Frontier Boobies

So Trevor and I decided we needed to see some of the local social scene. There aren't many bars in Yellowknife, but considering it's the last bastion of civilization at the foot of the arctic, if you want to go drinking, this is it. There's about half a dozen drinking establishments here and we decided if we were going to tie one on, we better hit the seedier places first to reduce the chances of getting into trouble later on in the evening.

Harley's Saloon.

The last titty bar for 1500kms. What a treat. Since the mines in the Territories disallow alcohol in the camps, this is the place for the roughnecks to mingle and get their freak on during their off hours. The place is no bigger than local convenience store but without the convenience. The entertainer (and there seems to be only one) appears to be an experienced and well seasoned dancer. Her schedule is her own, but since the price of drinks goes up after 8pm, it's a good bet you won't see her perform her art until well after then.

Mind you, just because the price of beer goes up doesn't necessarily coincide with the beginning of her performances.

Most places of ill-repute display a low key atmosphere that is primarily illuminated with black lights for effect. Here, a couple of strings of blue Christmas tree lights will have to suffice. As previously indicated, patience is important if you are there for the show. After a number of bevvies, I took a trip to the toilet, where you are more inclined to urinate in the sink and wash your hands in the urinal.

Except you can't. The sink had a basket filled with a selection of condoms and single serving sizes of various lubrications. I found this very funny. Apparently, the custom here is to not use the sink at all.

The star of the show spent the beginning of the evening sitting in the 'audience' getting tanked and we decided that perhaps we'll come back later to see if she really could dance in the flip-flops she was wearing. We left to return several hours later.

Good as their word, she was on the stage when we returned. Sans flip-flops and every other stitch of clothing she was previously wearing. Since this was the only strip bar for 1500kms, it was no wonder the placed filled up nicely and the 'Maitre D' was standing at the door alternately throwing people out and letting others back in.

This place was obviously a social hub, because you'll collect dust between performances. Before I left, one more trip to the toilet was necessary and oddly enough most of the condoms and lube packages that were sitting earlier in the basket in the sink were gone. I don't know where and slept quite comfortably that night not wanting to know either.

The Golden Range

The locals refer to it as the Golden Shower. The reason for this was a dead give-away when we went in and the odour hit us like redneck smack on a toddler's ass. The stage was conspicuously missing protective chainlink fencing much like most of the customers were missing their teeth. But the place was packed and no one seemed to mind, most particularly the midget.

An older fellow staggered up to our table and introduced himself in a language that mostly resembled mumble with a hint of slur and English. He was a Ranger. We knew he was a Ranger because after 5 minutes of struggling with his wallet like Houdini in a straight jacket, he insisted on producing ID. For those of you who do not know what a Ranger is or who have never heard of one in Canada, here is a short intermission...

A Canadian Ranger is a person (traditionally from the Arctic) who has been annointed with a title, authority and a bolt action .303 Lee Enfields from WWII firearm by the Canadian Military. Their responsibility is to report any unusual goings on in the far north during their nomadic wanderings here and there over the tundra. As it turns out, it may be of interest to the reader that there has only been one instance where Canada has fired upon a foreign power from Canadian Soil.

It just so happened that a Norwegian submarine was lawfully cruising the Canadian arctic waters when the time came for it to surface. The problem was, that it surfaced through the ice near a contingent of our brave northern Rangers. The Rangers open fired with their .303's. The Norwegian Commander, from within the submarine, couldn't figure out who was making popcorn this far north.

The Ranger eventually got around to the purpose of his social call where we politely declined the honour of buying him any more drinks. We did tell him, however, how much we appreciated his service to the nation.

The Raven

The Raven seems to be the most popular bar in Yellowknife. The clientele is a pleasant mix of people from all degrees and the staff are most friendly and helpful. Sadly, I don't have much to say about it other than it's an enjoyably unremarkable place to go.

The Black Knight

A pub. A happy British style pub. Comfortably, just like every other British style pub in the world. Thank God. The staff are approachable, and the servers are cute. The Black Knight boasts a younger crowd. Mostly of people who have moved to Yellowknife to take advantage of the scads of cash one can make up here and then move back to a more civilized world after they've cut their teeth on a real job. Good place to throw darts.

I'll let you know which one of these places eventually cuts the mustard for me to make it my home base.

Jerry