling it a night. I was anxious to see what Saturday would bring.

***

Much earlier than was necessary, Saturday began. At around 9am the warehouse below came to life with the hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets and machinery. I decided breakfast was in order and headed out for the day after giving Carter a brief run once more in the park across the street.

I chose a spot I had seen the day before called “Latitudes”, found in Yellowknife Center, a little mall downtown. The restaurant was beautiful, well decorated and lighted, with the service and food both spectacular. I opened my book, ordered coffee, an omelet, and as much water as the place held. The extra friendly waitress was amazingly quick and efficient in the ¾ full dining room, and the food came quickly, deliciously, and presented beautifully. I would eat there everyday if I could, if only for the service which I acknowledged with a generous tip.

After the gargantuan omelet settled, I went to another coffee shop to do some reading and have a strong cup of coffee infused with an espresso shot. When the pages of the book began to shake and rustle, I knew I needed to move on, and I set about a small shopping spree. I perused the local music store and found a backpack guitar which I knew would come in handy on hiking trips down the road. After that I found some clothes in a local shop, some odds and ends in Staples, and a few items in Wal-Mart. I tried a local, extremely disorganized pawn shop with no luck. When the owner asked if he could help me find anything I replied, “could you find it?” and was certain that I had worn out my welcome.

Back at the warehouse with a coffee, Carter and I again went to the Fred Henne to let him stretch out. I reserved some energy for the evening by not heading out until about 10pm, off again to the Black Knight. A Newfoundland native transplanted here some years ago entertained the crowd with traditional Maritime and Celtic music, allowing anyone to fill set breaks in the “kitchen party” atmosphere that took over the pub. I played nearly an hour between a set break and the night’s end, and was bought many drinks for my efforts. At 2am I was in a cab on my way back to the apartment, wondering why I was doing so. I longed for an after party, some more drinks, more people, and had not succeeded in reaching a point of sufficient drunkenness. It was probably just as well, given the five hour drive back to Hay River later that morning.

At about 10am, I was packed and ready to go. I hit up McDonalds for some breakfast and coffee, got on the road and was now seeing the landscape that had still been somewhat unnoticed on my way up. The last 100km on my way had been in daylight, but focused on the drive I had missed most of it. I kept my eyes peeled for buffalo, but still managed to take in the beautiful scenery all around me. Taking some side roads I saw what looked to be untouched land and spaces so quiet my breathing spurred echoes.

Aiming to be home mid-afternoon, I pegged Fort Providence as my stopping point for gas and a bathroom break for both Carter and myself. With the grease and coffee working magic in my stomach, I decided my choice of rest stop would not suffice. I pulled into the Edzo reserve in search of a bathroom.

The gas station’s bathroom was out of order, the restaurant next door was closed, and there was not an “open” sign to be seen. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my desire to find a toilet, so when I saw an arrow with “RCMP” pointing me to a small detachment, I followed. I walked into the station where two female officers regarded me with a “are you in the right place?” kind of look.
“I need a bathroom, and there are none available. Do you know anywhere I could find a place that is open?”

One female officer consulted the other, both returning blank, yet apologetic, stares.

“Perhaps you could point me to a large bush behind which I could crouch?” I asked.

“Well”, one offered, “if you don’t mind screaming inmates, you can use our bathroom.”

I did, and was happy to pronounce them my saviors. When I was leaving they gave me advice which gave me a bit of a start:

“Have a safe drive, don’t stop until you hit Prov, and don’t talk to any locals.”

With a wave, I was gone and headed back to the main road some 10km through the same route I used to enter the reserve. On the way out, I noticed something in a clearing just 20 meters off the road: buffalo!

The creatures are of mythical bulk, or at least seem to be to someone like myself who has never seen one before, let alone so close up. Carter was antsy to inspect as I took some pictures, and as much as I knew a buffalo would never catch him, and for the fact that I have seen him keep his distance from any number of wild animal, I was not about to let him check out these huge beasts. They were as quiet and friendly looking as they were huge, and photogenic to a fault. I snapped off a few shots and continued on my way home.

One stop and 300km later, I was back in Hay River, ready to relax. The journey over, February almost gone and March looming just hours away, I felt I had capped off the month in style. I enjoyed the prospect of new places and people, new things and attractions, and now found myself already contemplating how to make March my own.