How to Strike Gold in the Yukon

I apologize for my blogging absence. I am moving in just over a week and am frightfully busy. But I'll get into all that later.

As promised, and with a bottle of wine crushing all hesitation, I shall recount to you the saucy events of one mid May evening in Dawson City, Yukon. I'll warn you, though. This might be long.

First of all, you must understand that this time of year, Dawson doesn't get dark. It's dusky at 1am, but moments later the sun springs back up.

Second, recall that it was our goal (if only jokingly) to find gold while in yonder Yukon.


The previous night we had dared to go into a bar, infamous for its so-called Sour Toe Cocktail. There, we did what we thought would be the most memorable thing we'd do in Dawson: drink a shot of whiskey with a real human toe in it. As their motto goes, "you can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but your lips have got to touch that toe." Here I am with grizzly-looking human toe against my lips.


Delish!

The next day, we spent a few hours jokingly panning gold, as well as exploring old mines. We find plenty of interesting rocks, but no gold.

When night rolled around, two of my companions wanted to stay in the tent and smooch all evening, so I went out with my one girlfriend, for it was a bright and sunny midnight and happy hour was about to start at Diamond Tooth Gertie's casino. We walked across town (three blocks, on wooden sidewalks), both wearing absolutely silly large white furry hats.

Apparently, Dawson City is the sort of place where two young girls in silly hats don't need to buy their own drinks. We sipped on gin and tonics while schmoozing with the fascinating locals and watching the fabulous can-can show.


We gambled away $20 that some strange gentleman had stuck in our slot machine, then left Gertie's, planning on heading back to our campsite. However, when you leave a bar and it's still light out.... well, it's impossible to go home. Even if it's 2am.

We wandered the unpaved streets, when suddenly my dear friend trotted toward an unassuming little building. They were playing some excellent dance music, so we dashed inside and began cutting a rug like you couldn't imagine. Oh, dearest blog-friends, I have some moves. Some terrible, embarrassing, and overwhelmingly enthusiastic moves.

Somehow, two ladies in large furry hats doing dance moves that would make Napoleon Dynamite blush attracted some rather handsome young gentlemen. We grooved until the bar closed, and then decided to leave with them to have further adventures. We followed these very handsome gentlemen to their car to acquire some alcohol before heading to their place.


But, as we were gathering the refreshments, one of the lads started hollering at some other locals. Before we know it, they begin skirmishing! Tussling! Fist-fighting! We are several yards away from the action, watching as if it were just another tourist attraction. Punches are being thrown, harsh words are shouted, and bodies fly comically about.

We contemplate stealing their beer and getting the heck out of there, but in a moment the fight breaks up, and the fellow I've had my eye on jogs to us, grabs the beer, and leads us away. We dart down a little alleyway as a cop car drives up. We must hide for the cops, as we have open beer, illegal substances, and he has bleeding knuckles.

I won't lie. I was even more attracted to him seeing that the only wound on him was his knuckles. I promise this isn't typical behaviour on my part.

Once the heat is off (I'm laughing at myself using terms like that), we make our way to the motel these handsome young men are staying in (they're from a nearby town) and sip on some vile beer and attempt to find anything in common, as to provide some stimulating conversation. As it turns out, we have nothing in common. So we do what any attractive young people with nothing in common do. We smooch.

Tragically, my handsome bloke gets a phone call, and has to leave. Just as I'm really starting to, uh, get to know him.


I decide, as it's about 4am, that I ought to at least get some sleep. The room has two beds, and my dear friend is snuggling with a very cute fellow in the other bed, all the other blokes have left, so I take off all my clothes except my super-sexy lavender long-john suit (remember, we're camping in the north), and get comfy in bed. Alas, I felt a tad lonely.

Moments later, another lad stumbles in, strips down to his boxers, mumbles something about not wanting to sleep on the cot, and climbs into bed with me. I turn over, and we smile at eachother. I introduce myself. We shake hands. I won't tell you his name for privacy's sake, suffice to say... he has the same first and last name.

So, I'm in bed. I'm with a boy who I have nothing in common with who I met in bed. So what do we do? Smooch.

Oh, so trampy! I know. I'm not usually so trampy, but this lad is quite handsome (though not nearly as attractive as the boy who left me), and hey, I'm on vacation.

I won't get into details about what happened in bed, nor about what happened in the shower the next morning. BUT, I will tell you that this very nice fellow had actually had some success panning for gold that day. He decided, for some reason, to share his findings with me.


So, in summary, I met a man in bed, and received some gold from him in the morning. There's a word for that...

Now, really, trampy though it may seem, you must remember that if our genders were reversed, and a guy got some gold from some chick he met in bed, he would be considered some sort of hero.

Anyway, that was perhaps a bit long and wordy, but there you have one strange and slutty night in the Yukon.