Am republishing this story because my friend hadn’t read it yet.  Originally published 26 December 2006.

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My sister has been bugging me for over a year to post this story about hand sanitizer and outhouses. It is a fairly embarrassing story, but I thought–since it was on my list of things to do in 2006, I should at least make the attempt. In July 2005, my sister, my brother-in-law, my niece, and myself set out to climb the Chilkoot Trail. I posted my report here. At the end of it all, there were exciting things like bears, 3600 vertical feet, and eight very sore feet. We sang. We laughed. We swore at each other. I taught my niece how to pee in the woods. Jim was the hero of the day for carrying his pack on his back and throwing my sister’s up the Pass. In retrospect–it was a very good trip. It started out, though, with a bit of a surprise.

I grew up at Mile 906.84 Alaska Highway, which was right across from the Wolf Creek Campground just south of Whitehorse, Yukon. My sisters and I spent a lot of time each summer playing in that campground. When I grew up, outhouses were terrible, beastly things. They were completely disgusting holes in the ground with claustrophobic closets built precariously around them. In fact, I just googled outhouses and I found this site. Have a look at the type of outhouses I was used to. The doors rarely shut. You had to get your friend–or in my case, one of my sisters–to stand guard outside to make sure somebody didn’t walk in on you while you were in the middle of doing your business. You would have to prepare yourself outside: unbutton your pants, hook your thumbs and forefingers into your waistband for rapid decent, and take a deep breath outside, open the door, duck in, do your business without touching anything inside and finish while you were still holding your breath. Hopefully, you would finish before you had to take a breath. In the end, you would realize that you would have been way better off finding a tree or a secluded log. Terrible, beastly things those outhouses.

When we started our Chilkoot trip, we stayed the first night at Dyea Base Camp. Over the 18 or so odd years that I haven’t been living in the Yukon, outhouse technology has improved by leaps and bounds. Leaps and bounds! The outhouse I used that evening was wheelchair accessible, had a concrete foundation, and a stainless steel toilet–all-in-all–it was definitely a considerable improvement from what I was used to. In fact, it also had a hand sanitizer dispenser. Now, how can you top that in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness? A stainless steel toilet and hand sanitizer? I think it might have even had enzymes to facilitate decomposition and decrease the stench because I definitely don’t remember a stench.

Also, at this particular point in time, my sister, brother-in-law, and niece were outside the outhouse waiting for the Park Rangers to come and take care of the black bear that was rooting around our camp. I was fine. I was taking refuge in the outhouse. Well–not really. I was using the outhouse. Here is the picture.

I am hovering over the stainless steel toilet. Hover. Always hover–good for those thigh muscles. As I am doing my business and I was looking straight ahead and I notice the hand sanitizer. That’s where it was placed–by the way. Right at eye-level as you are hovering over the stainless steel toilet. In one microsecond (because I didn’t really think about it) I thought: “Hmmm. I am going to be on the Trail for the next four days. I will be sweating and stinky and I won’t be anywhere near a shower, bath, or anything that I may care to wash my private bits with.” The only thing I knew was available was glacier-fed streams. How enticing. In that microsecond, I rationalize that I could probably see how that hand sanitizer works on my nether regions. You don’t want to be stinky going out into the wilderness. That could result in other nasty things happening. Bears for example. Bears might be more attracted to something that smelled like it was dying. Imagine what I would smell like on Day 4? In that microsecond I decide that it would be a good idea to use the hand sanitizer not only for my hands, but well–for the potentially nasty stinky bits that could make me more desirable to a bear. I reach out and squirt some on some toilet paper. (Oh. Did I mention that my new-and-improved outhouse also had toilet paper?)

I wipe. From front to back. In one fell swoop. Before my hands finish the motion, the shock set in. It hit me right in the stomach. It knocked the breath right out of me. I stood there–well hovered there–completely breathless. I gasped for air like a guppy out of water. My eyes bugged out and started to water from the sting–like when you taste horseradish for the first time–but a million times worse. My sister knocks on the door: “Jen? You OK? You’re awfully quiet. What happened? Did you fall in?” Snicker, snicker. I still can’t breathe. I can’t say a word. I think I end up grunting something like: “Just a sec. I’ll…um…be just a minute.”

I finally got my breath back. I was no longer hovering. I was dancing. My pants were around my ankles, I was lightheaded from the pain and lack of oxygen, and I was dancing around the new-fangled outhouse with its wheelchair access, cement foundation, and stainless steel toilet with enzymes to facilitate decomposition and temper the stench. How the hell do you get rid of the sting of industrial-strength hand sanitizer from your nether regions?

