It's dangerous enough as it is

A lone dogsledder passes through downtown Whitehorse at lunchtime.

It's still winter here, and several months need to go by before the sun makes its appearance again, thin and white against the gray and white overcast sky and reflecting off the white permafrost and snow that is Whitehorse, capital city of the Yukon Territories, the last rump of a territory that is the frontier of Canada, once stretching from Ottawa to the West Coast and up North to where John Franklin and his disastrous expedition's bones lie bleaching on some lonely beach surrounded by pack ice.

Here a quart of whiskey and a bag of gold will get you further than some namby-pamby papery money printed somewhere "down south". Don't stare at anyone too long or you're liable to get a pick-axe or shovel swung at your head. Here, a man is a man, and skill with a rifle is essential if you want to eat more than day-old caribou droppings.

Whitehorse! The streets, tracks cut through the lichen, are frozen and covered with hard-packed snow and black ice. Despite this, dog sled teams driven by young punks race through town, even though they can't brake fast enough to avoid obstacles. Inuit pedestrians carrying seal-skin shopping bags and snaggle-toothed miners returning from their stakes, either flush with cash and liquor, or cold, hungry, and wondering if they'll survive the winter, take their lives in their hands every time they cross the street. Polar bears are frequent innocent victims of canine-powered vehicle accidents as they go looking for the ice-pack or someone to blame, and city-commissioned ice sculptures featuring Alanis Morrisette wrestling rabid wolverines are shattered by reckless sleds skidding out of control.

The races happen at all hours of the day or night. Well, there is no day, so they all happen at night, but it's the same thing in summer when there is only day. Dog sleds can come careening around a corner at any time, scaring women, children and grown men. And then, like a flash, they're gone--unless they've hit something.

It's out of control

Gangrene estimates there are approximately two or three drag races through the downtown core every day, and more on weekends. Shop owners think there are more, but it's hard to distinguish shapes outside when the snow's falling, whether from a blizzard, or fresh powder spraying out from the tail of a customized sled.

"It doesn't matter how many there are," said Gangrene, irritably. "One is too many in my opinion. People are getting hurt and public property and wildlife destroyed. We have to find some way of putting an end to this senseless endangerment. Just last week we had to put down three dogs injured when a souped-up dog sled hit a smooth patch of ice and flipped over, before exploding. I wanted to put the driver down too, but apparently there are laws against that in the Yukon--at least the inhabited parts. He's still in the hospital."