Haven’t I already told you the story about my run-in with Joe Henry’s dog team?
Well, many years ago, shortly after I came to the Yukon, I was living at a road camp about 70 miles from Dawson. About 10 miles down the road was Joe and Annie Henry’s camp (may they rest in peace).
In later years, they built a sturdy cabin there, but at the time they just set up a tent quarters.
That particular fall, Joe brought out the first dog team Dawson had seen in many years. No Alaskan Huskies or the dogs you see nowadays at the races, but a motherly assortment of shepherds, cross-breeds and mongrels: black, brown and spotted.
He came roaring by our camp one bright morning going up toward the summit with his new team. That evening I saw him go past again and my husband said he had a couple caribou on the sled.
It was the very next day one of his dogs must have gotten loose, because it showed up wandering about our yard. I thought that if I could get it locked up in the shed, my husband could return it to Joe in the pickup after work. So I went out and called the dog. I didn’t know its name, so I just said, “here boy” and the like, and I believe I had a cold pancake in my hand to tempt it with.
It was really scared of me and only approached slowly and warily and, just about the time it was getting close enough for me to grab the scruff of its neck, I heard my husband’s truck coming. The dog’s ears perked up and it bolted across the road and into the brush, just as the pickup came around the bend.
I ran to my husband and pointed in the direction the dog had taken and implored him to help get it corralled for Joe.
A disgusted look came over my husband’s face. He said, “That wasn’t any of Joe’s dogs.
“That wasn’t a dog.”
A green Cheechako I was, but you know, I’ve never gotten that close to a wolf since then.
BY BARBARA HANULIK, Dawson City
