The wild, wild west

This busy historical town on the banks of the Yukon River doesn't actually change. Not in a 100 years, or at least, that's the illusion the town pulls off.

And it's a comfort of sorts. The cell phones won't work here, the television doesn't get good reception, not a single computer reared its head. Buildings tossed up in the past century stand, sometimes propped up with supports, like the old livery stable and a Protestant church. Other buildings are newly preserved or renovated, like the Palace Grand Theatre, the Post Office, and three historic hotels, along with museums and government buildings.

All of which conspires to make it the perfect place to take your teenagers for vacation, and certainly the ideal destination for souls feeling pinched by technology.

The drive takes about 12 hours from Palmer, with stops along the way to browse. From Palmer to Tok, then up the Taylor Highway and the Top of the World Highway, the roads vary from pavement to dirt just before Chicken. The view is certainly worth the journey at the top of the highway, where every direction descends on green valleys and lavender mountains.

Customs officials into Canada have tightened rules in light of international security issues, so it's best to travel now with a passport rather than just a driver's license. Better yet, bring birth certificates for every person in the vehicle, a painful lesson we learned with our youngest. Yet the delay wasn't substantial and soon we were on our way. The highway ends on the banks of the Yukon River. A government-funded ferry takes vehicles across to Dawson, and along the way, one of the first sights is the giant crater on the side of the mountain overlooking the town. What caused it? becomes the subject of family debate. (No, not a meteorite; It turns out to be a naturally occurring slide, according to information at the museum.)

Entering Dawson does feel like a step into the past. The roads aren't paved, except Main Street. The wooden buildings and store fronts contain relics from the past, carefully preserved by Parks Canada. In fact, the entire town is a parks project, which has its advantages. Entrepreneurs like WalMart can't decide to build there. They are able to use tourism funds in the community, and even the card dealers at Diamond Tooth Gerties Gambling Hall and dancers at the Gaslight Follies are Parks employees. This was my fourth trip to Dawson in about 18 years. The past two times I was there on newspaper assignments, which meant I had to look at Dawson in a different way than I could as a visitor. It delighted me to find nothing significantly different, not even the furniture arrangement in the El Dorado lounge.

On one visit, a reporter and I met an old guy named Capt. Dick who was fast becoming infamous for his sour toe cocktail. It's a drink that has a human toe at the bottom, and anyone brave enough to toss down the concoction is awarded a certificate. He apparently was given the toe by an old timer who had kept it preserved in alcohol in a jar kept on his mantle.

On this trip, I found that Capt. Dick remains alive and well. Only he moved his sour toe cocktail from the El Dorado to the Downtown Hotel.

Robert Service's cabin is still there eight streets up on a hill road. Grasses and raspberry bushes grow on its roof, and inside are belongings similar to what the famed Klondike poet left behind after his 12 years in the Yukon.

An actor named Tom Byrne no longer recites Service's poetry in front of the cabin, but does from a stage downtown. He speaks slowly in a Scottish brogue, like from another time when discourse was unrushed, as he tells of Service's diverse life. In between, he recites favorites like "The Cremation of Sam McGee," and "Spell of the Yukon." He ends on the poem Service wrote about his cabin, thanking it for "nurturing and sheltering" him and promising to return. But he didn't come back, and Bryne tells why: Service witnessed tragic stories at the end of the gold rush and couldn't bring himself to return.

Dawson remains endearing not only for the old buildings, like Madame Trembley's that still displays fashionable clothing from the gold rush era, and the funeral parlor containing its antique embalming equipment, but also for its many character stories.

One of the more curious characters is Father William Judge, a Jesuit who arrived in 1896 at the beginning of the gold rush to do what he could to help. He found he was needed most at doctoring. The miners got in scrapes in the saloons, took risks in rivers, and were malnourished from hardships. He built a hospital and kept a tiny room there where he slept just a few hours each night. The irony was that Judge was in poor health himself, and in his mid-40s died after being there just few years. Townspeople still tend his grave and honor his memory at St. Mary's Church. They call him the Saint of the Yukon.

Stories abound and live on in Dawson, suggested by the scenery and something one can only sense: the spirit of a place that for all practical purposes could have died a ghost town long ago if not for the people who cared to keep it alive.

And of course, those who make sure to visit.