So that’s it. That’s my outhouse story. The moral of my story is: Hand sanitizer is strictly for hands. I think it’s a pretty useful story because it may save some poor, unsuspecting, mindless soul from the pain and embarrassment of it all. Take it from me–you would rather read about it than experience it.

The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Today is Remembrance Day in Canada. My Dad will be participating in the local parade in Whitehorse. I want to post a picture of him in his regalia.

My Dad never actually fought in a war, but the military is a big part of his life–so, I want to honour that.Here is a poem I wrote in grade 11 after visiting Vimy Ridge in France. It was a grey and drizzly day and we could feel the ghosts of everybody who died there.

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VIMY RIDGE
A piece of land, so desolate and bare
Experienced a feeling ever so rare
A sense of victory and one of loss
For which we’ve paid at such a cost!
Six thousand lives of our brave and bold
Were taken one day so rainy and cold
The lives of men, the lives of boys
Who went to war thinking guns were toys
They went for adventure, they went for fun
But their lives ended before they’d begun

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Here is a link to learn about Canadians at Vimy Ridge and their contributions to WWI.

Here is a picture of my parents on the first camping trip of the year in 2007. Ever since they have been married, they have gone camping. And now in 2007, it’s 42 years later!!!! My parents have been married for 42 years. They are still camping. Most importantly, they are still laughing!!!!

I love you guys. I can’t wait until the end of June when we go camping.

Well, this was going to be a blog entry about the spontaneous McCrae reunioun we had over the Christmas Holidays, but I can’t find my pictures. I’m annoyed. I usually don’t lose my pictures. When I went back to the Yukon this Christmas, I phoned my friend Yvonne. We arranged to have lunch at the new Boston Pizza. (Most Yukoner’s won’t think Boston Pizza is new, but it is to me!). I brought my family, (Mum, Dad, my sister, and her husband) and Yvonne brought hers (aka ~ McCrae). Her dad (George Chan) was visiting. Janet and Edson (who now own the North Dragon Restaurant on Second Avenue). When I worked at McCrae, Edson and Lok were the cooks. Edson married Janet in the late 80s and had two children: Leanne and Alex. After many years abroad, Lok returned to the Yukon and is now working for Edson and Janet.

So, we had a little reunion at the Boston Pizza. I only have this picture (but I know I took more).

The people in the picture (from left to right are: Ken Burke (my dad), George Chan (Yvonne’s dad), Lok ??? (I’m embarrassed I don’t know his last name), and Ryan Arey. Ryan worked at McCrae long after I left.

After we all ate at Boston Pizza, Yvonne said she was having a tobogganing party. I went along for the ride (quite literally). I finally met Leanne (weirdly enough, I had gone tobogganing with her over 17 years before when she was still in her mother’s tummy!). I met Alex, LeAnne’s younger brother. I also met Tim, Pam, and Bev… (Yvonne’s CBC family). Yvonne worked at CBC Yukon for a number of years before trying something new in 1999.

So, although I don’t have the pictures from the McCrae family reunion, I do have pictures of us tobogganing that evening. Fun. Fun. Fun.

When I lived in Whitehorse (in the 1980s), I worked as a waitress at McCrae’s Chinese Restaurant. Whenever I go back, I make sure to call my friend Yvonne and we usually have lunch or breakfast or just get together to have some fun. This year, in addition to having a bit of a McCrae reunion (but I have to blog about that later), Yvonne said: “Why don’t you come out for Sunday Mahjong? We usually have five tables or more.” So we did. My Dad, my brother-in-law, and I went out one Sunday to see what it was all about.

They start playing Mahjong around 10h00 am. We arrived and we started our very own “Very Beginner Table” table of Mahjong. Yvonne made sure each of us had a seasoned player to partner with so we could learn the ropes. We played until around 12h00 when McCrae’s brought out a very large buffet. We had to stop playing and start eating. We ate until our tummy’s hurt, then continued to play until around 3h00 when McCrae’s had to open to let real customers in for diner.

The day that I arrived, I met Pierre, who emails me Mahjong updates and various other tidbits from Whitehorse every so often. One day around Chinese New Year, he emailed me to say he’d made a t-shirt for the Whitehorse Mahjong Club. Here are some pictures:

My Dad continues to go to Mahjong Sundays…so I know there is a Mahjong Sunday tomorrow. If you’re in Whitehorse and you’re looking for something to do, go out and join the fun. I’ll vouch for Pierre’s slogan:

The main guy at Urban Yukon left me a comment the other day, reminding me that there is already a site where you can see what other Yukoner’s have to say about life, the universe, and the grand state of the Canadian Winter Games. Check it out: urbanyukon.com.

