I've not had much internet access the past while, and I've been kind of busy, so I figure I'll do a couple quick updates:
When I last left off, I was waiting on the northern banks of the Pelly River, as I'd missed the last ferry crossing for the day, and would be unable to keep moving until I could get to Ross River in the morning. I fired up some dinner, and settled in for a rare boring early night. At some point, while I was just getting started at my food, a couple trucks came down the road and stopped at the ferry landing on the other side of a small wooded patch from my spot.
First, though, to give a bit of context, Ross River is along the Canol Road, which was built by the US Army during WWII with an accompanying oil pipeline and refinery, to supply Alaska due to fear of attacks on the normal shipping routes. At Ross River, both the road and pipeline had to cross the Pelly River. There's a cable ferry for vehicles, and the pipeline was carried across by a suspension bridge that also doubled as a footbridge. That bridge still stands, but has been deemed to be in imminent danger of collapse. To keep people off, they've removed the stairs to the span, but enterprising locals had built a makeshift ladder using a section of Moduloc fencing propped upright, from which you then use a dangling cable to hoist yourself up until you can grab the bridge itself and pull up to the walkway. Sketchy stuff, but also provides a window into life in these underserved northern communities, where folks work and hunt on the north side of the river, and the ferry only runs limited hours.
The bridge and ferry.
So, back to dinner. I'm just starting at my same old rehydrated vegetables when a couple teens stroll through the trees, cross the clearing over to the bridge, and clamber up to the walkway as though the access were a regular stairway. They're already halfway across when another two guys enter the clearing, yelling over to ask the teens how they got up there.
"You just kind of get up! It's not a big deal," one shouts back.
These guys are bigger, older, and heavier, but they've figured it out within a minute or so, and are soon up on the bridge. Another has come through the trees, and shouts for them to wait up because he didn't see how they got up there. Not wanting to intrude too much,I put my head back down to my bowl until I hear a clatter. I look up to see the third man, legs flailing, dangling from the end of the bridge by his fingertips with the makeshift ladder in a heap below him.
From here, it all kind of jumbles into one long instant. I'm up and running over. His friends get a good hold on his arm, and he's able to pull up enough to get something of a grip on a beam coming from the very end of the bridge. Two more men come through the trees, not expecting anything like this type of drama, and are quickly over to help. I'm the first to reach the bridge, and realize that the man's legs are out of my reach. I start grabbing the fencing and whatnot, trying to clear out a landing patch from the rubble. One of the newcomers joins me down below, while the other is tall enough to almost get his arms under the dangling man's legs, hopefully giving him something of a platform if his grip on the bridge doesn't hold. Once we've cleared a safe-ish landing zone, the taller man catches, supports, and lowers his friend for a split second, resulting in a surprisingly graceful two-stage descent from the bridge.
At this point, I'm not sure the group has even realized that there's a stranger with them, and so I say a quick hello before heading back to my dinner while they postgame a pretty wild situation. After a moment, they call me over to share some food and swap some stories. I learn that they live and hunt up at the end of the North Canol Road, at the border between the Yukon-Northwest Territories, and have headed south to make it to Whitehorse for the annual Hand Games Championship, a meeting for traditional games of the region. When I asked how they got past the bridge work that had halted my trip up the Canol, they say that they just told the construction team that they'd better clear the way, and had a makeshift detour built within an hour.
When I mentioned that I was also headed to Whitehorse to wait out the bridge construction, I was told not to miss the hand games. On their enthusiastic recommendation, I figured I ought to check it out. The next day I putted down the South Canol Road, which was a spectacular drive made less enjoyable by my striking out on the northern segment, to Whitehorse and then spent the day after taking care of some errands, having a much-needed shower, and wandering aimlessly around the town.
South Canol scenery.
One of the old trucks used in the road's construction.
Whitehorse.
Feeling refreshed, I set off around noon the next day to the Hand Games Championship at Lake Laberge, figuring I'd pop my head in for a bit before heading to Ross River to head up the North Canol again, having learned that the bridge was again passable. The Games were an awesome experience. I was somewhat intimidated and uncertain; I'd be showing up by myself, unfamiliar with the games, the culture, or the area, but it ended up one of those travel experiences that you simply can't plan. I awkwardly shuffled around for a few minutes before meeting one of the men from the bridge, Robertson, who immediately recognized me as "the bush man." We got to talking, and then I was introduced to a few others, quickly ordered to sit down with some soup and bannock, and spent much of the day chatting and experiencing something that I'd never have seen - or even known - if it weren't for a chance encounter at a dilapidated bridge along an old pipeline road.
The scene at the Hand Games Championship