I’m inviting my readers in the Yukon to submit to this blog their stories, pictures, and video clips of their experiences of the Canadian Winter Games.

It will be interesting to see what pure Yukoners have to say about all the excitement as well as it will give my readers in other parts of the world a true picture of the Canadian North. You don’t have to be a writer. You don’t have to make your submission perfect. You just have to be a Yukoner–just make it a raw Yukoner perspective.

I’d love to hear from you. You can use this contact form to send me an email.

I hope I get a load of submissions. We’ll see.

This is the first time the Canadian Winter Games have been held in the true north (north of the 60th parallel). Whitehorse is buzzing (and not from the traditional Yukon Sourdough Rendezvous celebrations either). It’s going to be a busy few weeks for my parents. My Dad is working security at the Canada Games Center and my Mum is taking tickets and working the information kiosk for spectator sports at Mount McKintyre Rec Center. Brrrrr. It’s cold up there–but hey–it is the winter games. You couldn’t really have winter games without a bit of -30C weather. The forecast is even more foreboding.

My parents went to the dress rehearsals for the opening ceremonies last night. ” They are going to be broadcast today at 4:00 pm, and again on Saturday. It was impressive!”

I’m going to invite my readers in the Yukon to submit to this blog their stories and pictures and video clips of their experiences of the Canadian Winter Games. That would be fun: The Canadian Winter Games through the eyes of Yukoners! I’ll have to create a separate entry for that–stay tuned!

For CBC coverage of the Winter Games: CBC sports.
For the weather forecast for Whitehorse, Yukon: the weather network.
For coverage of the Winter Games through the eyes of Yukoners: www.yukonjen.com.

For those who don’t know what a tuque (pronounced tuke) is–a tuque is a warm, knitted, and usually pointed stocking cap that is a staple in most Canadian wardrobes. A tuque–believe it or not– is purely Canadian (or the word tuque is anyway). Originally worn by French Canadian Voyageurs in the 19th century, the true purpose of a tuque is more function than fashion. In colder, northern climates where you can loose up to half your body heat through your head, a tuque is indispensable. I interviewed a few people the other day about their tuque fashions.

Ljubi Tokic was sporting what appeared to be a hand-knit white tuque while having tea at Tim Hortons with her Mum and Grandma. Her Grandma, Pam Chapman from Ottawa, Ontario, knitted this particular tuque.

After doing some research on tuques, I can’t really classify Anne Louise’s hat as a tuque. It was however, a fairly handsome–yet functional–hat: leather and sheepskin. On a warmer day, you can wear the earflaps tied up on top of the hat. On a cooler day, you can tie the earflaps down over your ears. She bought her hat at www.eglifarm.com and mentioned pimping up her car with a sheepskin steering wheel cover.

When I asked Larry Leigh about his hat, he said his hat is fashioned what the Gwitchin First Nations of Old Crow wear in the winter. Larry’s hat seemed to be a traditional Mountie muskrat hat over top of a baseball cap. The visor of the baseball cap shades the glare of the sun (in the few hours a day there is sun) and the traditional Mountie muskrat keeps him warm. You can buy a traditional Mountie muskrat hat from www.mountieshop.com and you can use your favourite baseball cap for the visor.

Mike Craigen was wearing a Santa hat as he was volunteering for the Salvation Army. He said he own approximately 30 tuques–one for each year he’s lived in the Yukon. I wondered if he had a tuque to match his coat.

Alison Perrin is visiting her boyfriend’s family in Whitehorse for the holidays. Her tuque is one of six she owns and was a traditional woolen knit tuque with a pompom on top. She bought her hat from 180 Mountain Sports in Golden, BC where she works.

Felicia Chief was fairly festive in her red Roots jacket and her woolen knit tuque. Her friend helped her pick this tuque out at the Super Store. She liked the pompom and the fact that her woolen tuque had a fleece liner. She said traditional knit tuques let heat out–too many holes between the stitches. The fleece liner makes it more efficient and practical–and in her case–fashionable.

Robert Postma wasn’t wearing a tuque when I met him just outside the CIBC bank on the corner of Main and Second. He said though, that he owns approximately 10 tuques, one from each country he has visited. He promised he would email me a photograph of his favourite tuque, which happens to be one that a friend had knitted for him and that he had traded for some photography. You can see Robert’s gallery of photography at distanthorizons.ca.

My brother-in-law Jim Herd borrowed a tuque from his father to visit us in the Yukon. He and my sister live in Mansfield, Ontario and he spends most of his winters reffing hockey. Jim–how is it that you had to borrow a tuque?

Become a tuque scholar yourself by reading more about the history of tuques at: A Touch of Tuque.